Pasolini the Guitarist

A bow-legged man toddled toward me. He claimed to be a guitarist and have the name Pasolini (I awaited a comic ‘no relation,’ which did not arrive). He wore, as evidence, a black canvas bag loosely shaped like a guitar.

One eye was more exuberant, if not larger, than the other. His hair was long and greasy, dripping down to his shoulders like melting candles. Surprisingly, he had no prominent facial moles. Otherwise, his appearance coincided exactly with your expectations.

Pasolini the Guitarist extended a small rectangle which bore his name and profession, and underneath, a number of bubbly symbols, and a snaillike doodle followed by a breathless moniker. Self-marketing materials.

“Here’s my card, look me up bro, I just uploaded some hot tracks. Soundcloud, Bandcamp, Spotify.”

Two years later, I found the card in the pocket of a jacket. I looked at it for a moment.