Walnut Avenue by Belinda Roddie Three years ago, I was walking to the liquor store on the corner of Walnut and Glassell when I saw a young, crazed man walk out of a house and smash his guitar into pieces. It was the typical black and white Fender – a Stratocaster, I could only guess – and he swung it into the pavement like a riled up rock star during a wild stadium concert. He kept swinging until he was only holding the snapped neck, and even then he continued to slam the remains into the ground, letting the fretboard split in his hands, the strings stretched taut as he tossed the fragments aside. A girl watched him the whole time from the doorway, blonde and puffy-eyed and looking more than a little numb. As the man turned away from the wreckage and headed back into the house, she let her hand stray for his arm. But he pushed it aside and disappeared into the shadows of the ramshackle shelter. The whole time, he was completely silent. I don’t remember much a