Priestdaddy: A Memoir

by Patricia Lockwood

Some people are, through whatever mystifying means, able to make the guitar talk. My father can’t do that, but he can do the following: Make the guitar squeal Make the guitar say no Make the guitar falsely confess to murder Make the guitar stage a filibuster where it reads The Hunt for Red October out loud I can’t figure it out, and I think for a living. He practices mainly in his bedroom, so it’s possible he’s having sex with the guitar? It’s possible that somewhere out there I have a half brother who is a sweet lick from the waist down? Alice, to everyone’s surprise, cannot get enough. She rolls on her back and flashes her claws in the air when he plays. She is blown away by the concept of sustain; the longer a note lasts, the more she purrs; it seems to stretch her actual perception of time. She wriggles with pleasure; she twists and switches her tail; she forgets to close her mouth over her thirsty pink tongue. She is dropping her panties, catwise.