Now What?

Apr 24, 2011

What have I been doing, you ask? Well, I haven't been writing, obviously. Or maybe it's not so obvious. My mother asked me if I was hard at work on my second novel. Since I hadn't been writing on my blog, she imagined me holed up in my apartment, feverishly writing thousands of words a day -- perhaps surrounded by balls of crumpled paper like in the movies -- closing in on the denouement. She sounded disappointed when I told her no.

"I haven't been writing anything. I've been busy building a guitar."

Notice I said "building," not "making." I think my mother misunderstood at first, thinking that I started with a block of wood from the lumberyard, sanding and shaping a revolutionary new instrument that would make the angels weep. For all I know, she may have even thought I chopped down the tree.

"No," I said. "I don't have the equipment, let alone the skills, for making a guitar from scratch. I bought a pre-made body and neck. As far as the fundamental construction goes, all I had to do was glue the two together. But that's not to say there isn't work involved -- or that there isn't ample opportunity to screw the whole thing up."

But so far, so good.

I thought about chronicling the entire process step by step, but since I'm out of the habit of blogging every little thing I do see or hear, the idea came too late -- I'd already missed out on too many photographs to do it right. Besides, the finishing process is a rather long, drawn-out procedure -- the final clearcoats are supposed to dry for several weeks before final polishing -- and drying paint is about as interesting to read about as it is to watch.

While I'm here, I may as well tell you a story, for old time's sake.

Deborah and I walked to a nearby restaurant for brunch one recent sunny Sunday morning, but the place we decided on hadn't opened yet, so we walked a block further to a place we'd never been to before. It was busy, and the hostess sat us in the back at a small table for two next to a coat rack.

As I looked over the menu, Deborah grabbed my wrist and whispered, "Look at the guy who just walked in."

I did the old "look the wrong way first" trick to avoid being obvious, then looked toward the door to see a man, about fifty, who looked like a southwestern Native American casino mogul. He was wearing a giant black felt cowboy hat, black snakeskin boots, and was taking off a camel overcoat, revealing a gray suit that had been tailored to fit, though from the style of it, it had been tailored in 1974. He walked toward the coat rack and, as he started to hang up his overcoat, it brushed against Deborah's shoulder.

"Please," he said in a thick Spanish accent, "forgive me."

His hair was jet black and his eyebrows, too, and at first I assumed it was a dye job, but when I realized that the color matched the thick hair in his nostrils, and the long ones in his ears, I wasn’t so sure. If it was a dye job, you had to admire his attention to detail. The blackness of it all gave him the look of an ink drawing, and although I don't think it was, his face looked like it had been dusted with charcoal.

As he fussed with his coat, trying to hang it in a way that wouldn't interfere with our brunch, I noticed it was stained at the hem. It wasn't a new stain, however. It looked like it had been there for years. Decades, even.

"Don't worry about it," said Deborah, "It's fine there. We'll keep an eye on it for you -- make sure no one walks off with it."

"Oh," He smiled. "If someone wants to take it, they are welcome. And if they change it for another, even better. Maybe something with a mink collar."

I could picture exactly the coat he wanted.

Deborah laughed.

"Your laughter," he said, smiling, "it makes me believe my words are funny."

Deborah laughed some more.

"My brother tells me my words are tragic."

He tipped his hat and then walked to the bar and took a seat alone.