Mr. Musicman

October 28, 2005

A solid mahogany body, plus the added weight of a Bigsby vibrato, and a hardshell case, adds up to over twelve pounds. In other words, my Les Paul Custom is a heavy motherfucking guitar. I lifted it onto the countertop as carefully as I could, flipped the latches, and opened the case.

"Now that's something," said the salesman, scratching his beard, then put his long hair behind his ears for a better view. "What have we got here?" he asked. "Mid-nineties?"

"Ninety--six,” I said. “1954 Black Beauty reissue."

"I see, I see—Hmm—" He looked down the neck to see if it was warped and then ran a few scales. "Hmm," he said again. "It's something alright. But the thing is, I haven't had much luck moving Les Paul Customs in here." He pointed to a similar, though slightly less showy, guitar hanging on the wall behind him. "I've had that one hanging there for close to a year."

"You're kidding."

He continued to inspect the guitar from every angle. "You got the P-90," he said, tapping the bridge pickup."And what's this?" he asked, tapping the other.

"It's an Alnico V staple pickup. It’s original to the ‘54. I know it's an oddball, but believe me, it sounds great."

"I don't doubt it one bit. And the fact that it's an oddball might actually work in its favor. It's not a good time for Les Pauls right now."

"Is it ever?" I wondered.

"Good question," he laughed. "Right now, though, the only way I'd take this baby would be to hang it for really cheap. Say, like eight hundred dollars.

"Eight hundred dollars? It's worth more than twice that. Hell, I'd buy it for eight hundred dollars."

"That's what I'm saying. Unless I can sell it cheap and flip it right away, I can't afford to take it on. You know? I mean, I can't afford the space if it's gonna linger on the wall for a year. If I put it up for anything more than eight bills, I'm pretty sure that's what it'll do."

"Yeah, I get it. I can't wait a year for it to sell, anyway."

"Have you tried the eBay route?"

"No. Not yet."

I'd thought about it. I sold a few things on eBay last year, including two guitars, but it could only be described as a colossal pain in the ass. I dread dealing with finicky customers who are so paranoid about getting ripped off that they harass you with a million questions before the sale, and a hundred questions after. Not to mention boxing and shipping the thing.

"Try Craigslist," the salesman suggested. "If you need money badly, you could put it up for a thousand dollars and probably sell it in a couple of days. Plus, it's local. You don't have to deal with shipping. That's your best bet."

What I had been hoping to do was hand off the overweight monster to the salesman right then and there, and then collect a big wad of cash a week later. I wasn't looking forward to lugging the bruiser back home. "Yeah, I shrugged. I guess you're right."

"Sorry, man. Thanks for bringing it by, though. I appreciate you giving us a first look. Good luck."

I shut the case and closed the latches. "Thanks for your time," I said, and walked out the door.

Heading up Sixth Avenue toward the subway, I passed a beggar squatting on the street with a worn paper cup full of change on the sidewalk in front of him. "Spare change, my man? A quarter, a dime, a penny?"

"Can't help you," I shrugged.

"Thanks anyway," he said, and then, after I'd passed, he called out, "Good luck with your music, Mr. Musicman."

"Too late," I turned and said over my shoulder. "Where were you ten years ago?"

"Not here, my friend, not here."