Six Strings

I wandered aimlessly down center street, glancing through the windows of small, random shops. A shoe repair, a small community theater, a greasy diner. After a while, I happened upon a little guitar shop, and my hand independently introduced itself to the large brass door handle. The place smelled of fresh wood, which was being shaved and painted into the shapes of beautiful handmade guitars. My feet echoed on the old wooden floor, as I was alone. Each instrument was in a different stage. Some without a neck, some prior to being painted, some nearly done: and all had tags with the names of their future owners. I kept walking and came to the finished, glossy products hung proudly, but lonely on the walls. I hesitantly approached them, my eyes admiring their perfect shape and appearance. My fingers ached to touch them, but the fear of any potential inflicted damage stilled their twitch. I held my breath, to avoid fogging up the glossy finish, and moistening the wood with condensation.

"Can I help you?" A worn-looking man with silver hair pulled back into a long, yet masculine ponytail approached, without a smile. He had piercing eyes that seemed to see right into the very deepest darkest corners of my soul. His wrinkles came from worry and tough times, and any hints of laughter were now extinct. I'm not sure if I was still stunned from the gorgeous instruments, or his unique appearance, but I was only able to stammer something about looking for a guitar, and a cheap one at that.

He brought me over to another wall, which displayed guitars that looked much more ordinary: a sharp contrast from the previously viewed, so beautiful that their sound could almost be heard with only the effort of a glance. "These are the cheapest we've got. They start at $350." "Did you make them?" He gave me an insulted and defensive look. "No, these are imported. The ones I make start at $1200 and you've got to wait at least a year to get your hands on one." He gestured at the guitars I had been drawn to when I first came in.

$350 was about $300 too much for my budget. But even if I could afford to splurge, I wouldn't buy just any old guitar with those fantastic, handmade guitars in existence. I couldn't explain how I knew, but each had a story. Looking at them told me pieces of that silver-haired man's life. Pieces that I almost felt guilty discovering. Like he was allowed to see my soul, but his was too painful, too personal to be shared.

I left the place, empty handed, my pocket just as heavy as before, and somewhat in a daze. The sun seemed much brighter, but perhaps it was just the contrast from my short visit in the dark life of the guitar maker.