And I Burned My Guitar

[Chillhouse]

And I burned My Guitar

If there's one piece of information that I'll take away from four years of highschool, it'll be what Mr. Wright told me in woodworking class: “Wood can bend, curve, and be reshaped by heating it up.” But it has to be heated to that perfect degree; too little and it'll snap; too hot and it'll burn. But once you get it to that special temperature you can easily shape it.
But highschool was done. I was moving on. Late August I called the old crew together for one last get together. We were all moving on; to different cities, different schools, different lives. We'd make new friends and build new circles of amigos.

We were sitting around the firepit in my backyard on a brisk late summer night, common for northern Ontario. We were all there. Some people were laughing, but there was a weird, awkward hush in the air, like we knew we'd probably never talk to eachother again. Not because we couldn't, but because we wouldn't. At least, that's how I felt. I had a lot of time to think that night as my guitar was passed around the fire from person to person. Each one playing what simple song they could before giving an embarassed smile and passing it to the next person.

“Let me see here,” Lance said, his fingers poking at the frets and and sliding over the neck. He took the pick in his hand and gave my guitar the once over. He slid his thumb over the scratch in the body, and felt his way down the long crack in the neck. “Listen to this.”

He plucked out a song on the old strings. That 'Time of Your Life' song by Greenday that has to be inevitably played every time a group of people gathers around a campfire. Many joints had been smoked and much beer had been drunk by this point in the evening. Everyone was looking for that release. The night was finaly winding down, and it was coming to an end like it always did; with the froup of us listening to someone play the guitar.

He was good, Lance. Better than me. The bastard was musicaly inclined. He had perfect pitch and picked up easily on rythymns, playing every musical instrument from the banjo to the didgeridoo. Meanwhile I didn't have a musical bone in my body. I couldn't keep a beat if my life depended on it. I played just well enough to fool non guitar players into believing that I was awesome. In fact, I was almost no good at everything I was supposed to be good at. I thought since I was no good at math and science in school, maybe I was more arts-oriented. Since I couldn't draw worth a damn, I picked up photography, but I turned put to be crap at that too.

The music moved through the stagnant air, swirling the smoke and twisting the moonlight.

We were so different, me and my friends. None of them were interested in the same things as me. While they were playing video games I was biking a marathon. While they were watching TV I was hiking through some backcountry. These people, I knew never were and never could be in an intimate friendship with me. There was a staleness is the air between us. My life wouldn't be any different without them, and I doubted I'd ever do another of these get-togethers with them.

“You're guitar sucks.” Lance, saying my guitar sucks.
“Why?”
“I don't know. It's just old and crappy and the strings don't feel right. The sound is really bad.”
“I've had that thing since I was 11.”
“You get it from Wal Mart or something?”
“I don't know, my dad bought it for me. Looks the same as every other guitar to me.”
Lance pointed a finger at me. “It's all in how it's designed. Every guitar is just a bit different than the next. The most minute changes in its design can change the sound it makes.”

He serenaded us a all a bit longer, slapping out a few more easy to recognise songs.

None of my friends liked my brand of music either. I enjoyed relaxing to the acoustic soft rock of Jack Johnson and Mason Jennings, and the chilled hyperactivety of Sublime. Which they thought was really lame.

The conversations slowly died out. We listened in silence. People trickled away, untill, finaly, it was just me and Lance. He stopped playing. “That'll be it, then” he said.

“Yeah, I guess so,” I said. “Everyone else has left.”

He slid the pic between the strings and leaned my guitar up against the side of his chair. “I'll see you later.”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“I don't think I'm coming back after college.”

“So this could be it.”

“Yeah.”

“Goodbye, man.” He walked away. I heard his car start up, and the crackle of rocks under tires as he left my driveway.

It was just me and my guitar. I picked it up and brought it back with me to my chair. The fire glinted off the chipped frame. I let out a few chords, and went into some songs. I got bored and flipped the guitar onto its stomach. Yeah, it did sound like crap. I played the back like a bongo, my cupped hands hitting the hollow body. I played harder and harder, pounding out a rhythm, my hands a flurry of activity. No neighbours around for miles. Nothing but me and my guitar.
*****

Later, I woke up in my chair, my guitar across my lap. The fire was nothing but a few dying coals. I yawned and scratched at my beard. My head hurt. The moon was still shining brightly. I pulled out my pick again and flipped the guitar around and into position. I played another song.

It was different this time.The notes came out a little easier, resonating off the guitar walls better than before. The tone was almost perfect, the pitch right on. My guitar had changed. It sounded sharper, like a proffesional's guitar.

Satisfied, I sopped playing and walked back to my house with the new guitar.

[Laram]

That Was Good. ^.^

[Lukie]

Wonderful story.

[Matrix]

Wow, that was awesome.

[mm3]

Dude... I cried

<3

[Dawes]

Your description is, at times, fascinating and endearing, especially the way you handle describing the warmth of the sound. I didn't find your story hard to access as a reader, too, which is great -- shows that you're writing in a tone familiar enough to catch most audiences! You also establish a really relaxed tone with the narrator, which can be a lot harder to do than most people think when it comes to writing in first-person!

Barring a few spelling and grammar mistakes -- which every author is going to have no matter how good they think they are -- I think you have a pretty clever little piece here. You might want to consider trying to submit it to someplace, just for shits and giggles!

[Unfused...]

Wow... haha i actually teared up. Very well done

[Diapered Rabbit]

That was a great read, Chillhouse! This may well be your gift.