‘Flash, right?’ She asked the man when he got off the stage.
‘Yes?’ Tall, tired, he smiled.
‘Where are the fans?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re the big musician in town. Where’s your following?’
‘You can be my following tonight, what are you drinking?’
‘Thanks but I’m going home.’
‘Wanna ride?’ he offered.
The car, every American boy’s dream, a convertible from the 70s, huge and wide-open like a boat. Mint blue, funky fins. He opened the passenger door and she slid onto the stitched white bench. She figured he was the original owner.
It took him so long to circumnavigate the auto she wondered had he returned to the bar. She swiveled and there he was easing into the driver’s side. Which is when she noticed in place of a key in the ignition was a pair of pliers and lounging across the dashboard lay a rubber shark and the windshield, a short inward leaning thick piece of glass, was fractured in a fireworks pattern.
‘My friend did that,’ shaking his head causing lines to fold, mirroring the cracked windshield. ‘I was in the parade and he pelted me and broke the glass, jackass!’
‘I don’t think that’s your problem,’ she said.
‘How do you mean?’ he countered, whistling back at the acclaim from stargazing men of all ages fascinated by the groovy car.
‘This type of jalopy will only help you pick up guys. If you’re looking for girls you need to get a dog.’
‘Are you interviewing me?’ he said, waving to friends as they trundled down Duval Street.
‘It’s just that you’re a big name in this small town. I figured you’d have Barbarella on your arm.’
‘You’re here,’ he grinned. ‘You’re the girl.’
‘No sir,’ She said, ‘but thank you. I’m a scientist from L.A.R.S.’
‘Mars?’ he slurred.
‘Yes,’ she smiled.
‘Can I have a kiss?’ He asked when she got out at her corner and gently closed the door.
‘Nope,’ and she vanished.