Confessions of a Six-String
A second-hand guitar gets a new lease on life.
I really hope this guy buys me. I like the feel of his hands. They are firm, warm, dry, and, frankly, I’m tired of being picked up and put down by Gen Zers who are more interested in how cool they’ll look holding me than how I sound.
I can’t believe Jake, my former owner, put me in this position. We were inseparable for nearly a decade. When he bought me at Sam Ash, he was still in his 20s and took me to every dimly lit, beer-soaked joint in the city. He had plenty of women swarming around him, so I’m not sure why he opted to go the mail-order-bride route. Sadly, none of his so-called friends talked him out of it.
After tying the knot with Misha—he played a song he wrote for her on me at the reception, bringing the crowd to tears—he moved to the ‘burbs. His wife made sure she had more face time than I did by suggesting he create a music studio in the unfinished basement rather than keeping me in the living room.
Downstairs, he had a whole row of six-strings that he hung from a cement wall where he’d drilled holes with a borrowed power drill. He’d typically come downstairs after midnight, when his wife was asleep, and play the heck out of me or one of my sibs until the morning light blasted through the tiny square window carved out of concrete. I don’t know who taught that guy to play, but he was a master of tempo and technique, sliding his fingers on the strings and holding them in place to let the notes reverberate for just the right length of time.
I was excited when he chose me to accompany him to the city on a bright, clear Sunday. The view of the skyline nearly made me tear up as we crossed from Queens to Manhattan. It had changed so much since our club days. Tall, narrow skyscrapers towered over the Empire State and Chrysler Buildings, making them appear weak and insignificant. Little did I know this was the last ride we’d take together. I thought the plan was to relive old times by hitting a few clubs on the LES and jamming with his buddies. But instead, he left me in my case as I overheard him tell a guy with the deepest baritone I’d ever heard, “Get what you can for it.”
“Are you sure you want to part with her?” Barry the Baritone responded. “She’s a gem.”
Jake didn’t answer, but I’m guessing he stroked his long beard and nodded the way he always does when at a loss for words, like when Misha told him she would leave him if he didn’t pitch in more around the house.
“Well, then, I’ll do right by you,” Barry said. “If I had the money, I’d buy her myself. She’s a real beauty. You have time to grab a beer?”
“Naw, I gotta head back to Pelham. We’re throwing a party for my son’s first birthday tomorrow, and I promised Misha I’d mow the lawn so guests won’t trip over the weeds.”
“The suburbs can be cruel.”
“That’s for sure. Okay, man, I’ll let you get back to what you do best–selling the hell out of these old six-strings.”
From inside the case, I strained to hear his footsteps, since Jake almost always wears Frye boots that click-and-clack a little with every step. But maybe that day he’d worn sneakers because I didn’t hear a peep.
Next thing I knew I was naked and lying on a table in the blazing hot sun next to a bass with two strings missing and a violin that barely looked used. The parents of some Upper East Side kid probably bought it for a few obligatory lessons and tucked it away on a high shelf for years until the kid went off to Stanford or Penn.
The guy who picks me up has a kid, just like Jake. His son, who has got to be in the throes of his Terrible Twos, looks bored and complains that he’s hungry. The father, whom I nickname El Greco, begs him to hold on for just a minute. He rests me against his chest and starts plucking my strings while admiring the clouds reflecting off my smooth chest. I can tell El Greco likes what he hears, and I love the strength and dexterity of his calloused fingers. It’s a match made in heaven if the kid would stop whining long enough for him to negotiate the price down to whatever he’s got in his wallet.
I know how these things work–El Greco doesn’t want his wife to know he’s dropping a few hundred on me, so he pays in cash, leaving no paper trail. Then, Misha can’t complain that he’s spending money they need to spend on daycare or deposit into the 529 account. Once you have a kid, all freedom of choice goes out the window. It doesn’t matter how good a musician you are, how many gigs you book, or how sultry your voice is–creativity takes a back seat to parenting, and every spare cent goes to your kid, not you.
He lays me down on the table, and I pray he won’t give in to the bratty kid before he checks his wallet. I see El Greco going for his back pocket. Phew! He’s thumbing through his bills, doing the mental math, and trying to calculate whether he can buy me and still have enough left for a single scoop of vanilla (the kid’s favorite) and another for himself.
“How much?” he asks.
Tired of waiting for the guy to make up his mind, Barry has snuck a few bites of a salami sandwich with extra mustard into his mouth. He makes a “1” sign with his pointer finger as he chews and swallows.
“I can do $250.”
El Greco is not in an ideal negotiating position, since his son has gone ballistic.“Hold on, Jose. Daddy will be done in a minute, and we’ll get ice cream. I have $180 in cash. Take it or leave it.”
Barry says nothing, and for a minute, I think he must be choking on rye bread. Meanwhile, Jose just about breaks out of the seatbelt on his stroller, flailing like a fish that just fell for the bait.
“I promised my friend I wouldn’t go a penny below $200. She’s his pride and joy.”
“So, why is he selling her?” El Greco asks. (My sentiments exactly!)
“He needs the bread. Like you, they have a baby, too, only a few years younger.”
The guy nods. “Listen, I respect your friend’s wishes. But I have to leave her. I only have $180 in cash.”
“I accept Visa and Master,” Barry says hopefully.
The guy shakes his head.
“Oh, I get it,” Barry says. “That’s why I’ve chosen to remain single all these years.”
El Greco shrugs. “Listen, I’m out of time. I’ll give you everything I’ve got.” He fans 10 $20 bills out on the table.
“Sold!” Barry scoops up the money with his mustardy fingers and sticks it in the pocket of the same jeans he’s worn for three days straight.
El Greco grabs my neck, rests me on his stroller, and starts pushing us toward 25th Street. I’m so moved, I feel like I could play myself.
“Wait, aren’t you going to take your change?” Barry calls after him.
El Greco spins around and sees an Andrew Jackson sticking out from beneath the bass. He rolls us back, grabs the bill, and stuffs it into his t-shirt pocket. When a little of the kid’s ice cream drips on me later, I don’t complain. It feels good on such a hot day, and I know he’ll take the time to wipe me down later.