Guitar of the Gods
By
Daniele Citti

In the heart of downtown San Francisco, my two friends and I were finally finished with the long drive to our destination and after grabbing our birthday money, we locked the car and walked out of the dark parking garage. As we stepped outside, I squinted my eyes as the bright sun suddenly attacked my vision. In the distance, I could hear car horns shouting furiously at each other, fighting for supremacy of the road. As I turned the corner, I saw a man sitting up against the wall, his skin old and wrinkled, an indicator of struggles endured in his past. As I walked closer I could see his eyes were just as rugged as the clothes he wore. A pang of guilt fired up within me, and as I walked by, I said a silent prayer for the man. As I continued along the sidewalk, I noticed the trash littered all around the ground and thought to myself how the place we were traveling to could possibly exist in such a location. An empty coke bottle thrown aside into an alley, a used pack of camels crumpled upon the ground, a countless number of stains lay upon the concrete. A peculiar smell crawled its way to my nose, a mixture of car exhaust, salty sea air, and trash. A few traces of body odor managed to slip in, a small present left most likely by the man sitting upon the corner. Just as I was about to ask my friend whether or not we were in the right place, he pointed down the road to a building, a large sign above the doorway. It read in large, neon red letters, “Guitar Center”. Excitement welled up inside me and as I reached for the handle, I had no idea of the wonders I was about to witness. The door slid open and as I stepped inside, all my senses were completely bombarded. I could almost hear the sweet hymn of an immaculate chorus of angels, their voices rejoicing of the beauty I beheld. Amazing colors from the hundreds of guitars hanging upon the wall seemed to dance around in the light along with my personal angelic choir. I immediately caught the scent of something wonderful, a collaboration of smells that I still fondly remember today. A mixture of maple wood, mahogany, lacquer paint and guitar polish overwhelmed the previous scent of the outside world and brought into a state of peace, one I have rarely experienced. I then realized it was not a chorus of angels I was hearing, but the smooth playing of a man holding what I believed could have been a guitar crafted by the hand of God himself. Crafted to perfection, the guitar in the man’s arms was painted in a shade of pure alpine white, not a blemish upon it. It was none other then a legendary Gibson Les Paul, the guitar of many rock and roll greats, and I could hardly believe I was seeing it in person. Adding to its already amazing amount of beauty, the hardware on the guitar was crafted of gold, giving the guitar a look of divinity that I had never witnessed before. I walked up to the man, half believing him to be Jesus Christ reincarnated. I watched as his fingers flew effortlessly across the neck of the guitar, a blur of motion as he played beautiful, sweeping arpeggios, never once faltering a note or rhythm. It seemed as though his very soul was poured into each individual note he played, allowing for an absolutely astounding amount of passion to be conveyed through his music. The music caressed my mind with its soft fingers, gentle, like that of a caring mother’s. The man finished playing and looked up at me, and he smiled a knowing grin. He stood up and inquired if I would like to try out the guitar, and before I could stifle my joy long enough to answer him, he handed the guitar to me for my answer was already all over my face. I gingerly grabbed a hold of the instrument, my heart racing with all the excitement of a young boy on Christmas morning. As I sat down, a succulent scent surfaced on my nose and I realized it was coming from the guitar. The man said that a special lacquer paint was used on the guitar that had a similar smell to that of vanilla, but deep down, I could not help but to think it was the essence of some sort of divine power that emanated from deep within the maple body. My fingers began to glide across the freshly lubricated strings as smoothly as an Olympic skater glides on a freshly zambonied layer of ice. I played a few riffs and I was absolutely amazed at the quality of the sound. I hardly believed I was creating those beautiful tones that flowed from the amplifier, resonating with a clarity and quality that I had never before created. The man watched as I strummed on the strings joyously and he knew I had found a match. He told me there is a guitar for every player and that I had found mine. I excitedly followed him to the register, but my happiness faltered slightly upon hearing the price of this godly instrument. I counted up all my money and was relieved to learn I had just enough to afford the beautiful guitar. I hesitated over the notion of relinquishing my entire sum, but that all vanished as soon as I was handed my prize. All along the ride home, I felt a great sense of euphoria and could hardly wait to once again hold my new guitar, smell its sweet vanilla, and channel the divine powers I know it surely holds within.