5 Guitar

So I was going to stay until Christmas... I would need a guitar.
I found a great big pawn shop filled with broken dreams. Over in the instrument section I gazed upon the fields of guitars representing unrelenting addiction, untold musical failures or disappointed parents.Sweetness itself.
In a row of what might generously be called starter guitars, I noticed three or four of the same style. They all came from Paracho, Michoacan
There was definitly a bit of a glut on the market here.
 I looked them over, searching for the ugliest one that could hold a tune.
I found one that was a complete mess, had a crack in the sound board at the back. Maybe it had served as weapon, or swung at someones head? Played loud it gave a slightly distorted sound, the sound board clattering in a strange way. It was light as a feather and made in a Mexican state reknowned for guitars, and didn't look as if it would be a threat to be stolen.
I picked up the best version of the same model.
Would you take $75 for this guitar. The guy looked at me.
The place is filled with them man, don't you want to get rid of them?
Sure he said.
Then I picked up the next nicest one. Would you take $50 for this one?
The guy looked alarmed, but my calculus made sense.
"Nobody gets a guitar for $50"
It remains true. It doesn't matter that it probably scored a junkie $10 at a maximum, what mattered was the pawn shop's reputation for being hard asses.
I brought out the big ammunition.
"It's Christmas, man," I said.
He, unbelievably, nodded and started moving towards the front.
I took a deep breath and went to an unspeakable place.
I help up that damaged but sweet sounding piece of crap that would come to be my traveling companion.
"$25," I said.
He glared. Nostrils flared.
"You can get this piece of junk out of your store," I said, "It's stinking it up."
He looked at the mangled mess.
"Fine."
I paid and left quickly, but could not resist chirping on the way out, "Merry Christmas."

I hustled through the street with my beat up guitar and no case.
Cross an intersection a young guy spotted my guitar and asked me where I was from. Canada. Cool man, want to jam some time?
A high schooler, confident and outgoing, looking to connect with new people and grow his circle. A rare connection. It made me feel human.
Trying not to look or sound desperate, I said yes.
But the reality was, I was desperate.
Desperate for a little middle class convention. Desperate to be inside a home with walls and doors and running water. It made me think about going over to my bandmate's houses after school. I would have loved to come over.
He asked for my phone number. Umm...
He asked where he could get in touch. I revealed a little too much about my situation.
 The wind probably shifted and he got a whiff of mesquite.
And as quickly as it had been given the invitation was silently retracted.
I continued on my way.
Halfway home it started to rain lightly, and when it picked up I dashed under a bakery's awning.
I was just standing there waiting for the rain to stop when a woman came out of the shop, got my attention.
Let me get something to put that guitar in.
That's fine I said.
no really she said.
She grabbed a really big clear bag and brought it out to me.
I thanked her excessively in my Canadian way, but it seemed like her good deed was more about the guitar than me. But it was still a nice gesture.
Together we put the guitar in the bag, and I made my way back to camp.
The rain didn't last, but the weather was certainly getting colder.
I showed Sam my guitar.
(*Hung it from a tree)