When My Guitar Gently Screams

I got the Devil in my closet, and the wolf is at my door.

– John Campbell

I

Nathan, a tall and lanky, twenty-three-year-old, aspiring guitarist was finishing off his solo. He shook his mop of black hair, which contrasted his pale skin as he rocked out on the last few musical bars. He finished with his favourite riff and ended with a fading power chord. When silence returned to the small stage, he looked up with anxious, green eyes.

“Sorry, dude, you’re not what we’re looking for at this time,” said the emotionless voice from the guy whose name Nathan couldn’t remember. He was the lead singer of the band and the final word. That was all he needed to know. Nathan was tempted to argue his case, but decided to save himself any further humiliation.

“Yeah, OK,” was all Nathan could manage as he put his electric guitar into its case and quickly left, red-faced, without looking back at the three band members.

It was his third audition in a month and each one ended the same. He was beginning to doubt his playing ability. Nathan thought he was good. His family and friends liked his playing. It even got him laid a couple of times at frat parties.

Once outside, it was a relief to feel the cool autumn air on his face. He decided to go for a long walk to clear his head, burn off some frustration, and think about his next move. Life was such a game. He thought he was a king, but now felt like a pawn, a blocked pawn with no moves remaining.

Nathan was walking along the bustling downtown street when he spotted a small storefront he never noticed before. The sign read ‘Larry’s Odds & Mends’. The window display contained a variety of antique things: A dark-blue Chinese vase dominated the centre; a couple of yellowing oil paintings were leaning back off to the side; a beat-up, acoustic guitar that looked unplayable; and various smaller items lay on purple silk that covered the dusty bottom of the display. Nathan focused on the guitar, thinking there may be better guitars inside; curiosity tempted him to enter. He loved trying out new and old guitars, whenever and wherever the opportunity presented itself.

The bell above his head tinkled as he walked into the store’s gloomy interior. A dank wood smell invaded and occupied his nose. The window display was a good reflection of what he found inside: Antique furniture occupied the left wall; too many paintings hung from the same wall; urns and vases of various sizes were scattered around the floor; and to his right, a counter encased many smaller items. He gazed through the grimy Plexiglas. There were collections of straight razors, war ribbons, gold jewelry, baseball cards, and various other antique things.

Where was the proprietor of this musty shop? He looked around but saw no one. Looking past the counter, he noticed a few musical instruments hanging on the far, right wall. Nathan walked to the back to check them out, but was disappointed to find the instruments were mostly junk. There were a couple of cheap guitars, a student’s violin, and a broken clarinet.

“Playyy meee,” came a low whisper from behind.

He turned around expecting to see the owner, but no one was there. Did he imagine the voice? “Hello, is anyone here?”

“Playyy meee,” the faint voice repeated.

Nathan looked down in the direction of the sound. At his feet was a beat-up guitar case. The once black case was now grey with thick dust.

“Hello there!” a clear, loud voice startled him.

Nathan turned to see an aging hippie. He was a short, sixty-something man with long, grey hair and beard. A colourful bead necklace adorned his tie-dye T-shirt that was worn loosely over his bell-bottoms. “Sorry. Did I scare you?”