“I’ll tell you something else that was kick-ass,” George says, looking at them impressively. He raises his undershot chin, showing them all a red mark on the side of his neck. “You know what that is?”
“Hickey, ain’t it?” Kent Astor asks, a bit timidly.
“You’re fuckin-A,” George says. “I was hanging around the stage door after the show, me and a bunch of other guys, hopin to get Jackson’s autograph. Or maybe, I don’t know, David Lindley. He’s cool.”
Kent and Sean Robideau agree that Lindley is cool-not a guitar god, by any means (Mark Knopfler of Dire Straits is a guitar god; and Angus Young of AC/DC; and-of course-Clapton), but very cool just the same. Lindley has great licks; he has awesome dreads, as well. All down to his shoulders.
Beaver doesn’t join in the talk. All at once he wants to get out of here, out of this stale going-nowhere bar, and cop some fresh air. He knows where George is going with this, and it’s all a lie.
Her name wasn’t Chantay, you don’t know what her name was, she blew right past you like you weren’t there, what would you be to a girl like her anyway, just another working-class longhair in another working-class New England town, into the band bus she went and out of your life. Your fuckin uninteresting life. The Chantays is the name of the group we’re listening to, not the Mar-Kets or the BarKays but the Chantays, it’s “Pipeline” by the Chantays and that thing on your neck isn’t a hickey it’s a razor burn.