The Guitarist

I squeezed my way out of the morning commuting crowd of the subway and emerged into the brisk air of a sunny fall New York day. Shuffling down the street I noticed a man playing his guitar. He seemed calm and reserved as he played the blues; he had sadness about him that I just couldn’t ignore.

I went about my day as I normally did, but I couldn’t help finding myself wondering about the old guitar player in the street that morning. The next morning I awoke still with the curiosity about him. I went about my morning as I normally did, hoping that I would see him again. When I reached the fresh air of the early morning, I began to walk down the same street as I did the previous morning. I reached the spot where I had seen him and there he sat, guitar in hands.

Today I got a better look at him. Through his grayish white hair I could see pieces of his scalp showing through. He had a strong face with a goatee that was the same grayish white of the hair of his head. There was a rip in the left shoulder of his dark blue shirt. He wore no shoes and sat cross-legged leaning against the side of a building. He looked as if he would be a tall man if he were standing, his fingers and toes stretched out more than the average person. He gently pressed each string with his left hand while simultaneously strumming them with his right. He played so gracefully, it was almost as if he wasn’t playing at all. His music came straight from his soul, as if he was trying to tell a story. I finished my walk to work that morning wishing I had stopped to listen to the story he had to tell.

The next morning I woke up to the sound of this amazing guitarist’s music playing in my head. I was awake a little earlier than I normally would have been, instead of rolling over and hitting the snooze button on the alarm clock so that I could get the extra five or ten minutes of sleep, I got up and got ready. Today, I was going to stop and listen to the guitarist, whether it is his music or the man himself. I just knew that he had a story to tell; I was going to be the one to listen.

That morning I approached him, as I came to stand in front of him it was like I had interrupted his playing. He examined me closely as I had been doing to him the two previous mornings. He looked at me from head to toe; he studied the way that I pulled back my auburn colored hair into a single pony tale and tucked the lose bangs behind my ears that held dangling earrings. He stared into my eyes that were accented with dark purple eyeliner that brought out my bright green eyes. I was on the shorter side so he didn’t have to look up that much. As he studied me, I studied him back. He had this look in his eyes, sadness, as if I had reminded him of someone that he had once known. After a brief interlude, he went back to playing.

I listened as the tone in his music began to change, as if he was glad that someone had stopped to listen. I looked around for an open guitar case. There wasn’t one, which surprised me. I’ve lived in New York City most of my life; I don’t think that I have ever seen a man playing on the streets without a case to toss money in. What was his purpose for being on the street? This man was mysterious and unforgettable. I glanced at my watch and it was almost time to for me to be at work, so I nodded to the guitarist and went on my way.

That next morning was Saturday; it was my first day off since I had seen the guitarist. I was excited, today might be the day he would tell me his story. I managed to rumble through my old things in the attic and find my old bongo drum that I had picked up a few years earlier on a trip to Africa. I had taken a lesson while I was there and the playing just came naturally to me. I had thought I would play with the guitarist.

When I boarded the subway that morning I was as excited as a child would be the night before Christmas. Maybe, he would finally say something, or maybe we would just play. He was unpredictable and so different from the average New Yorker. When I arrived, I again seemed to interrupt him. He looked at me different this time. Some of the sadness in his eyes was gone, now there was a tiny glimpse of hope. This time I seemed more of an average person to him. I wore jean shorts that fell mid-thigh, a fitted T-shirt, and carried my bongo under my right arm. I was dressed quite differently from the business suits that he was used to seeing me in.

He didn’t say anything, but returned to playing. I sat down next to him. As I listened to the notes as he played on I began to pick up the beat. I started in slowly and then it became as if we had been playing together for years. Every now and then I would catch him taking a peek at me as we played. It was only for a moment, but just long enough for me to notice. We played for what seemed to be hours, and when I finally decided that it was time for me to return home we had only been playing for about 30 minutes.

The next morning, I woke up and got ready to go to church when the guitarist popped into my mind. I thought that I would invite him to come along with me. I thought that it would be a great way to break the ice. I went to him and he paused, as he usually did. I finally spoke up, “Would you like to go to Church with me this morning,” I said.

He looked at me. He looked at himself. “I don’t have anything to wear,” He said. He had a deep voice which it also drew me into him. The way he spoke was almost as if he was singing, but not quite. It wasn’t anything like I had expected him to sound.

“Don’t worry, dear friend, we can take care of that,” I told him. He gave me a small smile and nodded his head. A friend of mine often left his clothing at my apartment and I was almost sure that they would fit him. We ventured back to my apartment. He put the freshly dried baby blue polo on and a pair of kaki pants. They fit him almost perfect as I thought they would. He didn’t say much while we were in the apartment, but he thanked me for my generosity.

We walked along the sidewalks of the crowded New York streets. He still carried his guitar. He held it as if it were a new born baby. I wasn’t sure what to talk to him about so I thought I would ask about his music. That was the only thing I knew about him. “Where did you learn to play so well,” I asked.

“I grew up around music. My father was successful in the music business. I taught myself how to play to get more attention from him,” he said as he went on, “ It wasn’t until I was old that I found a real passion for music. I spent so much time studying my music that my life just seemed to fly by.”

“Are you married?” I asked which seemed kind of dumb to me at time.

“No, but I have been very much in love with only one woman in my life. She was very special to me. She loved my music and we were to be married, but she died in a tragic accident a few weeks before our wedding day. She is why I came to New York. She loved it here very much. I miss her dearly every moment of my life.” He told me. We were almost to the church, yet I had become so interested in him that I just wanted to keep walking. He continued to tell about this woman. “She was loving, caring, adventurous, and very beautiful. She was everything that I could possibly want in a woman. I noticed you about a week ago, you walked so gracefully down the street, and the twinkle in your eyes reminded me of her.” I smiled at him as we approached the doors of church.

The service was wonderful as usual, but I was anxious to be able to talk to the guitarist more about the love of his life. As the service finished, I could see a bit of joy in his eyes, the look was extremely different from the previous days. He looked at me, again examining me as if I were some type of subject.

He gave a gracious smile, “Thanks for the invitation. It was a pleasure but I must get back to my guitar.”

I smiled back, “I enjoyed your company. Hopefully I will see you again soon.”

I got up an hour or more earlier the next morning. I just had to know more about the guitarist. When I emerged outside, I could see the sun igniting the sky in the east. I turned to travel to the subway with the warmth of the sun on my face. The ride this morning seemed longer with less people.

I approached him, as I had before. He gave me a smile, larger than he did when he smiled at the church. “I’ve been waiting for you,” he said. That came much to my surprise.

“You have been?” I said curiously.

“Yes,” he said confidently.

“Why is that?”

“I have some things that I want to speak to you about, and also, something that I want to show you.” He informed me. He got up and grabbed his guitar. “You assumed I was homeless, correct?” I nodded my head. “I’m sure that within a few weeks you would have found me a place to stay. The truth is just the opposite. I’m not homeless; I own a home in Manhattan. I’m getting old, and honestly, it won’t be long before I die.” He told me as we walked down the street. “When I first saw you, you reminded me of the woman I was telling you about yesterday. I know that I have to do something with my estate before I die and since I have no children I wanted to leave it to someone that was worthy to inherit it.”

“You think that I am worthy? Why? You have known me only a week.” I said.

“Yes, you are the one that I have chosen to take over everything I own when I die.” We approached a huge building. “I own the whole building.” He told me as we entered. Walking through the doors I began to notice gold record on the wall.

“Are these your father’s?” I asked.

“No, those are mine. I was very successful in the music industry in my younger years.”

He showed me around. The rooms were large, each themed with a different city. There was a room for New York, Paris, and London among other place that were beautiful that I wasn’t sure of. One room was out of place, it was just a room. It was still beautiful; it had a large canapé bed that had red curtains flowing down the poles with matching red pillows and blankets. The carpet was white and looked as if it had never been walked on. To the left of the bed there was a small table that had a oddly shaped lamp, it looked almost like a heart on a round stand with a stick coming from the top of the heart with a lamp shade that was black with a single red stripe, that just happen to match the bed perfectly around the top. On another wall of the room, there was a white vanity with a large mirror. I approached the desktop surface and noticed a jewelry box. The box had two slots for rings and bracelets. The top also opened up. I opened the top and a small ballerina began to dance to a music that sounded so familiar. I turned to look at the other side of the room. There was also a large fire place made out of red and orange bricks. Above the mantle of the fireplace, there hung a painting of a woman. I carefully examined the painting. I looked closer and I noticed that the woman’s features were almost to the exact of mine. Her bright green eyes, the same shade as mine, were piercing. Her hair was tucked gentle behind her small ears that dangled with exotic looking earrings. He lips were average sized and a pinkish color. She had a strapless flowing purple dress on, that had dark blue beaded flowers on it.

I turned around to face the man standing in the middle of the two large double doors. He had a smile on his face and tears in his eyes. “You are welcome to stay here, if you’d like.” He said as a tear rolled down his cheek.

I still had this strange feeling that there was something missing. “Why does she look like me?”

“Well…” He began, “before she passed away we had a daughter. When I saw you, I thought that you might be her. I had left my daughter with her mother’s parents while I was on tour when she was about 6 month old. When I had returned, they had put her up for adoption, claiming that I was an unfit parent. From then on, I have been searching for her. Will you be willing to take a DNA test for me?” He asked trying not to choke on his tears. There was fear in his eyes, a possible fear of rejection.

I glanced back at the painting, then back at him. I swallowed and nodded my head. He sighed a sigh of relief. I had always known I was adopted; my parents had never hid that from me, but I never had the desire to go looking for my birth parents, especially after they passed away. We took a DNA test that following day. Staying with him was different from living alone and I enjoyed it very much.

Around a week later, a letter came in the mail. It was our DNA test. We gathered together to open it. He held it in his hand and slowly slid his finger under the flap. Before he pulled the letter out, he looked at me and said, “No matter what the out come is, I still want you to stay.” He pulled the letter out and opened it he read it to himself, then smiled with tears, the same way he did earlier that week when I first saw the painting. He reached over and hugged me, “My search is over.” We rejoiced together.

I spent much time getting to know him. He told me stories about being a musician and the way things were on the road touring and searching for me, but most importantly he told me about my mother. She was a great woman. After three short years, he passed away of a heart attack.

I had never known what he was actually leaving for me. It came time for the reading of the will. I was scared and excited at the same time. The sole recipient of his estate was me. He left his money, his property, his home, and even his dogs to me, which totaled around ten million dollars. I was in complete shock. We had lived a simple life. We lived in a nice house, but it was extravagant. No one would have ever guessed that he was worth that much, but to me, he was worth more than money.

Over the time I spent with him, he taught me how to play the guitar. Each morning before work, I would get up and I would go sit on the street of New York where I had first met him and just play. It was my way of remembering.