When I held Sammy, the neck felt as if it had been broken in by my hands. And I wasn’t alone in my feelings for that guitar. When Cal texted me on Wednesday to see how things were back home, I told him I’d fallen in love with Sammy, and he wrote: “I’ve yet to have someone play that guitar who isn’t in love with it. No kidding. I bought it from my buddy Don, and he still calls me every couple months to ask me how it’s doing.”

The funny thing is the 1961 Tele isn’t even a rare guitar. They’re expensive as hell, but easy to find. Hell, Cal has another one in custom black on his wall. But I played the black one too, and it didn’t deliver like Sammy delivered.

On Thursday night I decided I needed a break from Casa Diez. I went over to Berkeley for the first time since I’d moved back to Mill Valley and met up with one of my old coworkers for a drink—and to get October her mushrooms, which I hadn’t forgotten about.

My buddy, Len—the shroom purveyor, and hands-down the best electrician I’d ever worked with—wanted to hear about my new job. At first I was reticent with my answers, conscious of October’s privacy, and careful not to give too much away. But after a beer and a shot of tequila, I guess I dropped my guard a bit, because when Len pressed me on what October was like, I stumbled over my words, and Len’s face cracked.

“You’re sleeping with her!” he said, loud enough for half the bar to hear.

“What? No.” I tried to sound sincere. “Definitely not.”

“Ah. Then you want to sleep with her?”

I shook my head. My face felt hot. “It’s not like that.”

Part of me wanted to confess to Len, get it off my chest. But the truth of the matter seemed impossible to convey. So I changed the subject to another uncomfortable topic. “Have you heard from Bob lately?”

Len had spent seven years under Bob’s tutelage, and they’d gotten on well.

“Nah,” Len said. “Not since he left. How’s he doing?”

“Dunno.” I shrugged. “I haven’t heard from him either.”

When I got back to my place, there was a Mason jar filled with cookies in front of my door, with a note on it that said:

Homemade Oreos.

(No hydrogenated oil!)