Speaker 1: Hello, I'm welcomed stories all the time. Glad you are here.
Let's get into it. I bought my first guitar at
a garor's sale in two thousand and six. I was
twelve years old and only bought the thing because the
neighbor selling it had it marked for fifteen dollars. In
two thousand and six, songs like over my Head by
the Fray, Chasing Caused by Snow Patrol, and You and
Me by Lifehouse, which all heavily featured acoustic guitars, played
on the radio constantly. I thought, if I learned how
to play, maybe I could impress some of those girls
I'd recently developed an interest in. So I found a
few beginning guitar lessons on this insane new website called
you Tube. I also found a few instructional books at
the library. Within a couple of months, I could struggle
through over my Head, Chasing Cars and You and Me,
And then I discovered The White Stripes. The White Stripes
if you somehow missed their flaming Calmer before it burned out,
were a husband and wife jo comprised of Jack and
Meg White. Over the course of eleven years, they released
six albums that invariably harness, if not define, the sound
of two thousand thousands alternative rock. I learned that due
to his deep love of old school blues heroes, Jack
White loved an love gear, an teak instruments, so I,
an impressionable young mine, became obsessed with old instruments in
gear as well. The only problem a kid in high
school does not usually have hundreds of flexible dollars to
drop on a musty instrument. I found a couple of
beat up old guitars from the ages of nineties of
pawn shops, and may do with those. As I entered adulthood,
I contented myself with the handful of guitars I already had,
and started investing most of my time and money into
building a life with the love of my life, Stephanie Stamp.
Stephan I met in high school when she transferred during
our junior year. We got married in twenty sixteen, bought
a house in twenty seventeen, and supported one another through
the early days of our careers. She was a graphic
designer for a publishing company that somehow hired her without
a degree. Maybe no self respecting degree holder would have
accepted the salary and benefits or a lacterof they gave her.
I became an electrician, but hoped of one day recording
a demo in my spare time that would kickstart the
career I really wanted. On an electrician's salary plus Stephanie's
meager pay, I wasn't able to grow my instrument collection,
despite a consistent craving for something weathered, unbeaten, and stored.
In early twenty eighteen, Stephanie got pregnant. We trimmed our
budget even further to save for the baby, but Stephanie
still liked to pop into Albert's Anteeks every week or
two to have a look around. She occasionally picked up
a trinket that she would guiltily hide behind her back
whenever she came home. As she explained her rationale for
purchasing it, I would invariably kiss her on the cheek, lips,
or forehead and tell her something like, well, the baby
just paid his rent, so were flush at the moment,
or don't worry. I put a line item in the
budget for hormone induced decisions. She was never a big
fan of that second one. Sometimes I went with steph
to Abbott's. Admittedly, when money felt tighter than usual and
I needed to rain her in a little bit, I
didn't make up the hormone and just decision thing out
of nowhere. But I did enjoy looking a round the
store too. Occasionally a stored instrument would find its way
on to a rock with a price tag for half
my paycheck dangling in the air between us. I would
always pretend to hegel with Benson now, but over the guitar, lapsteel, banjo, mandolin,
or whatever it was. Benson coroned the store with his wife, Dorry,
who would always scold her husband if she overheard us. Thenceon, Albert,
you give that young man a bargain. He doesn't need
to break the bank with a baby in the way.
I'm going as low as I can, hear Dorry, this
guy's just too cheap, Benson would reply, always with a
twinkle in his eye. Once I responded with I'll trady
the baby, Benny, my firstborn for that. Marten with the
cracked head stuck. That one got everyone but stiff laughing.
The way she rolled her eyes and smirt was better
than a laugh, though Benson said stay here a minute
and disappeared into the office behind the front counter. Oh,
I know what he's getting that cruel man, said Dorry.
Thenson emerged a moment later carrying a time warn Slingle
and Mabe parlor guitar sir CA nineteen thirty something, he said,
as he laid it across the counter in front of me.
I said, it's beautiful, Benny. I mean it's beat up,
but that one him makes it better. Oh how much
ton I bet is in this wood? Do you hear him?
Stiff gock to Dorry, who grinned and flapped a hand down.
Would like pieshaw? I asked, when did you get this?
In then's Announcewer it just a few days ago? It
was my father's victually he had it hidden up in attic. Oh,
I'm sorry. Did he pass recently? I asked, Oh somewhat?
What was it Dorry? A month ago? Now? Anyway, it
was a long time coming and he's better off now.
Me and Dorry we went down to his house and
held in estate sale. That might seem sort of coal,
I know, but it's what we know how to do.
It paid for the funeral. Anyway. I almost kept this
guitar for myself. I didn't even know he had at
tucked away up there, but I tapped myself out of it.
I'm not much of a player. Some young guy about
your age, I guess bought it, but you know, it's
the strangest thing. He called us a few days later
and asked if we'd give him a reefind. You know
we don't do that. All sales are final, but I
bent the rules a little bit because, to be honest,
I regretted selling this thing. It's maybe not in the
best shape. But listen to this. Thenson picked up the
Mabel and strummed a mystical sounding called that wrong, warm
and woody from the sand Hall. The bee too in
your slips all the time, Benson explained, makes it how
to play along to my Johnny Cash records. Did you
bring this out just to tell me you won't sell it?
I groaned. Dory said, please take it, Julian, and he
won't put the damn thing down since he got it. Immmheim,
Benson reply very flat. I saw, only for a brief
second a flash of something in Benson's face which I'd
never seen before. He and his wife shared a fantastic
and sarcastic sense of humor. Listening to them bicker was
half the entertainment at Albert's Antiques, but at Dorry's fairly
innocious insinuation that he played his father's guitar too much.
Benson appeared, at least for a moment, irritated, wondering if
perhaps I had accidentally sired Benson's mood. I said, I
am joking. Obviously, I would never dream of separating you
from something so sentimental. Of course I know that, Benson
replied now with a friendly groan. I just thought you'd
like to take a look, want to play it? I
looked at steph who wore an obvious impatience that her
pregnancy prevented me from ignoring. I said, next time, for sure.
I think we've got to get going again before that
baby comes. Heaven knows, we won't see you much after
he does. Dorry set We assured them we would, and
said good bye. We returned to Alberts and Takes a
couple of weeks before Stephanie's jud date. Benson greeted us cheerily,
but Dorry wasn't there. She's off to day visiting her sister,
he said, then laughed. She'll be sorry she wasn't here.
I don't imagine you'll make it back before the big day. Right,
looks like you're about to pop, Stephanie politely laughed, I am,
and I'm sorry she's not here too. We'll just have
to surprise her with a visit from the baby after
he's born. Do you have a name picked out yet,
Denton asked, I said, not yet. It's hard to narrow
them down. Oh sure, sure, Well, why don't you have
a look round and Julian when you're ready to check out?
There's something I want to talk to you about. Oh sure,
I said, blindsided by a sudden heaviness in Benson's normally
bouncy voice. He had always seemed to me like a
rocket rising above the exhaust of all the decade behind him.
As he said something I want to talk to you about,
his voice creeped in a way that made it suddenly
seem like the rocket might not escape the atmosphere. He
gave me a warm but pained smile and went into
the office behind the counter. Wonder what that's about, Stephanie
whispered as she waddled into the first dial. Probably nothing,
I guessed. I expected Benson to lay some fatherly advice
on me, or maybe share some old man wisdom about
maintaining a marriage during the tumultuous first months with a nebron.
But when Stephana returned to the counter, me empty handed
and her with the collection of tiny pitch of frames
for the baby's room, my heart skipped with excitement. I
saw Benson's father's Mabel guitar prop against the stool he
was sitting on. Remember this, he asked, do I? I
replied rhetorically, Remember how I wouldn't sell it. Don't tell
me you've changed your mind. Benson picked up the guitar
and laid a flat in his lap. He ran his
thick fingers across the tarnish strings, before wrapping his hand
around the neck and standing the guitar up on his knee.
He gave it a once over, then looked at me again,
name your price. I didn't know how to respond. I've
you're standing there stupidly for a second, I said, Benny,
I can't the sentimental value alone. Forget the sentimental value,
Benson replied, very serious, perhaps the most serious I have
ever seen him. I don't want it any more. It
has It just reminds me too much of my father
in ways i'd rather not be reminded. Oh okay, I replied, Ahmed. Well, Bernie,
I know it's not nearly what it's worth, but the
most I could probably give you is I watched Stephan
his fiscarefully as I said two hundred, making it sound
like a question. Her expression held nothing but encouragement. Her
eyes told me you've been waiting for this long enough.
Do it two hundred dollars, I said, more definitely, I
totally understand if you'd rather one hundred, Benson interrupted. I
pause with my mouth hanging open, before saying, Benny, no,
that's not even a quarter of what it's worth. All right,
fine fifty, Benson replied, Wait hold on, Julian. Steph interrupted.
This time she touched my bicep tenderly. No, seriously, just
a minute, I stammered. Benson cut me off again. He
keep talking and I'll drop it. Twenty five. A spark
of his signature twinkle flashed in his eyes, which made
me feel slightly better. No, don't do that, I laughed.
I couldn't help it. Here was the guitar of my
dreams basically being gifted to me, But I didn't feel
I could take it. It felt wrong, it felt dirty,
it felt I'm not sure how to accurately describe it.
Don't you have a son, I asked, shouldn't you pass
it down to him? I don't want him to have it,
Benson answered, almost robotically, then quickly amended this statement. I
what I mean is he doesn't want it. He's not
a player like you. Fifty bucks in this little beauty
is all yours. I can't, I said Julian staff Coot.
I looked at her, expecting her to understand why I
refused to basically steal a family airlim from a kind
old man, but she nodded toward the guitar and waved
me forward. Dorry's all right with this, I asked, Benson said,
Dorry would be angry at me for taking a dollar
from you. I would just give it to you, but
I want you to I feel like it's yours. Don't
you think of it as my daddy's guitar? All right,
it's yours to do with what you will, I understand,
I said, pulling out my wallet. Benson said good, but
his eyes grew heavy and dark. I almost backed out
of the deal, afraid I was hurting him, but I
knew he would only insist again and saved us both
the trouble. I may Stephanie hold the Mabel between her
legs and the drive home, her belly created a nice
rest for the neck. I left it in the passenger's
eat while I helped her out of the car and
into the house through the garage door. Once she settled
into her chair with her dyark coke, dry bowl of cheeryos,
and the TV remote, I brought the guitar inside and
took it to my back office slash Holmes Studio to
spend some time getting to know it. For a guitar
from the nineteen thirties, the Mabel felt brake in my hands.
Besides some understandable cosmetic were the body was in fantastic shape.
The bridge lay flat, the neck was straight, and although
pretty oxidized, the frets were still even. The strings looked
to be a decade old or possibly older. They were
also oxidized, but I wiped them down with a string
refreshing solution to take care of that. The brass windings
all looked gray and the onlan's strings were almost black.
They sounded cool, though they played dull and quietly, which
I thought might fit a few of the songs I
had in the works. Plus, with the Baby on the Way,
I thought a quieter instrument might be nice to have around.
Despite having extra strings in one of my drawers, I
opted to keep the originals on. Benson was right about
the tuning peg for the beet string. It slipped about
a half step no matter what I did. I wondered
to myself, what would Jack White do with this thing?
I thought of how out of Tunapple Blossom from the
White Stripe's second album sounds, and how honest the imperfect
guitar makes the song sound. Sure by ikey thumb, Jack's
guitars were pretty much in tune. But I hadn't reached
the ike thump point of my career yet, had I no?
I was still in self titled album territory. I decided
to improvise a bit, sometimes avoiding the flat string and
other times seeing how I could incorporate it. My fingers
repeatedly found this one cord shape I was not used
to using. It sounded terrible when I included the flat string,
but the picking pat of my right hand habitually fell
and kept bringing the wrong note into the fold. I
hope Stephanie couldn't hear me down the hall. I was
driving myself and saying with the dissonant mess of a chord,
but I couldn't resist playing it. It felt like a
secret door turn locking. What a melody A whole sum.
I worked out that the cording question was a bee
augmented seventh chord. I know it sounds crazy, maybe some
of you musicians can relate, but it felt like the
guitar one to me to use that chord like the
instrument was expressing itself the way musician playing it usually would.
But I could never have used a chord with their
flat be string. It just sounded awful. Experimenting, I waged
to dive into the bee string's tuning gear. I knew
it was a long tum fix, but for low the
string played mostly in pitch. When properly tuned and played
openly with the chord, a trouble string provided a beautiful
after repeat of the root note. Finger picking patterm my
fingers kept making me play. Now sounded pleasant and fancy
instead of ugly and dissonant. But it felt dishonest in
a way too. I'd experienced this before while working on
a melody or roof that sounded just a little bit
too much like something else. I always found it best
to walk away from the line between creative borrowing and
plagiarism instead of trying to walk it. So, despite all
the time I'd spend with the be oldmented Seventh Court,
I tried to ditch it a gradlight peck and started
strum in something new. But after I played about three bars,
my arms suddenly would stiff. The pick drop from my
paralyzed fingers, and before it hit the floor, my hands
sprung into the perfect position to play that finger pick
to be Old Mint at seventh by know wol of
my own thus poised, the muscles in my arms relaxed
again to allow me to play. I jumped to my feet,
nearly dropping the mabel and panic. I caught it just
before it hit the ground. I immediately set it on
a wo man and closed my office door behind me.
When I left, I could hear my heartbeat in my
naked ear. I heard Stephanie getting out of her chair
in the living room, probably to use the bathroom, as
she needed to frequently. I composed myself as best I
could before she came around the corner and saw me.
How's the new guitar, she asked. I deflected new. It
actually pretty old. Steff fold her eyes. Ha ha, you
know what I mean. But it works okay, a little
asu with one of tuning gears. But I bet a
good Lothia can fix it. I said, I heard you
missing with that, said Stephanie, Oh no, you heard that. Sorry,
I thought I was playing quietly. You were, she said smily.
But we don't live in a mansion, not yet, I
half laughed. Just wait until I get this album done.
Then you'll have to pick which mansion you want to
Julian Steph interrupted, Sorry, it's just trigotopy. I attributed my
weird muscle spasm to playing that chord for too long.
My fellow guitar players can attest to the way our
fingers can freeze if we spend too long playing in
one shape or position. I'd never had to happen to
my whole arm before, let alone both arms at the
same time. By how else could I explain it? The
guitar took over my body. I shoved the ridiculous idea away.
We don't live in a mansion. Stephanie's words poured at
my mind as I tried to fall asleep that night.
I thought she loved our little ranch house, our little
starter home. Her earler complained about being able to hear
me because we didn't live in a mansion. Was the
first sign of dissatisfaction I'd ever heard from her. Well, honey,
if you wanted to live a mansion, maybe you could
have given me a little more space to pursue a
music career. That might have brought us some reel income
instead of the piddly salary and occasional commissions I get
being an electrician and graphic design. Aren't there twelve year
olds with our phones who can do that job? This
train of tholcock through my mind while I lay next
to Stephanie's extra warm body in our queen bed. We
really needed a king, but buying a bed cost at
least one thousand dollars any more. Maybe if Steph didn't
have a semi weekly and taking habit to feed, we
could have saved up for a bigger bed. But it
wouldn't matter. In a few weeks anyway, she would give
birth to our screaming baby, and then one of us
would probably be stuck with him. Half the night, freeing
up the whole bed for the other. Oh, didn't that
sound like joyful relief? Stephanie started snoring. I couldn't take it.
I left the bed aggressively enough to make her stir.
I'm not sure if she actually woke up, but she
quit snoring and let her like drift into my vacant spot. Fine,
I thought, if you are on the bed, you can
have it all yours, honey and joy. I slept the
rest of the night in the couch. The next morning,
Stephanie wogged me with a gentle shake. I opened my
eyes and said, huh, you fell asleep on the couch. Silly?
Stephanie said, Oh, I realized she was already asleep when
I came into the room last night. She doesn't even know.
I got in bed, rubbing my eyes, I said, I
tried to fall asleep in the bed, but how to finish?
I thought for the reasons I'd abandoned how the night before,
and realized they were all pretty stupid. Her mansion comment
had obviously been a passing remark, not a criticism. She
loved our house, That's why she helped to take such
good care of it, and the heat of her body,
of course, was just a side effect of her pregnancy.
Couldn't I give her a little grace while she was
growing our child inside her. My gripe about our small
bed might have been valid, but not the way I
blamed Stephanie for it. Stephanie filled in the silence before
I had a chance to complete my thoughts, saying, I'm
so sorry. Did I keep you up? My body is
like to her temperature reculation right now, and I was
worried it might bother you, so I tried to move
over as much as I sat up and kissed her cheek.
She stopped blothering and smiled at me. No I saw,
I said. You wouldn't know it, I guess, but I
got super frustrated with you last night for a bunch
of random reasons I'm realizing now are pretty dumb. He
came out of nowhere. I feel way better now, though
she ruffled my hair. A good night's sleep can do that. Actually,
I don't know how you could have slept well on
that old thing. I'm going to start the coffee, thank you,
I said with love. Stephanie could not partake in coffee
thanks to the pregnancy. It's a rule she followed faithfully,
even though coffee is the only thing she loves more
than me. Shortly, Steph brought me a steaming mug of
my favorite light rose brewed to perfection. After I changed
and went to work, leaving the house quiet for Stephanie
to work. She had been working from home on enough
since the onset of her morning sickness, and now so
close to her dutate, she opted to work remotely all
the time driving stairs, excess noise and co worker's microwave
veget al made her uncomfortable or sick, so commuting to
the office was anti productive anyway. As I drove from
job to job throughout the day, the lovely feelings for
Steph that I recovered windle, partially due to constant day
dreaming about picking up that old Mabel again. We would
that strange magnetic cord take me, I predicted. The muse,
which had taken me over the previous day, would not
let me move on untilight and covered the wholesalm. A
part of me felt a little afraid of the task
and a muse and the guitar itself in a bizarre way,
A pang of anxiety about the instrument glowed in my
brain like a dashboard warning light. But as long as
I didn't look down, I wouldn't have to acknowledge it.
I could just keep driving like everything was fine. Towards
the end of the day, Steph began spamming me with
texts about how exhausting her day had been, how frustrating
her boss was. She told me in four different ways
how tired she was. She heavily implied she wanted a massage,
and was sure to include the disclaimer, don't expect any
quipro ko e caveman, not trying to be mean, just
don't have it in me. Really, as if I didn't
give her free massages all the time, what kind of
monster did she think? I was sorry? What kind of caveman?
And I'm sorry, but if she thought her boss was frustrating,
she should have met the widow who made it a
weird point to tell me her husband did so well
she never had to work a day in her life,
and then proceeded to yell at me every time time
one of my tools rose above the decibels from her TV,
Or how about the house I went into with force
at kids who were too and well for school? But
apparently just find a hand over my shoulder and swipe
the occasional stray screw from me. No, she couldn't imagine
what real frustration felt like. And at the end of
the day, what did she have waiting for her? I
must saw it in probably whatever obnoxious reality show she
felt like watching, with whatever bland meal she could stomach.
And how about me? Oh yeah, I'd be giving her
that massage. No, could pro Quael Caveman. I'm feeling my brain,
my unchallenged creative brain, render into a slim misto as
I sat on the couch, being there and being most
importantly quiet. Couldn't have anybody playing an old guitar that
didn't really keep a tune, could we? No? That would
be frustrating. Oh how awful? I realized I might not
get another chance to play at guitar that day, because
as soon as stuff decided it was her bedtime, it
would be quite time for me too, Unless I just
said no. If she was really so tired, what would
she do get up and take the guitar from me?
As I recount these thoughts to you, I feel guilty, creepy,
and weak. But this is where my mind went that
day I remember clearly, and unfortunately there is more. I
realized Lefford have been much simpler with that Steph in
it at all. The woman was eight months pregnant of
my baby. But if I'd registered eight short months earlier,
that I could have at the studio and the album
and the honest shot a real career making music. If
I just left her behind to figure out her own life,
I could have had it all. I still could. I
surmised there was just one big obstacle, well too technically,
but one was so small and defenseless and at that
point faceless, it wouldn't take much to I reached for
my water, and, quite distracted, grabbed my coffee mug instead.
I realized before actually sipping from the anti mug what
it was, but not before the cup was under my nose,
filling it with the rich scent of my favorite light rost.
I remembered how Steph had brooded perfectly that morning. Even
though she could not drink a drop herself, she did
that for me. She did so much for me, and
all she wanted after a hard day was a quick massage,
and I bet she would give me a bit of
time to play the guitar if I told her I
needed it, maybe that could be her quid pro quo.
I asked her when I got home if it would
be all right for me to duck into my office
to relax a bit before we settled into the catch.
She said yes, that she felt like taking a nap. Anyway,
she said, if I was going to play the old guitar,
to just keep the door closed and try not to
get too loud. Sure, honey, I thought, haman try not
bang too loud. But that wasn't fair, wasn't she giving
me exactly what I had asked for. In my office
with that batt of Mabel in my hands, the muse
took over me again. I felt it take control, but
it led me nowhere. Stephanie napped until I started getting
ready for bed. What time is it, she asked, emerging
with her blue shirt wrinkled and her virtual meeting ready.
Her droo to housel mess just about ten, I told her.
She said, ha, well, I guess I'll probably be up
for a while. Well, any chance she want to stay
up and keep me company? Oh? I hesitated to answer.
I had another full day of work lioming, and besides,
wasn't even sure how long I could stay awake. Wait,
Steph said, rubbing her face at the palm of one hand. Sorry,
that's not fair of me to ask. I'll heat something
up and watch one of my shoes. She stepped forward
on her to be toast to kiss my cheek and sad,
I'll be fine. Good night. I woke up in the
middle of the night. My bleary vision reported a raise
form next to me in bed, so I assumed Stephanie
had joined me and closed my eyes again. I tried
to fall back asleep, but I heard faint conversation coming
from somewhere in the house. Then, still muffled by the walls,
I heard pumping music. This time. I prokeed myself up
on my elbows. As I opened my eyes and looked
closer at the shape next to me. It looked like
Steph was laying under her blankets, But then did she
leave the TV on when she came to bed. I
reached across and tenderly touched the form beside me to
see if it was actually my wife. But when my
hand should have touched soft flesh, I felt something hard
and cold. Still only half awake, I pulled back the
blankets and found not Stephanie but the old mable laying
in the bed next to me. Violently disturbed, I pushed
the guitarway it caught out off the bit strings, ringing
out in an eternal bellow of prudist I then crawled
over the mattress off of the bed and wrapped my
hands around the mabel's neck, intending to swing the tormenting
instrument over my head and smash it on the floor.
When I tried to lift the guitar, it resisted with
impossible way. This incongruity stoked my anger. I pressed my
knee against the guitar's body and braced to snap the
thing in half. Instead, the strangled whimper halted my rage
and made me look down at what lay between my hands.
The neck I held was crushing in my fingers was
not the guitar's but my wife's, and my knee was
not on the body of the guitar, but rather pressing
into Stephanie's upper spine. Another second and I would have
snapped her head back, killing both her and the baby.
I yelled, tumbling off of Stephanie and rolling her over
at the same time. I didn't think my weight had
been on her belly. Oh, but hers definitely had, and
the fall had she landed belly first or rolled over
while trying to recover Stephanie. I cried, Stephanie, I'm so sorry.
Do you think he's okay? Do you think the baby's
all right? Stephanie looked up at me with fearful eyes.
She raised her hand and I grabbed it, but she
pulled it away. I let it go, assuming she was
afraid of me and not wanting to frighten her anymore.
But she raised one finger of the hand she pulled
away and put it to her lips. Her eyes turned
from me to the open bedroom door. Now, instead of
muffled talk and loud beats, I heard a gentler type
of music, anarchistic guitar playing solo down the hall. I
still might have believed it was coming from the TV,
except the timber of the guitar was too specific and
the song too familiar. It was impossibly the very bee
augmented seventh chord picked exactly the way I'd been stuck
doing since they brought the Maybell home an Era. Still,
each high octave was slightly flat, just like in the
Maybell with the dimes stuck in the tuning gear. Stay here,
I told Stephanie. If I yelled, locked the door and
call the police. White eyed and mute, Stephanie nodded. I
crept into the hallway, hands numb, feet tingling, skin crawly.
The haunting music continued to be played, and standing in
the hall, I could confirm it was coming from my office,
where the old guitar should have been hanging silently in
the wall. The pattern ringing through the walls sounded SOBANSI
so upbeat, But in the dead of night, when no
one else should have been inside the house, it sounded
disjointed and orienting. I felt like I was in somebody
else's house, sneaking toward another man's office. That woman I
had left behind in the floor, the one whose neck
I had almost snapped. She was another man's wife. You
may guess, as I did, that those feelings were a
protected side effect of my terror. But unfortunately there was
another explanation for them, which I discovered when siding past
the bathroom. The bathroom door was open. A nightlight glowed
from the outlet next to the sink. I could see
the mirror above the sink from the hallway and as
I moved into its reflection, I saw a man I
did not recognize. A mummy of a man stared back
at me from the mirror. Benson outBut is someone I
would describe as an old man. But if Benson was old,
the man I saw in my reflection was ancient. His
eyebrows curls and long strands above his yellowed, squinting eyes.
His only other hair wrapped around the side and back
of his head. He had a big nose and small
mouth pinched in a tight grimace, which did not correspond
with my own trembling jaw. The man's scrawny body was unclothed,
his skin hanging often loose clumps from the backs of
his arms and the sides of his round belly. Thankfully,
the counter covered him from the waist down. Behind the
next door down the hall, those haunting notes continued to play,
ringing with characteristic distance. My eyes were locked in the
eyes in the mirror, and when my lip potted to
sat down a trembling breath, the lips in the mirror
potted in a toothless grin. I tore from the bathroom,
rejecting stealth as I ran the last few steps in
my office. I threw open the door, turned on the light,
and found everything in perfect order. The mabel rested in
the wall, strings dead and still, but I knew what
I had heard. I lifted it off as hanger. This time,
no additional weight prevented me from swinging it overhead and
smashing it on the ground. The carpet absorbed too much
of the first blow, so I slammed the broad back
of the guitar against the corner of my desk. The
brittle wood splintered and the strings resonated loudly. Then I
swung the flimsy remnants of the antique instrument down again.
This time the carpet could not prevent it from splintering apart.
The bridge broke off. The strings made an awful greeting
sound as they rubbed against one another in a disorderly
twist of metal and ward. The next snapped away from
the jagged remains of the body. I set the head
stuck against the floor, put my foot in the back
of it, and leveraged the neck until the head stock
snaped behind the top of the fret board. The fretboard
itself popped off in two chunks, one of which flapped
upward and hit me in the cheek. I squinted against
the impact, and when I opened my eyes, I was
laying in bed again. I looked around the dark bedroom,
checking the space on the bed beside me by lifting
up the covers. It was empty. I listened and heard faint,
muffled dialog mixed with subtle music, but not a single guitar. Quietly,
I left the bedroom and went to my office. I
saw myself in my reflection as I passed the bathroom mirror.
In my office, the Mabel hung still and silad on
the wall. I removed it, slipped it into a soft case,
and carried it out of the room. Chilian Steph asked
dazily as I walked through the living room getar case
in hand, waking her from a hazy half sleep. The
TV glow flashlight crossed her face, making us squeeze her
eyes shut before she could fully take me in. I'll
be right back, I said, just gonna put this in
the car for tomorrow. Nah, She asked, what time is it.
I said, I don't know. I'll explain later, but I've
got to get this thing out of the house in
the morning. I'm taking it back to Albert's, and if
Benny won't take it back, I'll beat him over the
head with it. True to my word, I drove to
Albert's with the Mabel in my trunk. The next morning,
I called and sick to work, so I wouldn't have
to wait until the end of the day to get
rid of it. The doubo rang as I walked into
the shop. I hoped to see Dorry at the counter.
I thought if I could return the guitar through her,
I might be able to avoid getting too detailed about
my reasoning. I concocted a believable fight between Steph and
I over space, during which I hypothetically admitted to having
too many instruments and agreed to downsize. I would tell
Dorry I didn't want Benny's dad's guitar to be a
sore pointer twins deaf and I, because it would spoil
the joy of playing it. The basic fact that the
guitar could bring me no draw trap with the true story,
at least, however, Benny himself sat at the counter that morning,
thick reading glasses on the edge of his nose and
a good old fashioned newspaper between his hands. He looked
up when he heard the bell, saw me and smiled.
Then he saw the guitar case in my hand, and
his smile instantly faded. Oh, he said, folding the newspaper
and setting it on the counter. He forced a portion
of his welcoming smile back on having some trouble with
the guitar? Are you? Is it that mean old be string?
I tell you the tuner on that bad boy's shot too, Annie,
I interrupted, I have to ask you to take this back.
Well now, he said, cooling. You're a good customer, and
I consider you a friend, Julian, but the rules apply
to everybody. I can't make an exception for you. I'd
have to do it for everybody. What do you mean,
I asked, All sales are final, no returns or exchanges.
Come on, Benny, this wasn't a business transaction, was it,
was it, Bennie asked back, looking hurt. Now, of course,
I thought, internally smacking myself. It was personal, very personal
to him. We're not talking about some vas, he sold me.
We're talking about a family errum. Look, Benny, I said,
I don't want the money back. I just want to
give this back so you can find I was going
to say another home for it, but despise that possibility
so much. I can changed it to something else to
do with it. I really enjoy getting to play it,
but I just don't have the space for it right now.
It's just not the right time with the baby. And
Benny's eyes widened and he looked up at me with
his neck bent slightly, like he was trying to examine
something under the swoop of my hair. His eyes, I saw,
were a little wet. Stephanie, he said, breathfully, how's Stephanie
and the baby? Are they all right? Sure she's fine,
I answered. Benson closed his eyes with relief, squeezing a
small tear from the corner of the left one. He
parted his lips slightly before he opened his eyes and said,
I'll take it back. I'll thank you seriously. It means
so much that you offered it to me in the
first place, and I really did. How much did you
pay for it? He cut in off. Fifty bucks, I
said him burst. He opened the till and handed me
a crisp fifty. I unzipped the guitar, castened as ceremoniously
as I could, handed the guitar over the counter, they're
really okay, Benson asked. He wasn't looking at me, but
holding the guitar in his lap and studying it with
distant vision. I thought I understood why he was asking,
but didn't dare bring up the malevolent influence of the guitar.
Lest I learned he was just making conversation. Yes, Stephanie
had a bit of a weird night, but I think
weird in what way? Benson asked a notch above curiously.
I told him about stuff's late nap and up to
an old TV binge. This seemed to appease him, and
I made one final apology about the guitar before bidding
him farewell with the lie that I needed to get
to work. Thenson turned a guitar over and propped it
on his knee. I heard him tune up the bee
string to match the other's pitchers. I walked away. I
watched him over my shoulder as I went, and yes,
Old Benny took a coin from the till and wasted
it into the tuning gear. By this time I was
directly in front of the door. I put my hand
on the pushbar just as Benson began to pluck at
a bee of men at seventh the bee augmented seventh
card that I had stumbled on. He was picking the
exact same pattern I had. I froze. Benson stopped playing.
What is that? I asked, turning around. Oh, just the
beginning of an old palm my father used to play
long ago, Benson replied, Benson, be straight with me. I've
had that guitar in my house for two days and
two nights. They've been two of the strangest of my life,
and I doubt you're surprised to hear that. Is it dangerous?
Whatever's in there? Growing angrier? What could it have done
to my family? Ha? What did you send home with me?
Benson refused to look at me. He gently slid the
guitar back on to his legs, holding it like a
lapse steel. He studied the dull patches and crucks in
the finish for a few quiet seconds, then finally said,
it's hard to believe it's really him, but I think
it's my father that haunts this whole thing. Could you
believe it your own dad, or at least a part
of him trapped in this thin wood? I saw him,
I said, I saw him in the mirror. It was
a dream, but I have a feeling it might have
also been more than that. Benson said, I'm sorry, Julian,
truly I am. I took the easy way out myself
and put your wife and do Stephanie know she knows
I've been a bit of a jerk the last couple days.
But that's about it, I said, In hindsight, I think
I did a pretty good job of hiding the dark
thoughts from her. You're strong, Benson replied, that's good. You'll
be a good father, Julian. I mean that better then well,
better than any I've ever known, including myself, that's for sure.
Still angry, I said, I hope so, and turned to
leave again. But then a realization hit me, as if
I had walked into the door and started read just
as hard. I once more turn around. Benson was looking
at me as if expecting a question. I asked next,
he already looked guilty, ashamed, and anxious. Thenny I asked,
where is Dory really? They ducked Dory Albert's body out
from a hole under Benson's shed. He had bashed a
scallon with a sony stare or speak of the day
before selling me. The Mabel journalists crafting curiosity pieces dug
into Benson's past. Their discoverers made local news, then national.
The reason the story made big headlines was Benson's father,
Elijah Albert. If not for the news coverage, I never
would have learned Benson's father had brutally mounted his mother
and apparently screamed at his sentencing hearing. I broke her
the way all bad women should be broken. She got
what was coming to her, and I'd give it to
her again, Stephanie. And as baby boy Rory Devil's Weeks
was born. The same somebody broke into the out of
business Albert Antiaks and stole dozens of valuable items, which
included a nineteen thirty slinger and Mabel parlor guitar with
a loose B string tune. As if this writing, the
criminal or criminals responsible have not been identified or apprehended.
I've searched online, but the burglars are either biding their
time until the heat wear is off, or they offloaded
their take through more private channels. Every time I see
a new story about a husband or boy friend murdering
their wife, girlfriend, or entire family, I try to find
out if they played guitar, and if they did, whether
they might have recently purchased an antique Mabel. I haven't
tracked the guitar down. I hope somebody said the sense
to destroy it. By now. I wish I had, although
I'm not entirely sure I would have been able. Perhaps
it's just setting in storage somewhere, molding and warping and
rotting away. I hope it becomes useless before another person
has a chance to pick it up. But if they do,
I bet I know just what they'll play. I may
be hoping for too many things, but if I can
be allowed one more, I hope nobody else is a
run to hear that haunting some and that is the end.
Thank you for listening, and I will see you in
the next one. One