The Guitar
A short story about choices and ten cents on the dollar.
“Luck is a very thin wire between survival and disaster, and not many people can keep their balance on it.” Hunter S. Thompson
Me and my buddy were always downtown, hitting this street known as Pawnshop Alley. That’s where musicians went to sell or pawn their instruments. The place was full of guitars and horns. Even the great Charlie Parker sold his tenor sax there once to buy drugs. He went back the next day, begging them to let him use any sax for that night’s performance. He ended up playing a plastic saxophone.
We weren’t interested in saxophones — or Charlie Parker. Jazz was way over our heads. All my buddy and me wanted was to play rock guitar. We didn’t have any money, but we dreamed about guitars like some kids our age dreamed about bikes and basketballs.
We dreamed and dreamed until one Saturday in August, my buddy’s parents took him to Buffalo. When he came back, he had a new Fender Telecaster. It was just like the one Jimmy Page played on “Heart Full of Soul,” except Jimmy’s was all painted up crazy like back then.
My buddy would let me plug in to his National amp, but he told me he’d better take the lead on “Heart Full of Soul.” It made sense since he was playing the same guitar as Jimmy Page.
Anyway, from that day on, I could barely look at my old Kay with the pickup I’d added. I didn’t even own an amplifier. My buddy would let me plug in to his National amp, but he told me he’d better take the lead on “Heart Full of Soul.” It made sense since he was playing the same guitar as Jimmy Page.
One time, he let me try his Telecaster. I ran my hand along the neck, pressing down the strings like it was nothing. Anybody could play the lead to “Heart Full of Soul” with a neck like that.
I’d go home afterwards, telling my parents I needed a guitar like my buddy’s Telecaster. My father would say, “Well, you’ll just have to earn it.” He pointed outside to all the apples under the trees out back. My parents bought the land back when it was an apple orchard. They kept about ten of them. They weren’t sprayed, so the apples didn’t ripen properly. They’d just drop and rot on the ground if they weren’t picked up.
I hated picking up apples, but there weren’t a lot of jobs for kids my age except paper routes. I’d already done that. I hated getting up early in the morning, stuffing those papers in my carrier, then going around once a week to collect what they owed. I needed a faster way to make money. My buddy was getting better than me with that Telecaster. It made me mad. I’d get so mad, I’d say to my parents, “I’m never gonna amount to anything.”
He’d already figured out “For Your Love” and “Please Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood.”
So they finally made a deal with me. They’d match whatever I earned, and they’d pay me fifty cents each time I picked up the apples. Meanwhile, my buddy had already figured out “For Your Love” and “Please Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood.”
One day, he comes over and tells me some bands are playing at a local community centre. “Let’s go listen to them,” he said. I told him I wasn’t blowing money on concerts. He said we could listen by the door. That worked for me. We went and heard three bands, two of them with guitarists playing Telecasters. The third played a Gibson ES-1100 semi-acoustic.
God, it was a beautiful red — just like the one Clapton played at Royal Albert Hall with Cream. I saw a picture of him in one of the music magazines.
While we’re listening, that same guy with the Gibson ES-1100 comes outside for a smoke. He sees us standing there. “You guys broke or something?” he asks, and we told him we were. He reaches into his jeans and pulls out these two Admit One tickets. They were the same kind you got at movie theatres.
He hands them over, then pulls out a joint. We smoked the joint, then went inside. He was going on for the next set. I just remember how he held that guitar, all these veins in his forearms and those long fingers stretching notes.
But first I needed a decent guitar. How was I gonna do that picking apples?
Hell, I thought, that’s what I want to be. I wanted to stretch notes like that. But first I needed a decent guitar. How was I gonna do that picking apples?
Then I remembered being in a stationary shop, and seeing all these rolls of Admit One tickets on the top shelf. There were four colours. What if I took the money I had — about twenty dollars — and bought those rolls of tickets? I could stand outside different concerts with those rolls in my knapsack, find out what colours they used, then sell my tickets for half the door price.
That’s what I did. I bought the rolls of tickets, waited for the next concert, then stood there about twenty feet from the door. Once people found out they could get inside for half the price, I was selling my tickets like crazy. I practically covered the cost of those ticket rolls the first night.
Before I knew it, I had two hundred dollars. I could’ve kept it up, made a few more hundred, maybe bought a new Gibson ES-1100. But I was impatient. I needed to act fast before my buddy got way better than me.
One morning, I got up early. My father was getting ready for work. I asked if I could catch a ride with him downtown. “Sure,” he said. “What’s the occasion?” I told him I was buying an electric guitar.
“You’ve got the money already?” he asked.
I made up some bit about unloading sheep manure at a local garden centre. He’d noticed I always had dirt under my nails. It was actually from burying my money in an old coffee tin behind the garage. I even buried the rolls of tickets since my mother was a snoop.
Anyway, he was so impressed, he said, “Well, we’ll keep our promise. How much have you saved?”
He says to me, “Okay, I’ll spot you a hundred, but I’m going with you. I don’t want you getting taken by those pawnshop guys.”
I couldn’t very well say I had two hundred dollars. This was the late sixties. Two hundred was a lot of money — especially for a fourteen-year-old. I told him I had a hundred. He says to me, “Okay, I’ll spot you a hundred, but I’m going with you. I don’t want you getting taken by those pawnshop guys.”
We got there just as the pawnshops were opening. All around us were used guitars, some in good shape, some bad. My father kept saying to me, “Why don’t you want a new guitar?” He kept pointing to these new Framus and Hofner guitars. Why they were in a pawnshop, I hadn’t a clue. I was looking at the Fenders, Gibsons and Gretches.
Then I saw it, the exact guitar that guy with the veiny arms and long fingers was playing that night: a deep red ES-1100. It was used and abused, with peace decals and chips—but it was the real deal and I had to have it.
One of the pawnshop guys came over. He had that tired look, like those pawnbrokers in the movies who’re always staring over their glasses at you.
I asked him, “What do you want for this?” He started telling me its pedigree, how it used to belong to the lead guitarist for the Ugly Ducklings.
“That’s what he used when they recorded Gaslight,” he said.
“How much?” I asked again.
“Three hundred’s the lowest I can go,” he said.
“That’s a lot for a chipped guitar,” my father said.
“You’re buying history,” the pawnbroker shrugged.
“What if those decals won’t come off?”
“Again, history,” the pawnbroker shrugged again.
“How about that one?” my father asked, pointing to a sunburst Framus.
“Two hundred,” the pawnbroker said. “It comes with a case and small amp.”
“That’s more like it,” my father said. “At least it’s in good shape.”
“But,” I said, pointing to the beat-up Gibson, “that’s an ES-100.”
“It’s three hundred dollars,” my father said. “Get something you can afford.”
I’d only started saving for the guitar that spring. He’d probably say something like, “You dealing pot or something?”
But I could afford that ES-1100. I had two hundred dollars in my pocket. Even if my father matched the one hundred, I still had enough. Like I said, though, two hundred was a lot of money. I’d only started saving for the guitar that spring. He’d probably say something like, “You dealing pot or something?”
Anyway, I went to the pawnbroker and said, “Would you do installments?”
He looked over his glasses at me.
“Installments?” he said. “Everybody wants installments. How old are you, anyway, kid? Your dad gonna co-sign? I ain’t doing it otherwise.”
“I thought you wanted a guitar today?” my father said to me.
“I do,” I said. “It’s just — ”
“Look, kid,” the pawnbroker said. “I get guitars in here all the time. Gibsons, Fenders, you name it. Groups are always breaking up. The Ducks are gone. Same with Kensington Market — even The Paupers, for chrissake. Do like your father says. Take the Framus. You can always trade up when you’ve got the money.”
My father was already taking the sunburst Framus down from the rack.
The pawnbroker got the case. He put the Framus inside.
“Look, kid, don’t be a big shot,” he warned me. “Big shots end up here. They get ten cents on the dollar. How do you think I make a living?”
“There you go, enjoy,” the pawnbroker said.
He stared at me over his glasses. He could see I wasn’t happy.
“Look, kid, don’t be a big shot,” he warned me. “Big shots end up here. They get ten cents on the dollar. How do you think I make a living?”
“Good advice,” my father said, taking out his hundred.
We left the store, my father telling me I’d made the right choice.
“Everything comes to those who wait,” he said.
Back home, I took the Framus over to my buddy’s place. It wasn’t a bad guitar. It sure didn’t have the action of his Telecaster, though. I told him I almost bought an ES-1100 that used to belong to the lead guitarist of The Ugly Ducklings. “You should’ve bought it,” he said, fingering the chords for “Purple Haze.” He’d figured it out while I was downtown.
“I’ll get something better,” I said. “The guy at the store said groups are breaking up all the time. The Ducks, Kensington Market — The Paupers.”
“The Paupers?” my buddy said.
“That’s what he told me,” I said.
I explained I needed to start hitting more concerts with my tickets.
‘I heard they’re changing,” he said.
“Changing to what?”
“Their own printed tickets. Too many counterfits.”
“What the hell am I gonna do now?”
“You’ve still got a hundred. Sit on it for a while.”
Here I was, fourteen years old, with no way of making money. Not to mention being stuck with a guitar I didn’t even want.
I put the money back in the coffee tin and buried it again behind the garage. I did the same with the ticket rolls. Eventually I threw them out. Nobody was using Admit One tickets anymore. Ticket agencies were starting up. You couldn’t even get tickets at the door unless it was through scalpers. Here I was, fourteen years old, with no way of making money. Not to mention being stuck with a guitar I didn’t even want.
Eventually, I lost interest in playing guitar. Like that guy at the pawnshop said, groups were breaking up all the time. Even if I did get an ES-1100, people were losing interest. It was the seventies, bands had horn sections. Skip Prokop, the drummer from The Paupers, formed Lighthouse. Everything was getting bigger and more complicated with synthesizers and stuff.
I finally took my guitar to the pawnshop. The same guy was standing there at the counter. “What’ve you got there?” he asked. He opened the case and looked at my Framus. “Don’t see many of these anymore,” he said. “They’ve stopped production.”
“What’ll you give me?” I asked.
“Seventy bucks,” he said. “Not worth more than that.”
“I bought this on your advice,” I said. “I wanted the old ES-1100 you said belonged to the lead guitarist of The Ugly Ducklings.”
“Those ES-1100s are hard to find,” he said. “Beautiful instrument.”
“You told me not to be a big shot.”
“Sounds like me,” he chuckled. “So I sold you this?”
“Too bad,” he said. “Those ES-1100s go for about a thousand used.”
“That’s right.
“Too bad,” he said. “Those ES-1100s go for about a thousand used.”
“You can’t do better than seventy on the Framus?”
“Afraid not.”
“Give me the seventy.”
I walked out with the money. I remember saying to myself, “I won’t get taken again,” but I did. Years later, after my marriage, I would’ve been happy with ten cents on the dollar. It was like I was born for missed opportunities. That guitar started it, though. The rest just followed in its wake. One thing after another.
Robert Cormack is a novelist, short story writer, blogger and journalist. His work is now free here on Medium. His first novel “You Can Lead A Horse To Water (But You Can’t Make It Scuba Dive)” is available online through Simon & Schuster. I’ve even learned Walmart is selling “good, used copies.” His stories and articles are also available at robertcormack.net
