The Day I Was a Dancing Guitar

           One day, about five years ago, while I was lying about listlessly with no money, no purpose, and a complete lack of ambition, I decided to bite the bullet and look for a job.  I browsed the internet, looking for anything that would allow me to put my skills to good use.  This proved to be very taxing on my self-esteem because I lacked every type of skill required for each position listed.  Not only was I completely computer illiterate, I couldn’t even confidently say that I had “good people skills”. 

After some time, I came across a listing for a music store that was: looking to hire an enthusiastic individual to promote the business. Must be able to play guitar at beginning level.  Well, my enthusiasm matched that of a wet blanket, but I could fake it, and I could play Pink Floyd’s, “Wish You Were Here” and Metallica’s, “Nothing Else Matters” on the guitar.  It was perfect. 

On the day of the interview I felt nervous and eager at the same time.  I would get the job, start making some money, and start living like a person, rather than some slimy creature who lives under a rock.  The owner of the store was a tall, gruff, older man with a white, scraggly beard and unforgiving eyes.  I stood before him wearing my best enthusiastic face while he scanned me up and down, silently, for what felt like an eternity.  When he finally opened his mouth to speak, I half expected him to say, “No one has ever loved me and I eat rusty nails for dinner.” Instead, he said, “You’re perfect.  Follow me.”

I scurried fearfully behind him down a long driveway and into a cold, empty warehouse.  The rain was coming down in diagonal slants, pelting the windows and the aluminum siding.  Is this man going to kill me?  No.  No, he wasn’t.  But he was going to strip me of whatever dignity I had left.  I wasn’t sure which was worse.  Without warning, he held up a giant foam guitar and started to pull it down over my head, the fake enthusiasm draining out of my face.  Something most people don’t ever think about, ever, in their whole entire lives, is how hard it would be to pull a thick foam guitar costume over a thick wooly sweater.  I spun in circles trying to force my arms through the sides. I hopped up and down and I wriggled like a worm on the sidewalk.  It was like a foam straight jacket.  Together, this old man and I wrestled with the costume until my arms fell limply over the sides and my red, sweaty face was perfectly framed inside the sound hole. 

“How does it feel?” he asked.  “Okay, I guess.”  For the first time that day, his face lit up a little.  “This is my creation.  It took me years to make.  As soon as I saw you I knew you would fit perfectly inside.  Can you dance?”  My eyes met his, mine woeful and pleading, his hopeful and expecting.  The neck of the guitar bobbed back and forth as I nodded my shameful reply.  “Yes, I can.” 

He instructed me to go out into the rain, and walk up to the busy intersection and dance.  This would bring him more customers.  I took a few steps outside, paused, and turned to him, fear and desperation pulsing through my veins.  “I can play “Wish You Were Here”.”  This did nothing.  I marched up the hill towards the street, the guitar costume absorbing the rain like a sponge.  My legs weakened under the weight of this man’s cumbersome “work of art”.  Half way up the hill, I turned my whole body around (turning just my head was not an option) to see if he was still watching me, and he was.  He shooed me forward.  I stood at the top of the hill, cars whizzing by, and waited for cheeseburgers to come hurtling towards my head. 

This was my time to shine.  I tried to muster up some charisma, but all I could do was sway to the side whenever a stiff breeze blew by.  I was a sad, sad guitar—a classical guitar, I thought.  So I descended back down the hill, the neck of the guitar slumped forward, not looking up as cars honked at me.  I gave the man his costume back and told him I’d be back in the morning.  I drove away and watched him get smaller in the rear view mirror, both of us knowing I wouldn’t be back.  But neither of us would ever forget that day—the day he finally got to present his masterpiece and the day I was a dancing guitar.