Parlor Guitar

           Harold, upstairs in his little room, looked out the window at the gathering dawn. The branches of trees seemed to waltz to the beat of the wind, their leaves adding to the grace and almost silent morning music. Soon, Harold hoped, the birds would add a tenor line to his morning sonata.

Harold stared at his newest instrument, a vintage fiddle that Miles purchased on EBay. The fiddle, a glorious blond with tiger stripes, squealed and squeaked like a dog toy when Harold tried to play it, instead of purring like a satisfied cat. Perhaps, Harold thought, I should have Miss Kitty bring it to Fiddlin` Red for a quick tune up.

            Harold tried to float down the stairs like the ghosts in movies. Of course, those ghosts were fictional characters, and Harold was a real ghost still growing into his ghostly powers. Rather than float, Harold somersaulted down the stairs, glad he had decided to leave Blondie upstairs in the attic.

            Much to Harold’s surprise, Miles was already awake, perched at his makeshift desk staring intently at the screen of his iPad.

            Miles looked down into Harold’s face. “Good morning, Harold,” Miles said. “Trying to float again, are you, hmm?”

            “Actually,” Harold said, “I was doing flips on the ground. Are you feeling better? And what are you doing up so early?”

            Miles pushed the button to activate his screen saver. He had been conducting research on Lilith, trying to locate her. He had managed to break into her bank account, only to discover that her monthly allowance from Harold had been accumulating for 8 years, which amounted to a neat and tidy sum. Unfortunately, Miles thought that this could only mean that Lilith was dead.

            “Pick up you head, old boy,” Miles said. “I'm fit as a fiddle this morning, and shopping on EBay. It’s rather addicting, and I’ve been watching a glorious parlor guitar that closes in a matter of minutes.”

            “A parlor guitar,” Harold asked, his eyes materializing and sparkling with excitement.

            “I’m afraid it is beyond our reach,” Miles said. “Someone else keeps upping the anty, so to speak. It has gone beyond my bottom line.”

            Harold’s eyes faded, followed by his lips, nose, ears, and finally, his outline.

            “Harold, one must have a bottom line when bidding on EBay, and then, just let it go. Otherwise, Internet scoundrels will take advantage of you, forcing you to bid higher and win something you realize later that you didn’t want, much less need.”

            “Oh, I want a parlor guitar,” Harold said. “And we need one, too.”

            “Don’t worry, Harold. I’m watching several other guitars. And Miss Kitty said that Fiddlin` Red could order us a Washburn Parlor Guitar if we really want one, hmm. He guarantees all his instruments, sells Washburns for the same amount as an Internet vendor would, and sets the guitar up for free.”

            Miles used his tail to click on a site with images of the Washburn Parlor Guitar to show Harold.

            “I want that one,” Harold said, pointing his boney finger at the image on the screen.

            “Bob’s your uncle,” Miles said, sending Miss Kitty a request to order the guitar from Fiddlin’ Red.