The bed creaked with the melody of a rusty church organ beneath Georges sighing body

as he pulled himself up. His whiskers brushed the cold metal wall as he leaned to the side to
stand up. With one hand on his rebellious right leg and the other on a peg on the wall, he stood
up with a grunt and started to walk to the coffee machine.
As he hobbled and stretched his arms, he passed a sparkling white shelf full of his knick-
knacks, which looked like ancient artifacts on the pure surface. A guitar pick that was slightly
bent; a faded photo of a smiling woman; a bottle of green pills without a label; a plastic poncho
covering an auburn left glove; a slip of yellowed paper with a scribbled phone number.
With another deep breath, George hit the green button on the coffee machine and
carefully set himself down into a chair by the kitchen bar. A faint whirring came from the
machine, and then steaming brown coffee poured into a styrofoam cup. George gently lifted the
cup to his lips and took a tiny sip.
He pulled a tablet from across the bar and started to turn it on, then stopped. He tapped
his fingers on the blank screen with a sideways, concentrated frown. He slid the tablet away
from him and grabbed the ukulele that leaned against the wall next to him. As he pulled away, a
snapped guitar neck that was leaning against it fell over and collapsed on the floor with a light
thud.
He drew the ukulele to his chest and, with closed eyes, plucked three notes, then another
three, then six, all in a beautiful harmony. He chuckled, which became a harsh, throaty coughing
fit. He cleared his throat and strummed the chords again, humming as he played. He smiled, his
eyes still closed, as he gently waved his head from side to side.
Under his breath, he started to sing, Oh, my Honolulu. Oh, my Paris. How did I find
you? Howd you find me? Oh, my New York City. Oh, my St. Louis (Lou-ee). Sure you
deserve someone better than me. His voice withered away and he let the instrument do the
singing. The room was filled with the soft echoes of the strings, and he swung serenely back and
forth.
Finally, with the concluding chord, he opened his eyes and looked at the empty wall in
front of him. With a small wheeze, he placed the ukulele back against the wall and sat back in
his chair. His eyes set themselves on a painting in the corner, where two misty, blue eyes stared
back. He winked jokingly at the eyes and turned back to his coffee.