in which I am undone (Guest starring: two bearded camp counselors)
The year I turned 18 I was hired as a counselor at a summer
camp in northwestern Connecticut.
The guitar came along with me, and I took it to the camp-out site during the
staff orientation. That evening I played actual songs around an actual
campfire. It was my first experience flirting with an actual girl who seemed
impressed with me, or my playing—it didn’t matter which. I was very pleased
with myself.
The next morning, after struggling in vain not to sleep with
a tree root in my back, I was groggy. When it was time to pack up and head back
to the campgrounds, I debated carrying my guitar or letting a camp employee
take it back with all the tents and gear. I decided to leave it, and staggered
off with my fellow counselors.
I’d been back at the camp for a perhaps an hour when one of
the counselors came running over to me, exclaiming, “Geoff, they’ve run over
your guitar.”
I almost laughed. It was one of those awful moments when you
want to say, “no, really, what
happened?” You want it to be a joke, yet you know that it’s probably not.
When I arrived at the camp office, the camp owner, a
red-bearded fellow, and the camp director, a dark-bearded fellow, were waiting
for me outside the office door.
“Geoff, we are so
sorry about this,” said the red-bearded one.
“Eddie was loading the gear on the truck,” explained the
dark-bearded one, “and didn’t see the guitar case when he was backing up, and…”
“He feels just awful about it.”
They paused, embarrassed, and looked at each other.
“We will replace it,” the red-beard continued, “absolutely.”
“Yes,” said dark-beard, nodding, “absolutely.”
They exchanged another glance. Red-beard turned to me and
solemnly asked, “Would you like to…to see it?”
“Um, sure, I guess so.”
We walked into the office, and there was the case. They
stood aside, almost visibly wincing as I lifted up the lid, coffinlike..
“Yep, that’s it, all right,” I said with a weak chuckle, as
if I was identifying the body.
“We’ll absolutely replace it,” red-beard said again. “I know
how you must feel.”
Oh no you don’t, I
thought as I nodded.
“We’re very very sorry, Geoff,” said dark-beard.
I accepted their condolences as gracefully as I could,
trying to appear calm and understanding, even light-hearted. After all, I could
understand their position. I’d rather cut off a hand than have to tell anyone
I’d run over their guitar.
I left and walked back to my cabin, aware that someone was
walking several paces behind me. I was also aware that my composure was
slipping, that a lump in my throat was growing. I trudged along, all-too-slowly
approaching the cabin, hoping that my gait didn’t look odd, silently imploring
my tear ducts to remain firm until I was inside. Somehow I held the tide back
until the door was shut behind me.
Whereupon I burst into tears.
I must confess I never ever
referred to or thought of guitars as female, or male, or alive, or animate in
any way. I don’t ascribe personalities to them, I don’t name them. But that day
it felt as if I’d lost someone very close to me. It was wrenching in the way a
sudden death can be.
The camp owner—red-beard—was good to his word. I was
grateful for that. I went out a few days later with a friend and picked out a
guitar.
Actually, I’m afraid I took advantage of the situation: I
bought a slightly better Yamaha model than the one I’d had. This was cause for
an awkward moment when red beard asked why I’d spent more than I’d estimated.
I blamed inflation, and gulped.
He frowned a bit, but didn’t argue.
© 2008 Geoffrey Welchman
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