The Guitar

Three years ago, in the round-ripeness of my oncoming middle-age, William Shatner paid me a visit.

He was dressed rather plainly, in that smooth black suit and white shirt you see often see him wearing in television appearances. His face was red, but surprisingly youthful. I'd never met him before, never considered meeting him before, and I was surprised to see him. I'd grown up on Star Trek reruns, had dim memories of watching it on Sunday evenings as a baby with my brothers, so I was quite certain it was William Shatner when I saw him.

It was New Year's Eve.

He clucked his tongue at me, shaking his head from side to side.

"This year," he said, "learn the guitar."

"OK." I said. And then he left.

I called the Big Cheese the next day, who in addition to his manifold talents, also plays guitar. I figured he'd know what to do.

"William Shatner told me to learn the guitar this year."

B.C. laughed. "Really? Was it Captain Kirk or William Shatner?"

I grimaced. "It was William Shatner, not Captain Kirk." I said. I could hear B.C. trying not to smile.

"Alright then. What kind of guitar did he say learn?"

I was nonplussed. Was he trying to trick me? "I don't know." I said, "A guitar. With strings. The normal kind. He wasn't very specific."

"Well, there's steel string and classical, bass guitar, slide. What did he say about the kind of music?"

"Nothing." I replied, then brightly I said, "But I don't think he intended for me to strum."

"You'll need lessons." B.C. intoned authoritatively. "I won't teach you."

"OK."

"Well," he said thoughtfully, "when you want to, come over and I'll let you play with some of my guitars to see what you like." I said I would and we said our good-byes. It was January first. I had plenty of time.

Months went by and every now and then I would think to myself, "I need to call the Big Cheese about the guitar..." but, of course, I wouldn't.

In October, the Big Cheese's mother died of cancer. I think it was somewhat sudden, and me and the Brain went to the funeral. Another of B.C.'s students, who also happened to be a minister, presided over the service. We buried her in a small cemetary, under some trees if I recall correctly. It was a nice place.

Later that evening, William Shatner returned. This time, he wore a Star Trek uniform, one of the red ones from the movies with the flap open at the shoulder. He was standing on B.C.'s mother's grave.

"You know," he said, "you really don't have that much time."

...

"He said that?" laughed the Big Cheese when I called him the next day. It was good to hear him laugh, despite the morbid proximity to his own mother's death.

"Yeah," I said, "and he was Captain Kirk, not William Shatner, this time." It had dawned on me earlier that I had never quite understood how important Captain Kirk was to me. How, somehow during all those reruns, Captain Kirk was the only real adult male I paid any attention to. For years, I had always told myself that I was a Mr. Spock Guy, that Captain Kirk was a blow-hard, a bully, and a criminal. Now, I realized that I was a Captain Kirk Guy, that I liked the stilted, halting, bombastic delivery. Captain Kirk was the face I put on my subconscious. Funny that.

We made plans to go look at guitars in the various shops around town the next day. The Big Cheese brought his wife. We'd go in a store, he'd hand me a guitar, I'd pluck at it. Sometimes, he'd play something. Finally, he picks up a La Patrie and plays something "spanish-sounding" by Los Lobos. His wife sang the words.

"That's it!" I blurted out. "That's what I want to play!"

He put down the guitar, a little surprised perhaps, and said, "Well, if that's the case, we need to find you a really good teacher."

...

A few days later, the Big Cheese calls me on my cellphone. "Do you have some time tomorrow afternoon?" he asked.

"Sure, why?"

"There's somebody I want you to meet." He goes on to explain that in a previous career as a recording engineer, he'd recorded an album for Carlo. They'd kept in touch over the years, and he'd made a phone call.

"I asked Carlo if he had any students that would take an adult beginner." he said.

"And what did he say?" I asked.

"He said, 'What makes you think I wouldn't take an adult beginner?'"

So, the next day, we went to meet Carlo at his home. While he and Carlo caught up, I sat quietly. They chatted, I tried not to look nervous. The Big Cheese told me to tell Carlo why I wanted to play guitar. I told him about William Shatner and the grave, which Carlo took very well, smiling and nodding in agreement. He had two new guitars with him at that time, a gorgeous Spanish Rozas guitar he had just returned from Madrid with, and another one, with a less distinguished pedigree. He had brought them back from Europe (as he always does) to help his students. He played both for me. After about an hour, the question finally came.

"Do you want to learn guitar?" Carlo asked.

"Yes. And I'll take the Rozas."

The Big Cheese laughed, "I knew the moment you heard the Rozas you'd want it."

I wrote Carlo a check for the guitar, and he gave me a short list of practice books to obtain.

Now, years later, I have this thing, this new wooden organ of cedar and ebony that I hug to my body. It is a beautiful thing, and the most frustrating thing in my life.

Still...

I can play, and I don't strum.