HI

Music stores are particularly weird because they are overwhelmingly dominated by men and rock n’ roll and also because I feel obligated to have memorized some blues lick or blistering guitar solo when I try out a guitar so I can pass as a decent guitarist. While I’m conscious that there is no reason to feel anxious it has a tendency to sort of settle in. And in this state, I agree with people before they have barely gotten the words out of their mouths. I run the knuckle of my thumb over my mouth (in what started as a joking imitation of Belmondo in Breathless but then became a nervous habit.) I think I did this yesterday because I smudged my lipstick and only noticed when I got back to my car. AHHH. 

One store I went into was next to a row of aging condos. A white pitbull chained to a stake barked simply and a few units down a family was sitting on their porch and watched as I pulled in the gravel lot. The store was a dim, carpeted room with yellowing posters and a single acoustic guitar on display with an etching of Mount Rushmore. A few small amps sat haphazardly on the floor and a saxophone was suspended from the ceiling with string. Past the counter I could see an elderly woman sitting at a table in a housecoat. An old man was standing at the counter as if he’d been waiting for me to come in and shouted a welcome. I asked if they had any electric guitars and he pointed to the acoustic guitar on the wall. “This is it,” he told me, and proceeded to point out its various good qualities before I could stop him. Soon a middle-aged man with greying hair emerged from the back, an American flag tee shirt stretched over his pot belly. His face looked younger than his body. He offered to show me his personal guitars in the basement. “I could really use the cash,” he told me. From a high shelf he pulled out a guitar and I plucked at it while he talked about his failing business, his ex girlfriend, and how he thought the recession would last at least another ten years. He talked about the bands he had played in and how some of the people he had known had gone on to play in bigger acts. ”I really need the cash,” he repeated. Then he took the guitar and sang a warbling version of Amazing Grace. At this point I was feeling sympathetic but also uncomfortable. I told him the song was very good and I thanked him. Before I left, he searched in a Blue Book to give me the value of the guitar but he couldn’t find it inside. His mother yelled to him from the back room in a ragged voice that the store was closing. I left him an email address even though I didn’t want the guitar.