The Boy and His Guitar

Written in 2001 when I was 17. 2-page description of Adam at band practice.

I can only watch from a distance. This friend of mine will become a master at his craft, and I cannot interfere. A guitarist must keep his focus. I have been afforded a rare opportunity. His band just left to get some food. It's me, him, and his guitar. For this brief moment, I am invisible.

It's as if he is alone in the room. A simple room, infused with countless hours of music. There are no windows. It's nearly scentless, save the odor of warm metallic speakers. The band needs nothing but a blank space in which to play. He surveys this with only vague comprehension - the walls, the towering speakers, me, this sagging green couch. There are more important matters at hand. He fingers the amp switches, adjusts the shoulder strap. I fidget.

He hits a note, and I am transfixed. The guitar is electric; it's russet gold and shines under any light. Each knob and clamp is gleaming, clean and perfect. Even the strings glint in this hollow room. He is simply playing chords, but each one strikes pure and straight into my brain.

His lean body is angular and sharp, like the guitar he cradles. He has a day-old appearance - unshaven, slightly rumpled. The simple tank top across his chest is thin, and his collarbone juts out at a harsh angle. I wonder if he sees the white threads that hang, contrasting sharply with his black pants. He hasn't combed his hair. Without his customary gel, his hair lies matte and black atop that pale, bent head.

With supple fingers on the strings, he starts into a song. I tap my foot gently, familiar with the tune but fearing to break his concentration. I needn't worry. For all he knows he could be floating on Mars right now, his focus is so great. I watch his fingers fly; they're so long, so delicate, so swift. He clenches his jaw as the song picks up pace. Cords in his neck strain, pale ropes pulling at their bonds. Soon it is his whole body straining at those invisible chains. It's the current trend for rock stars - they convulse in rhythmic waves with the music. He's learned this well, swinging violently forward and back with every beat. Even so, he's always in control. His taut grip on the guitar will not weaken as his picking gains strength. It's grinding, it's harsh, it's impossible to tear my eyes away.

The music so fills the room I've almost forgotten it. It's in my head, in my entire body. It feels so natural. I feel like I've always been here, with these pulsing waves careening through my ears. This music isn't for relaxing. If ever a sound wave could feel rage, this is the time.

Then he looks up. His eyes burn into mine. There is no recognition there; he may see me, he may see stars and streaming fire soaring with the music. I cannot tell. But while he might not see me, I can see inside of him. What he feels is reflected so simply - the sure and practiced grip on the guitar, the eyes that know every curve and angle.

I dread the time the rest of the band will return; they will bring clamor and banter and all things distracting. My invisible moment alone with the guitarist will end.