Rock Con Roll

When we arrived, he greeted me at the door with a modest hug. His spicy outdoor scent reminded me of his kiss. And his kiss reminded me that I shouldn’t be there. But then he wrapped an arm around me, solid and cozy and impossible to resist. So I gave up trying.

Alejandro stepped back and smiled. “How about a tour? You’ve been here twice, but you haven’t really seen the place. Let me show you around.” He escorted me down the hall.

It turned out that Alejandro collected much more than rare guitars. His house was full of interesting artifacts, including paintings, sculptures, weavings, and rare books. Some people place their collections on pedestals, behind glass, or in locked rooms. Not Alejandro. He believed that his possessions should be touched, even used. He encouraged me to feel the texture of an oil painting, we walked over fine silk rugs, and he handed me a rare first-edition book of Pablo Neruda’s poems, pointing out his favorites.

We entered his study, a beautiful dark-wood room with shelving all around. I saw books, vinyls, and CDs. A few awards decorated another shelf—he had gold and platinum records, some Grammys, an MTV award, and more. One corner of the room was piled with band equipment: guitars, microphones, and speakers. Over by the side of the room was a small collection of drinks and snacks. And on the left, a solid wood desk faced the window. I’d been taking in all the fascinating things on his shelves, so I hadn’t noticed the desk. But as soon as I did, I nearly fainted.

Oh. My. God! How could this be? Right in the middle of his desk, close to where he sat, was. . . trouble. I hoped I was wrong, but the more I stared at it, the more I knew I was right. He had one of my pieces of pottery—a small vase that was being used to hold pens. I started to back up to the door.

Did he know who I was? Had he found the one or two obscure pictures of me that my friends had posted to the Internet? Suddenly, I worried that he was about to expose me.

Alejandro waved toward the desk and I sucked in my breath. I knew what was coming next: some comment about the vase, revealing my true identity. I could feel a cold sweat crawl across my body. Damn these con games—I was so done with them.

Alejandro smiled and sat down at the desk. “This is where I write my music.” He looked at me, then straightened with a frown on his face. “Are you all right? You seem pale.” He stood up and came over to take my hand.