In Tune

There are a lot of things happening in this world that make no sense. Some are “nonsense” as a result of folly grounded in a person following some hidden agenda with little concern over how others are effected. Some are “senseless” as a result of poor choices, or a good choice from a poor list of options offered by others. A few are influenced by muddled perceptions or self-induced restricted vision. Then there is magic.

Yes, I know that you do not believe in magic, but you need some label for things that happen beyond ready explanation. Call it whatever you like. Just explain what happened yesterday.

I don’t play any musical instrument but was wandering around a guitar store. No magic in that as I was trying to pick up a package for my wife. The clerk couldn’t find any record of the order or could explain why I was called about a package not there. Inexplicable, but hardly magic! It was suggested that I wait for the 3PM UPS delivery just in case something showed up.

The unkempt guy with a too-big coat didn’t belong in the store either other than some unwritten law of “any port in a storm.” The rain-torrent outside made this store a better choice than a park bench. Leastwise I did not imagine he was there to buy a guitar. The clerks seemed not to care since he wasn’t touching anything and all of the displayed instruments were locked.

This older gentleman and a young girl entered in a contest of swinging door, gusting wind, contorted umbrella, tangled scarf and giggles. They should not be braving the weather with such merriment. One doesn’t have to be a Mentalist too make some good guesses: it is her birthday, grandpa had promised to buy her a guitar, she was going to make the choice, price was not the primary consideration and there was a memory in the making. A hundred guitars from which to choose. A clerk stood at the ready with keys in hand. Big Coat and I might have been invisible. Such fun!

“No, no,” she cried as the clerk offered a ghastly purple device of a shape unknown to nature. “An acoustic six-string. Doesn’t have to be a Martin – just sound like one.” I guessed she must be able to play but had difficultly seeing those little arms wrapped around a dreadnaught. At least that narrowed the options to a dozen or so.

Gramps offered, “I figure you will know the right one when you hear it or hold it. They all sound out of tune to me.” Which they were. The girl was unconcerned until the search had dwindled to four. The owner had arrived and took over the tuning for the final test. A couple of notes followed by an examination and a slight pout. The process was the same for each. The sense of frustration was palpable. She picked up and hugged each of the four. The giggles were gone.

Big Coat caught my attention by moving his hands behind a display counter – a series of caresses as if molding a ball of clay. The girl stared at the owner. “I know you have another guitar here. I can feel it.” Now it was his turn to giggle. He reached under a counter and drew out a mid-sized instrument of tawny gold and blew off some dust.

“This was my brother’s. Hasn’t been played since he went to Iraq ‘bout the time you were born. Hope the strings are OK.” He wiped it down, tuned the strings and strummed a bit. “Sweet,” was all he said as he handed it to her.

Now I could try and explain what happened with phrases like, “the guitar nestled against her like a lost puppy,” or “the sound was too big for a smallish guitar,” but we process music differently than words. The owner, Lauren, must have agreed since he continued, “Wally had it specially made with a slender neck and fast action for his small hands. Almost kept him out of the Marines since he couldn’t handle a rifle very well. Wish it had.” The girl listened intently but never stopped playing simple tunes and cords. Lauren stammered a bit, “Never planned on selling it. Only thing of Wally’s I have left.”

She rose without a sound and placed the guitar carefully on the counter. A younger girl might have blinked back a tear but she was older now than before. Everyone just stood there. Out of the corner of my eye I caught Big Coat rubbing his hands together – sort of like washing them. Lauren picked up that guitar and sighed. “Wally was full of life and so is his guitar, I guess. It must never be sold, but I’ll let you keep it and play it. When you can’t anymore you have to give it to someone else who can.” She took his hand and it was he who cried.

………………………………………………………….

Now you can write you own ending to this story and pretend you know the why of it. For me the magic came in two parts. First I learned that the mysterious package was due the next day and that the caller had misread the invoice. I was not supposed to be there except to tell this story. The second bit of magic was watching Big Coat while the girl was playing. His hands behind the counter also played in exact sympathy. Did he echo her planned notes though some sort of bonded telepathy? Or did her fingers echo his commands?

Who is playing the guitar right now? I can still hear it, you know.

And always will.

This really happened to you?