Gas Station Guitar

“Pizza!” 

No response.

“PIZZA!”

Still nothing.

I’m standing at the foot of the staircase, staring up. I’m about to call again when I glance toward the kitchen and see my husband shake his head and laugh. He gives me a look that says, “He can’t hear you.” 

The voice of my eldest son singing loudly over the fevered strumming of his acoustic guitar fills the upstairs. He’s in his bedroom, and the door is open. The song is Gordon Lightfoot’s “Canadian Railroad Trilogy.” I listen for awhile. There’s foot-stamping now, and the guitar sounds full and rich. The chords resonate through the walls, along the hallway, and down the stairs to where I lean on the handrail. Even if he could hear me, I don’t think he would — not when he’s in this other place: the place where he goes when he plays, a place where only he and his guitar exist. I turn with a thoughtful smile and head back to the kitchen.

When I was in high school, I saw a live performance of classical guitar. The solo guitarist was a master of his art and seemed to make the guitar play its intricate, vibrant, mesmerizing music without concerted effort. I was spellbound. The next week, I traded my violin (the previous year’s bewitchment) for a guitar, and my mom found me a teacher. 

My guitar teacher had his own band, longish hair, and eyes that squinted pensively at the end of his sentences. If he had told me he’d played a few concerts with Neil Young, I would have believed him. His music studio was decorated with guitars, and he liked to finish each lesson with some free time to “jam.” He would grab a guitar and give me one his electric guitars to try, and then we’d play together. I was terrified and terrible. 

I practiced. Honestly, I did. But, like piano (did I forget to mention the piano lessons?) and violin, guitar was eluding me. After one particularly discouraging lesson, my teacher looked at me with a quiet sigh and said in his super-relaxed voice, “You know, playing guitar is something that… well, it’s like when you get off the school bus at the end of the day and the first thing you want to do is hold your guitar in your hands and play. Just play.” He nodded his head slowly, a far-off look in his eyes. Then, while I was wondering if he’d attended Woodstock, he raised his eyebrows like he was expecting me to say something. 

“Okay. Ya, I totally get it. Just play,” I said and tried to imitate his zen guitar god slow nod of the head and far-away stare.

That was my last lesson. The enigmatic guitar passion he was trying to describe? I knew I didn’t have it.

My son taught himself to play guitar. He’d taken some piano lessons when he was younger, so he knew how to read music. However, piano had been more of a chore for him than a passion, and eventually, he’d quit. Then, one day, a high school teacher sorting through her storage closet found an old guitar in need of strings and some love. She gave the guitar to my son. He bought new strings, YouTubed how to string a guitar, and tuned it using our piano. Soon, there were discussions about laminate versus solid wood, capos, saddles, and truss rods. And, it wasn’t long before the 6-string guitar was joined by a 12-string. When my son got off the bus at night, the first thing he wanted to do was hold his guitar in his hands and play. 

There’s guitar music at all hours of the day in our house. There’s guitar when my son gets home from work. There’s guitar when he goes to bed. There’s guitar when he’s supposed to be doing chores. There’s guitar while he’s doing schoolwork. Besides mastering songs by such greats as John Denver, James Taylor, Simon & Garfunkel, and Gordon Lightfoot, he spends a good deal of time composing his own music. Sometimes, when he’s in composition mode, he’ll walk through the house, playing his guitar while he talks to family members, looks for something to eat, or watches online videos over his brother’s shoulder. 

Last week, my husband and I had one of those arguments that goes from zero to 60 in three seconds. The volume of our verbal battle had increased, and when I paused for a breath, I saw that there was a third person standing with us in the hallway — and that person was playing a guitar. It was like a bizarre conflict resolution serenade. I can’t remember what the argument was about. I do remember my son beside us, casually strumming away, eyes distant, thoughts lost in his music. He seemed oblivious to our raised voices and angry facial expressions. He was right beside us and also somewhere else.

One night, not long ago, my husband and guitar-loving son stopped for gas on their way home from town. Inside the convenience store, they were greeted by a young man at a counter furnished in typical gas station paraphernalia: junk food and scratch tickets. What was not typical was that behind the counter — propped against the wall, vertical and without a case, ready to use, and within arm’s reach — was an acoustic guitar.

“Nice guitar,” my son said.

“Do you play?” the store clerk asked.

“A bit.”

With that frugal exchange of words, the guitar was passed over the counter to my son. He finger-picked and strummed through a few bars of this and that before passing it back.

“What do you play?” my son asked.

“Here’s something I wrote.” The gas station attendant took the guitar in his hands and began to play and sing. 

It was the kind of untethered, head thrown back playing that only comes from passion. My husband and son stood awestruck while this ordinary guy in a gas bar sang and played his guitar as though he were performing at Massey Hall. He seemed completely transported and unfettered by his surroundings or the presence of others. This nondescript gas bar wedged between a highway and a busy urban intersection had become a concert hall. 

It was clear that there was nothing this guy would rather be doing than playing his guitar. And, he played. Just played.