The Old Guitar
I found what appears to be the exact guitar I used to have, years ago, before I sold it for $100 and a pack of cigarettes. I found it, half-looking for it, on the internet.
I found it in a moment of perverted nostalgia, and there it is, looking at me.
The old guitar, a vintage arch-top sunburst Harmony Master acoustic with twin f holes, found me originally. Back then, I frequented an old barn in rural Pennsylvania with my friends almost every weekend. The owner of the property sold guitars out of his barn, and Christmas trees in the winter. His land rolled on for acres, and the browned tips of those trees smoldering in Philadelphia’s considerable heat unfolded on each other into the sunset, since I was usually there until dusk. The owner told us stories, walked us through the trees, got us high. He’d let me sit in the barn window and play for the out-of-season firs until it was time to go home. Eventually, he sold me that Harmony.
Ever faithful, it followed me around the east coast for years, the most difficult of which were probably in college. Before I sold it, I lived in a dorm, and everyone who frequented my room to hang out — sometimes large groups, sometimes not so much — picked it up and played. An ex-Marine. A Bible-thumper. A drunk. A lover. The old guitar was fondled, praised and loved by people it only met once. And when everyone else would leave, I would sit alone in my room and write songs that no one would ever hear, unless by accident. It was sort of comforting, actually, to have that sort of relationship with music for a while - a totally private sort of thing. I loved it.
So why did I sell it? I was poor and stupid. I was lost. I was moving on, or that’s what they say. It was worse than dropping your dog off at the pound, because I took money for it. I sold it — I decided its worth and I let go. $100? I must have been out of my mind.
So here we are now, today, far from that Christmas tree farm in rural Pennsylvania, and here is this guitar, white trim and all, looking at me on a computer screen. It’s hard to tell, without really looking, but I’d imagine it’s not my old one. Looking at it in the photos, though, I can’t really tell the difference. I don’t remember the serial number and I never knew a year. I do know, however, that I can’t show you where it is, or do much more talking about it, or else I run the risk of selling it again, to you. I know I couldn’t bear to see one of you posing with it, playing it, singing to it. No, I can’t show you where it is.
The man selling it wants something like $100.
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