"Watch the store, dude!" the hippie owner said, as he walked out past me onto the street. That's the last I saw of him for a half hour.
A whole music store full of guitars and drums, amps and keyboards. And he just left me with the keys. I must look honorable. I really don't remember him looking though.
Psychedelic rock blared from a turntable in the corner.
I looked at the guitars. There on the rack was a nearly-new Les Paul Standard, sunburst...just what I was looking for. I had to get this one. Perhaps the guy would give me a deal. He owed me, I was semi-officially working for him after all.
When he returned, looking rather glassy-eyed, we entered into negotiations over the guitar. An hour, two old guitars, and $150 later, I walked out with the Les Paul.
That music store is now long gone, a victim of bad business practices, but I still have my favorite guitar.
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