Guitar Maker
**Note: This is adapted from a piece I wrote several years ago, and recently I have decided to try to develop these characters and write a longer story (even a book?!?!). Any feedback would be very appreciated!**
I wandered aimlessly down Center Street, glancing through the windows of small, random shops. A shoe repair, a 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. My feet echoed on the old wooden floor, as I cautiously entered the shop. The place smelled of fresh wood, which was in the process of being shaved and painted into the shapes of beautiful handmade guitars. 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 damage I might potentially inflict 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. His piercing blue eyes searched mine with the strangest look of recognition, though I had never seen him before. I hastily looked away, feeling violated and a little afraid. When he turned toward the guitars and I dared to look back at him, I noticed the wrinkles on his face, etchings which told stories of anguish, rather than laughter. I'm not sure if I was still stunned from the gorgeous instruments, or his unique appearance, but when he looked back at me, 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,” he explained.
"Did you make them?" I asked, hesitantly.
He looked insulted, but softened when he realized my ignorance in the matter.
"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. “It cannot be rushed,” he added.
I didn’t have that kind of money, and really had never played the guitar before. But even if I had been serious about buying one, after seeing the guitars this man had made, I couldn’t imagine buying anything less spectacular. I couldn't explain how I knew, but each of his guitars had a story. Looking at them hinted at pieces of that silver-haired man's life. Pieces that I almost felt guilty discovering. Like his past 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.
I wandered aimlessly down Center Street, glancing through the windows of small, random shops. A shoe repair, a 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. My feet echoed on the old wooden floor, as I cautiously entered the shop. The place smelled of fresh wood, which was in the process of being shaved and painted into the shapes of beautiful handmade guitars. 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 damage I might potentially inflict 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. His piercing blue eyes searched mine with the strangest look of recognition, though I had never seen him before. I hastily looked away, feeling violated and a little afraid. When he turned toward the guitars and I dared to look back at him, I noticed the wrinkles on his face, etchings which told stories of anguish, rather than laughter. I'm not sure if I was still stunned from the gorgeous instruments, or his unique appearance, but when he looked back at me, 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,” he explained.
"Did you make them?" I asked, hesitantly.
He looked insulted, but softened when he realized my ignorance in the matter.
"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. “It cannot be rushed,” he added.
I didn’t have that kind of money, and really had never played the guitar before. But even if I had been serious about buying one, after seeing the guitars this man had made, I couldn’t imagine buying anything less spectacular. I couldn't explain how I knew, but each of his guitars had a story. Looking at them hinted at pieces of that silver-haired man's life. Pieces that I almost felt guilty discovering. Like his past 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.
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