Twanged Read Free

sea and the salty air. We are close to the source of life. Peace Man likes it in here,” he’d said, as usual referring to himself in the third person.
    Chappy stood in the hallway and watched as ladies from other expensive houses, who had been scrounged up by Bettina, sat down in yoga position on the floor and shut their eyes. Peace Man was busying himself plugging in his lava lamp. Bettina was sitting right up front, anxious to soak up every scrap of New Age garbage that Peace Man would offer. It really bugged Chappy to see her so mesmerized by a weird guy with a shaved head who wore a light green outfit that looked as if it had been issued by the state.
    Finally, Peace Man spread out his hands to the assemblage. “My sisters, are you ready to get in touch with your inner child?”
    “Yes, Peace Man,” they answered in hushed tones.
    “Are you sure?”
    “Yes, Peace Man.”
    “Now I want you all to relax. We need to open ourselves up. To be available to what the universe sends us. To pick up its energy and heal ourselves. To see the light. Have any of you, my sisters, had a near-death experience?”
    “YES! I did, Peace Man!” a platinum-haired twig called out with her eyes still shut tight.
    “Tell Peace Man about it,” he said in a soothing tone.
    “My husband cut up my American Express card.”
    Gasps rippled through the room. “That’s worse than death,” a nasal voice honked from the corner.
    “Sisters, sisters, hush now. Material goods are not what we seek. Spirituality is something that money can’t buy. . . .”
    Chappy turned away. “Then what do you do with all that money you collect from me?” he grumbled to himself.
    “Mr. Tinka, oh, Mr. Tinka,” Constance called, breathless again, as she came running toward him, practically skidding in her cowboy boots on the slick mahogany floor. Chappy liked it when the staff wore western-style clothing.
    “What now?” God, what a day, he thought.
    “Duke is back. He’s looking for you.”
    “He’s back! He didn’t call first. Well, where is he? Where? Where? Where?” he asked, spitting out the words.
    Constance gestured dramatically. “I told him to wait in your study and I’d find you. This house is so big and I feel old today.”
    Chappy didn’t run very often, never really exercised much because he was out of shape and it was so hard to start, but this occasion deserved a bit of a sprint on his part. He reached the double doors of his study and frantically pushed them open.
    Duke, grinning like the Cheshire cat, sat in the studded leather wingback chair, holding on to the fiddle case. “I’ve got it, boss!” he cried, raising it up in the air as if he had just won Wimbledon.
    Fumbling, Chappy closed the doors behind him. “Give me that,” he blurted, grabbing the treasure and laying it out on his antique desk. Carefully he unbuckled it. “I’ll have to replace this cheap case.”
    He pulled out the fiddle, examined it as Duke sat there smiling, and suddenly screamed, “ I ALWAYS KNEW YOU WERE AN IDIOT! THIS ISN’T IT! WHERE ARE MY INITIALS?”
    Duke, an aspiring actor himself, who had devoted the last ten of his thirty-five years to working as Chappy’s assistant when he wasn’t chasing down a part or memorizing lines from plays, frowned at the employer he’d actually met in an acting class a decade before. Chappy had had to secretly sign up for it because his mother was still alive: She disapproved of Chappy’s thespian aspirations almost as much as she disapproved of Bettina. “What are you talking about? You can always get it mono-grammed.”
    “THE MAGICAL FIDDLE I WANTED HAD MY INITIALS ON IT! THIS ISN’T THE RIGHT FIDDLE! WHOSE IS IT?” he screamed.
    Duke stared blankly, something that he did many times a day. He ran his hands through his wavy, shoulder-length blond hair and shrugged his broad shoulders. “I don’t know, man. I snuck into Malachy’s house, risking my butt, and took the fiddle he was playing with. I