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Guitarist Of Giltoro
Hiadel
Walking down the side of a boardwalk a business man admired the coastline. The sun reflected off the ocean and showed the small town of Giltoro in its best light. Small homes and businesses dotted the boardwalk and gave it a very deep feeling of being an old coastal town that had yet to be consumed by the tourism industry. Mom and pop stores sat next to beat up gas stations, and the closest superstore was fifteen miles away in another city.
The man strode down the boardwalk with a smile on his face and a briefcase full of money. He had just completed his first major business deal, and he was just 21! A world of opportunity awaited him and the possibilities seemed endless for him. All he had to do was reach out and take what he wanted.
His happiness was momentarily broken by a homeless man who was motioning towards this business man to make a donation to him. Long brown dirty hair covered his head and the business man could see a joint sitting out on the corner of his mouth. The homeless man held in his hands a guitar and on the floor of the boardwalk the business man could see where other people had walked by and thrown money into the homeless man’s guitar case.
“You know, you could make more money in the city.” The business man said.
“It’s not about the money.” The young guitarist replied with a grin. “It’s about the passion! I’ll tell you sir that one day I’ll have this guitar play a song so powerful that it binds two totally different worlds together. I could care less about having to scrape my living out of a tin can. As long as I have this guitar I’m happy!”
The business man grinned back at him and said with a sneer “We’ll see who makes it farther then, your playing or my business!” and walked away with his briefcase in hand.
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Mr. Perez walked down the boardwalk that same evening pondering what his home needed. He had by far the largest home in the town and was usually responsible for hosting the larger parties that were held.
His estate rested on the only hill the town had and overlooked the coastline. Red shingles and tan sides made the house look as if its real home belonged on the cover of an Italian restaurant’s menu. Mr. Perez’s home was missing something though, and he couldn’t put a finger on what that was.
As he walked down the boardwalk the sounds of guitar music hit his ears and at immediately he knew what he needed: live music! Walking over to the music’s source he looked at the guitarist. He wasn’t very satisfied with his looks but thought to himself how all it would take would be a trip to the barbershop to fix that problem.
“Sir, would you be interested in being my private guitarist? I’d supply you with room and board, and I’d get you fitted up with a shower and a good haircut.”
The guitarist took him up on his offer. After a trip to the barber and a stop to get some new clothes the guitarist looked like a totally different person. A fresh cut and a new pair of pants made the homeless man seem like a decent looking young man.
After a few days Mr. Perez was very happy that he decided to hire the guitarist. He got complements at his parties for the fine live music, and when the guitarist wasn’t playing for guests he’d sit out on the porch of Mr. Perez’s home and generate background music which his children would listen to while sitting out on the beach. At any hour he could call on the guitarist and he’d sit down and strum up a melody for the Perez family.
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One night Mr. Perez woke up at around 2a.m. He tried falling back to sleep, but all his attempts at going to sleep seemed helpless. Finally he gave up and decided to go find the guitarist and ask him to play him a song so he’d fall asleep.
Moving silently down the hallway Mr. Perez approached the guitarist’s door and opened it. Walking in silently he stopped in the doorway. Illuminated in the moonlight he could see two figures sitting on the bed: his oldest daughter and the guitarist. Tightly embraced he could see the guitarist’s hands wrap around his daughter’s bare skin. One hand stroked her back while the other one held her neck as he softly kissed her.
Pausing in the darkness Mr. Perez stared at the two of them. Even now he plays the guitar, Mr. Perez thought to himself. The way the guitarist’s fingers strummed her backside and held her neck as if it were a fret amazed him.
In an instant that beauty was lost to him as rage and furry bubbled in him. Storming closer his daughter and the guitarist realized he was there and broke off, his daughter covering herself and the guitarist looking straight into Mr. Perez’s eyes. As he roughly grabbed the guitarist’s arm he led him out of the room.
It wasn’t long before the guitarist was on the street again begging.
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On another week a pair of shady men walked down the boardwalk smoking joints. Heavily tinted sunglasses hid their red eyes as they made their way down the side of the beach.
Seeing the guitarist sitting off to the side one of them stopped and asked “Hey dude, you game for some free joints?”
The guitarist looked up, and seeing nothing else to do he packed up his things and followed the shady characters to their car and drove off. The car drove through the countryside and parked outside an old warehouse. Hopping out of the car the shady men led the guitarist inside.
The guitarist’s eyes bulged as he saw what was inside. Massive bins of marijuana lined the warehouses that were as tall as he was. “You can have some of it if you help us package it” One of the men in sunglasses said.
Accepting their offer the guitarist worked in the warehouse and over time became closer friends with the men in sunglasses. One night they said they were getting together with some other friends at a concert nearby and were wondering if he wanted to come with him. Getting into their car they drove off to the concert site and went around back and hopped the fence. Meeting up with the shady men’s friends they made their way towards the front row of the concert to watch the band on stage.
After awhile the band went offstage to take a quick break before starting their next song. The guitarist saw the ramp that lead to the side of the stage nearby and started to develop an idea in his head. What if I could run up there and play? Taking a chance he decided to make his way to the ramp and dash up onstage. The security guards were so surprised that someone would dare try to run up onto the stage that they tripped on their way up the ramp after him. Running up to the mike the guitarist called out to the crowd and with his guitar in hand started to strum out a song. The crowd realized that someone was onstage and started to clap and cheer as the guitarist busted out chords with all his might. Finishing up his tune the guitarist bowed right before being tackled by security and being hauled out of the concert.
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On another night the guitarist went to sleep after a long day of packaging joints. He walked into his makeshift bedroom which was a shack that stuck out on the side of the warehouse. Drifting off to sleep he awoke a few minutes later to the sound of cop sirens. Quickly jumping out of bed he grabbed his guitar and ran outside to where the cars were parked. He was to late though. The cops had already surrounded the perimeter of the warehouse and were slowly taking workers captive.
That didn’t stop some of them from trying to escape. As the guitarist watched S.W.A.T. team members rounding up workers on the other side of the warehouse one of the men in sunglasses called out to him “Quick, this way!” motioning towards a back door that led to a few parked cars around back. “Maybe we can break free of the perimeter before they box us in!”
They both ran out the back door and hopped into one of the cars parked there. Punching the accelerator the man in sunglasses sped forward towards the police cars that had surrounded the building. The guitarist could hear gunshots ring out against the night’s sky and he kept his head down low in the passenger seat. Their car wedged right in between two police officer’s cars parked in front of the road, bumping the other cars off to the side as they raced towards the main road. As they made it out onto the highway the shady man kicked it into high gear.
Their troubles weren’t over with though. After a few minutes of driving down the highway the guitarist could hear the sounds of a helicopter flying overhead with a spotlight.
“Dammit, let me take care of this.” The shady man said as he drew a gun from his hip. “Here, take the wheel while I fire.”
He leaned out the window as the guitarist drove and started to take potshots at the helicopter flying overhead. It wasn’t of any use anyway. The bullets just bounced off the underbelly of the copter and gave the police more of a reason to use deadly force. Shining its bright light on the car the helicopter gave a final warning to the guitarist and his friend to pull over. Ignoring the helicopter’s warning the guitarist drove faster down the dark highway.
The helicopter released a spew of bullets that hit one of the wheels of the car, sending it out of control. The guitarist and the shady man braced for impact as they saw their car heading for the highway median. Once the car struck the median it flipped and landed upside-down on the highway. The shady man kicked his door open and ran for the nearby woods as the guitarist struggled to get himself untangled in the car.
The shady man didn’t make it very far though. He was almost at the edge of the woods when a few more gunshots rang out, striking him dead on the spot. The guitarist heard these shots as he finally untangled himself and decided to give in. Raising his guitar over his head he let the S.W.A.T. team converge on him and handcuff him. It wasn’t long before he was given a fresh haircut and a new set of orange clothes.
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Strumming a short melody he had just made up the guitarist looked up to discover his new cell-mate. Walking in wearing an orange jumpsuit the criminal looked like a cross between a hunchback and a gorilla. Massive muscles moved underneath his prison uniform and his hands seemed to have more meat on them than a chicken breast. Sitting on the other side of the cell he sat down on the cot. The guitarist looked at the cot and could see how close it was to snapping off of the wall as the gorilla sat down on it. Let’s hope this works out, the guitarist thought to himself.
For awhile the constant music didn’t bother the gorilla. He sat in the cell all day staring at the wall as the guitarist strummed his songs against the cold hard walls of their cell. One day though the gorilla snapped. Standing up from the cot he walked over and said “Why must you make noise?” with an annoyed face. The guitarist just stared back though. Those were the first words that had been relayed between the two of them.
“I said, WHY MUST YOU MAKE NOISE!?” the gorilla roared as he grabbed the guitarist by the neck and pulled him up from his cot. Dragging him across the floor of their cell he took him to the opposite side of the cell and pinned him up against the wall. The gorilla’s hands were so thick that he only needed one hand to properly put him up against the wall.
“Because I must” the guitarist croaked as he stood pinned against the wall. “If I don’t, then what else is there? I refuse to live in this cage and have nothing to do but stare at a wall like you do every day.”
The gorilla looked at him menacingly and let him go. “Ok” he said with a grunt “I’ll leave you be, just don’t mess with me.” After that conversation the two didn’t worry about each other.
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A few years later the guitarist was working outside in the prisons courtyard. He was operating the licenceplate machine when one of the other inmates decided to mess around with him.
Walking up to the machine the inmate hit the guitarist off his workbench.
“Oh, I’m sorry about that. I have a terrible habit of bumping into assholes.”
The guitarist looked at him and didn’t say a word. They both knew he was the one being an asshole.
“Unfortunately it’s a hard one to break” he said, moving forward and giving the guitarist a swift kick in the shin. Yelping in pain the guitarist clutched his knee in pain. The other workers in the yard noticed what was happening and formed a small circle around the two. They jeered, cheered, and sneered as they watched the two prisoners in the circle look at each other.
“The only habit I have worse than bumping around into assholes…..” the inmate started to say, picking up a nearby hammer and walking over toward his injured opponent.
“Is getting your ass kicked by them!” Yelled the gorilla as he pushed his way through the crowd and into the opening. The Inmate raised his hammer and tried to strike the gorilla but it was worthless to try to fight such a beast as him. The gorilla grabbed his hand as it came down to strike him and twisted it in the most painful way imaginable, sending the inmate to the ground in agony. He didn’t release him though.
“So you think you can be a punk?” The gorilla said. “You know, I also have bad habits.” He said while twisting his arm still farther backwards. “They involve beating the shit out of punks!” He yelled as he took his other arm and struck it across the inmate’s face, causing blood to spill out onto the prison yard.
Before anything else could happen the prison guards made it to the scene and broke it all up. The guitarist watched as the prison guards escorted the gorilla away to a separate holding area, where the guitarist would never see him again.
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Years and years passed and eventually the guitarist walked out of prison and smelled that free air for the first time after about 40 years. With nothing else to do he went back to Giltoro and sat down by the boardwalk and continued playing the guitar as he had when he was young.
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The business man wept at his wife’s bedside in the hospital. Tears leaked from his eyes as he looked into hers as he slowly watched her fade away out of his life. Clenching her hands he could slowly feel them go cold. Why must illness strike so fast and rob us of everything? The man didn’t know. He wasn’t really sure of anything anymore now that he lost her. Standing up and leaving the hospital room he couldn’t bring himself to look at her as he walked out of the hospital room.
Walking down the street his heart was filled with remorse. He couldn’t think about anything straight and everything seemed to spiral around his head as he tried to cope with the loss of his wife. He exited the hospital and started to walk down one of the town’s main streets. Feeling the wind blow into him he also picked up the sound of music. It wasn’t any ordinary music though. He knows he’s heard it before and after a moment he decides to go and check it out. Coming around the bend and seeing the guitarist on the boardwalk the business man was astonished. It was him! After all these years he’s come back! Without a moment to lose the business man ran back down the street to the guitar shop and bought himself a guitar. The business man wanted to be as free as the guitarist, and he knew that he could be as free as him if he learned how to play the guitar.
The business man walked over to where the guitarist was.
“Howdy” The guitarist said. “What can I do for you?”
“Oh, not much. Mind If I play with you?” The business man replied.
“No problem.”
So from that point on for many years the business man and the guitarist leaned against the railing of the boardwalk and played in the sun that reflected off the coastline. Just about every day they’d meet outside and play for a few hours. They’d play until their fingers bleed from changing frets, and when it rained they’d just walk to the nearby gas station and play underneath the shelter it provided to the cars that stopped to get gas.
The most important part of these jam sessions were the stories they told each other. The business man was usually short on them but that wasn’t much of a problem seeing that the guitarist had plenty to go around. All those stories really made the business man realize how much the guitarist had gone through over all these years. He doubted what he had said as a young man when he had told the guitarist his life was going nowhere, and realized that the experiences you had over your life sometimes were worth so much that you couldn’t put a dollar amount on them.
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Carrying his guitar case down the avenue the business man walked down to the boardwalk one day like he did normally. He got to their normal meeting place and waited for the guitarist to show up. He must be running late, he thought as he checked his watch. After playing a few songs to burn the time away he started to get worried. Where’s the guitarist? He’s never missed a meeting.
He packed up his stuff and decided that maybe the guitarist had an emergency and that was why he couldn’t make it today. He was sure there had to be a logical explanation to all of this.
Walking back down the avenue he saw the local sheriff pull up to the side of the road and roll down the windows. Everyone knew everyone else’s name for the most part so it wasn’t strange for the police department of Giltoro to randomly stop and have conversations with residents.
This conversation didn’t look friendly though. The sheriff had a dark look under his eyes as he tried to get what he needed to say together.
“Look, I need to tell you what happened to your friend. Last night he was playing late at night and a few hoodlums tried to mug him for his guitar. He refused to give it up, and they all got in a tussle. During the fight one of the punks flipped a knife on him and stabbed him, and after that he bled to death.” Looking back across the road the sheriff tried to keep himself steady. “I know you guys were real close, and that you’re the only person who really knew him. If you come down to the station I can get you his guitar.”
With grief stricken eyes the business man got into the cop car and drove off with the sheriff to the police station. Once they were there they went around back and into the inventory room. There the sheriff handed him the guitarist’s most valuable possession. The business man took it into his arms and stared at it with amazement. Oh the places this piece of work has been!
“I’m sure you’re the only one he’d want to have it.” the sheriff said.
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Eventually the guitarist’s body was given a spot in the local cemetery and buried there. The business man took the guitar there a few nights after the guitarist had been buried and stood beside his grave.
“You’ve been through a hell of a lot” The business man said. “You know, you proved me wrong. You proved me dam wrong!” The business man shouted into the night’s sky. “You proved to me that your path was totally worth living, and that even the poor can be as rich as the richest kings!”
Taking the guitar he brought it into playing position. “You’ve given me so much over all these years, and now it’s time for me to do the same.” The business man then started to strum a soft melody. Tears started to form as he looked down at the guitarist’s grave. He was giving him the best gift he could ever give. He played a song that bound two totally different worlds together, a song that expressed how much the business man could relate to the dreams of the guitarist.
When he was done with the song he left the guitar there on his grave and walked away. Over time the wood rotted away and the guitar slowly decomposed. All the magic that it generated over its lifetime floated away with the wind in search of a new home, just like the guitarist would have wanted.
