On Tuesday I went to the bank. I went to the bank because exactly six months ago, on November 17,1998, at 6:43 AM, I got control over my life. Now, it happened quietly. No one really made a big deal over it. Actually, I really haven't considered it much myself. It just happened, and about a week later, we got a statement in the mail from the record company proving it. I didn't even really read it carefully, to tell you the truth. I just sort of skimmed it and shoved it in the top drawer of my desk. I don't think Mom or Dad said a word.

From that moment on, I was legal. I had this image of the people at the bank looking at the clock, waiting for it to turn from 6:42 t 6:43. At that precise moment, I pictured them shoveling 16 million dollars into my account, one stack of bills at a time. I'm actually not sure what the exact number is, but it's a lot. More money than I've ever seen in my lifetime, that's for sure. It'll put me through college, my children through college. It's ensured that I never have to work again if I don't want to. That thought is beyond weird. It's downright scary.

Now that I think about it, there were a lot of scary things about that moment. Yes, even scarier than the fact that I'm, on the average, pretty young to be independently wealthy. From now on, I don't have to ask Dad. There is no more trust fund. That was part of the contract. If I want to save it and live off the interest, I can. If I want to take out every cent right now and blow it on cars or clothes or a trip to Vegas, I can. But that's the thing. I wouldn't do that. Not just because... well... I wouldn't have any more money, but also because… there are things you just don't do, and that's one of them. But I do have my vices.

I went to the bank because I wanted to go guitar shopping. A year ago, I just couldn't have done things like that. "Hey Dad. How's about you take twenty thousand dollars out of the ole trust fund so I can get a new Gibson Les Paul?" Yeah right. I mean, I get enough guitars donated from every cool instrument company in the world, but I dunno… I just felt like going shopping. Sometimes, it's fun to do things just because you can. Mom would probably say there's something wrong with that, but oh well.

And it's not like I can just take the cash out of the bank either. I mean, first of all, you'd be completely retarded to carry around that much money on you, especially if you're me. Second of all, nobody famous pays for anything cash. It might sound incredibly snotty, but it's true. The bank needs to approve the funds first so I can use plastic. The teller's expression was priceless.

"Next customer please… Um… Hi!" She glanced at me once, really quickly and then looked back down at the counter in front of her. I saw something, a smile maybe go across her face. It's funny when people recognize you and then they don't say anything. I always wonder if maybe they don't like us, and suddenly it clicks that we really exist in the flesh somewhere, that we're not a random image on a television screen that's pretty easy to criticise.

I pressed the appropriate paperwork under the glass that supposedly protected her from bank robbers, petty criminals and maybe even a rock star or two. I mean, after all, this is LA. She picked her head up again really quickly and looked over my shoulder at something. From the looks of it, she had only intended to look up at me again, but something stopped her mid-glance. It gave me a chance to look at her face. She was twentyish and pretty, long dark hair pulled into a ponytail, a small mouth that was open slightly in awe of whatever she was looking at. Her hands stopped moving immediately on the keyboard of her computer. Apparently my transaction would have to wait for whatever was going on over my shoulder.

I craned my neck around to see what in the world could be so fascinating. Standing behind me, just inside the entrance of the bank, was Taylor, hands in pockets, calmly surveying the scene. God. I told him to stay in the car.

The teller gasped audibly this time. It's amazing to me really. Any small task that shouldn't take any longer than a few minutes can suddenly be stretched to a few hours when Taylor decides to come along, things like going to McDonalds's… certainly anything that involves a drive-thru.

He walked up behind me. "Hey Ike. Could you like, take out an extra twenty bucks or something?"

"Why Tay? For your drugs?" I watched as the teller's eyes widened into veritable saucers.

"Oh shut up. We should find a convenience store somewhere. I want to get a drink, and some food or something. I'm starving. Hi there." Never one to pass up an opportunity, he waved and smiled at my awestruck teller.

"Hi," she murmured gently, staring at him in a rather obvious way. I'm sure she'd have let him rob the place without much argument.

"Tay. I really don't like just nickel and dime-ing this account. That's what allowance is for…"

"Pleeease… just this once. I'll pay you back. Plus, I don't think twenty bucks will break you. Not this time anyway."

"Right you'll pay me back. Like you paid me back for the shirt. And the mini-disc player, and…"

"I will. Just get the money. I'm going back in the car. I think people are starting to recognize me." Gee. You think so Taylor?

"Um… sorry to be a pain, but could I withdraw twenty dollars cash too?"

"Yeah. Of course. Sure." She watched as Taylor left through the main doors of the bank. Suddenly she snapped out of the Taylor Haze and continued to process my request. You know, the science of the Taylor Haze is incredible. Someday, when I actually get to college, I might even do my thesis on it.

She slid the twenty under the glass. "Thank you Isaac. Have a nice day." The smile that followed it was pretty dazzling. Lots of teeth, but dazzling nonetheless. Apparently she'd taken the time to read the name on the account. It was a small comfort. I made my way out of the bank and back out to the car without too may odd stares.

"WHY do you do that?!" I slid into the driver's seat. Taylor was sitting on the passenger side, picking at his fingernails.

"Do what? Did you get my money?"

I tossed the twenty into his lap. "You owe me. And you know what."

"I have no idea what you're talking about. Don't you think Andrew Jackson has, like, a huge forehead? If they were going to put me on a bill, I would at least make sure they got a decent picture." He studied the bill in his hands, holding it up to the window to see it in the light. "Did you know that when you go through an airport detector thing, they can tell exactly how much money you have on you." He squirmed around in his seat and yanked his wallet out of his back pocket, putting Mr. Jackson away.

"Really? Where did you hear that?"

"I dunno. Somewhere." He shrugged and gazed into the unseasonably warm spring sunshine. Well, I guess it would be unseasonably warm for Tulsa… It's pretty normal for California.

We were quiet for the next few minutes as I drove, thinking about the teller. Taylor reached forward and snapped on the radio. I saw his forehead wrinkle into a frown as a Smash Mouth song filled the car. He switched it quickly until it became a Celine Dion ballad, a country song I've never heard, and then a noisy hip-hop beat. He recognized it immediately. He smacked me in the arm and sang, or rather badly rapped along as the inevitable line came…

"It's all about the Benjamin's baby!"

"God. Will you shut that off please?"

He silenced the booming voices quickly and laughed. "Ike, you're all about the Benjamin's." I could tell from the smile on his face that he was half kidding.

"And why is that, Tay?"

"Because look at you. You'll transfer like, thousands of dollars to your credit account for a guitar, which you already have like, a hundred of, but you freak when I ask you for twenty bucks so I can get a Yoo Hoo and some sour cream and onion Pringles at 7Eleven. Incredible." He shook his head in mock disgust.

I smiled, unable to properly explain myself. Why did I want a guitar? No reason really. Even Dad, who's usually pretty tolerant of this kind of thing, was a little perturbed by my latest craving.

"Ike. You're a pimp." Taylor found this incredibly funny and threw his head back in laughter. He clapped his hands and quickly rolled down the window. The car next to us housed a middle-aged guy in a suit having what was apparently a serious conversation on his cell phone. His window was rolled down. Taylor stuck his head out.

"HEY! MY BROTHER IS A PIMP!" The gentleman in the car rolled his window up in disgust.

"Taylor, will you get back in here please? You're letting all the air conditioning out." I tried to sound as unamused as possible. Somehow, the whole concept just doesn't work for me. Apparently, that's not one of the things I inherited from Mom.

He pulled himself back in and smoothed down his hair, which had been blown in every direction. "Seriously Ike. Look at you." He jabbed me in the arm again. "You're a pimped out rock star. 'Hey. I'm Isaac Hanson. I think I need a new guitar because it's Tuesday.' What's next? Your own house in the Hollywood Hills? A star on the Walk of Fame? You dork. You like this whole fame thing, don't you?"

"Shut up. Like you don't, Mr. Gee I Think I Need Six Thousand Dollars Worth of New Clothes Today."

"Hey. I only did that once. And Dad said it was OK because I was outgrowing everything. Just think though, three years ago, we'd have thought stuff like that was disgusting."

"What are you talking about? I still think it's disgusting. Three years ago, I had no idea what six thousand anything was, never mind dollars."

"Psh. Three years ago, you couldn't count to six thousand."

"I don't even think you were born three years ago." We laughed. Driving down Ventura Boulevard to the number one guitar showroom in the world. And my first one came out of a pawnshop. The very thought of it made my head spin.

"Hey. I think that's it. Don't pass it." Taylor pointed to a red neon sign on the right hand side of the road that read "Neely Guitars."

"Yup. That's it." I pulled the car up to the curb when a gentleman in a white shirt promptly came out of the store to meet us. Dad called and told them we were coming.

"I'll park it for you," he said enthusiastically as Taylor and I climbed out. I absently tossed him the keys as we went inside.

"Hi."

"Hi."

"Hey guys." The sales guy had a ponytail. Now, I'm not sure why this concerned me. I'm sure it probably had something to do with the recent loss of my own. It's weird. Sometimes I'll forget that it's gone. I'll reach back to run my hand through it and suddenly it just stops. Your hand hits air. I've heard that people who loose limbs in car accidents go through the same thing. They wake up and still feel it attached to them. Freaky. I had long hair for a really long time.

He shook hands with Taylor first. I could almost see him look at me and immediately realize the mistake.

"Oh. Hi." He smiled and gripped my hand a little too hard. "You'd be the one looking for the guitar, right?"

"Right."

"Right. Well we have plenty." He was youngish, no older than 30 probably. His clothes were bad. Too tight scary black jeans. A white button down shirt. The pony tail almost hit his waist. Seriously. All of a sudden I got a flash, a picture of me in 20 years. I said a prayer as we followed him into another room.

"Wow." Taylor spun around, absorbing the sheer number of instruments that surrounded us. They were everywhere. The dark paneling of the room made everything seem brighter. Some of them were just hanging on the walls, suspended by enough wiring to keep the insurance company happy. Others were in locked Plexiglas cases, resting nicely against blue velvet. Still others were on stands on the floor, in cases in the corner, in the back room. I had reached guitar heaven.

"I have no idea where to start." It was an honest statement, if nothing else.

"Well, that's why I'm here." He smiled and folded his arms. "Is there anything in particular that you were looking for?"

I didn't hesitate. Much. "Something that looks cool." Taylor bit his lip quickly in an attempt to stifle a giggle.

My salesman, whose nametag read "Jay," thought for a moment. "Well, were you thinking about a Gibson? We have this one over here… I mean, I'm not sure of your ability level so…" Another sound reminiscent of mild strangulation from Taylor.

"Gibson's are cool. I mean, I already have like, six of them, but that's OK. You can never have too many right?"

"No way. Never too many Gibson's," he said quietly, pulling one off a stand by its neck. "This one has an excellent sound. Well, they all have an excellent sound. But this one has this really interesting inlay. See? If you want a guitar that looks cool, this would be it."

It was beautiful: a warmish yellow body that glowed just enough. The neck, however, was where all of the amazing stuff started to happen. In something that must have been either mother of pearl of abalone, was an intricately carved Chinese dragon that snaked its way up toward the tuning pegs. Of course, no one beyond the third row would see it, and even if they did, they probably wouldn't care, but the thing was 200 percent rock star. I had to have it.

"Woah. That's ugly." Taylor's eyes were riveted to the neck. Jay laughed.

"What do you mean? That's like, gorgeous. Do you know how much work goes into that? I mean, someone had to sit there and turn the insides of a seashell into that."

"Actually, it's mother of pearl," said Jay, handing it to me. Figured. If I had chosen that one, it would have been abalone, I'm sure.

"Well whatever. I would think that you, of all people, would think it was cool."

"Well, it is cool, I guess. It's just not cool for you. If I played the guitar, it would probably be cool for me. But you know, they have yet to invent a keyboard with zillion dollar Chinese dragon mother of pearl inlay. I might ask Kurzweil about that though…"

"Oh stop it."

"No. But really. Look at it." He ran his fingers over the dragon's body. I watched as Jay nearly made a move to stop him, and then didn't, maybe remembering that we were actual musician types. "I mean, maybe the work is really intricate. But it's just so… Steely Dan.

"Hey. There's nothing wrong with Steely Dan." Jay seemed genuinely offended for a second. Taylor ignored him.

"Well I think it's cool."

"Well fine then. Buy it. It's just that… Oh my God. That's it." Something had caught Taylor's eye across the room. "Now that is cool."

Taylor rushed to the other side of the room and gently lifted the source of his distraction off a peg on the wall. It was green. It was a flying V.

"What are you nuts?"

"Ike. You can't even deny the coolness of this." He pulled the strap over his head. Taylor with a guitar. The effect wasn't as completely awkward as I had expected. Still, it threw my equilibrium a little.

"What band do you think you're in? Poison?"

"Again. There is nothing wrong with Poison." Jay raised a defensive finger from his corner, in an attempt to perhaps better control the anarchy that had suddenly erupted in front of him.

"Hey. What would you rather be? Steely Dan?" He pointed to the shining dragon, still in my hands, "or Poison?!" He raised a hand in the air and made the obligatory sign language "I love you," a symbol so incredibly corrupted by rock and roll history. He stuck his tongue out as he did it.

"Tay. First of all, Poison is bad." Jay grimaced in the corner. "Second of all, the tongue thing was KISS."

"Aw. KISS rocks," smiled Jay. Apparently our very awareness of this sort of thing had redeemed us.

"See. KISS rocks Ike. This guitar is cool. I like this one. You should buy it." He smiled triumphantly and give me a double thumbs up.

"No way. I'm going with the dragon. This is art. That is decadence."

"Oh Jeez. OK. Fine. Do what you want."

"OK. I think I will."

"You're only gonna look at two?" Jay was pretty shocked, to say the least. I'm not sure what he was shocked at, a) the fact that I had just decided to buy a pretty out of my league guitar without so much as touching a string, b) the fact that a member of Hanson had just bought a pretty powerful, decidedly legit instrument or c) the fact that Taylor wanted a flying V. Probably a combination of all three.

"Well, um, are you sure you don't want to look at anything else? Or, do you want to play it maybe? Or play a similar model?" I'm sure he hadn't made a sale that easily in his whole career, poor guy. The "similar model" comment worried me, and angered me a little bit too. He said similar model. What he meant was an inferior model, something more "playable" for someone at my level.

"No thanks. I'm all set."

"Um. OK. I'll get the case. You want to see the case right?"

"I'll see it soon enough."

"OK. You know we don't take them back right?"

"Yup."

"Kim will take it at the front counter. I'll get this all set for you." He took it out of my hands and walked toward a Staff Only door. He gestured out into the front room from where we had entered. Tay and I headed out of guitar heaven.

"Did you find everything you were looking for?" An even female voice came from behind the counter. She hadn't been there before. Her hair was dyed a shiny jet black. It matched her too dark, too pronounced eyeliner and the simple long sleeved dress she wore. What caught my eye first though, was the single silver ring that looped through the center of her bottom lip. Watching her talk was incredible.

"OK, if you guys are all set, I'll start the paper work for you. That's Gibson LesPaul model GS 607, one-of-a-kind… " My eyes stayed on the ring. "That's four-thousand, six hundred and seven dollars and thirty-three cents." Taylor's eyebrows went up, just a little. He was watching the ring too. "We can ship it for free. Or, you can take it now. Which ever you like. It's one-of-a- kind, so you need to sign here and we can't take it back unless it's defective. Will that be credit?"

Payment. Time to pay now. "Um. Oh. Yeah. Of course." I pulled out my wallet and fished for the silver piece of plastic. Three and a half, four inches of amazing power. It felt good. I slid it across the counter.

"Are we shipping it to you?" Her voice had the same muted gloss as her hair. If she recognized us, it didn't show.

"Well, is there any benefit in that?"

"If we ship it, we usually take a couple of days to make sure it's in the best possible condition. Plus, we pack it so that it won't get damaged on the car ride home. It's free, if you want to do it." Nothing. Not a single hint that she knew. I wondered how many other musicians she'd dealt with in the same manner. Suddenly it occurred to me that they probably hired her for that very reason.

Taylor's eyes refused to budge any higher than her bottom lip. "You might as well. I mean, come on Ike, it's free."

"OK. You can ship it. How long will it take?"

"Three to four days."

There was more to do. Paperwork to fill out, the matter of a warranty, a service agreement, replacement parts should something break. In ten minutes, I signed my name six times. She slid the card back across the counter. It was mine.

I handed Kim back her pen. "Thank you very much."

"Thank you. Have a nice day." She smiled for the first time since we'd seen her. It was a weak one at best, rehearsed, but a smile. I started to turn away from the counter as she scooped up the remnants of our agreement, carbon copies, pen caps, clipboards.

Taylor though, stayed put. "Did that hurt?" He nodded toward her, his eyes still glued to the same spot on her face.

She stopped moving completely and looked him square in the face for a moment. Then her eyes went slightly to the left. "Did that hurt?" She gently raised a finger toward his ear.

I bit my lip. Stupid Taylor. He sputtered for a second, his eyes breaking away from the ring for the first time. He met her eyes. "I. Oh. No. I guess it didn't. Not really."

She smiled the same smooth, empty smile and backed into the other room without a word.