the guitar case
It was hard jet black and lined with gold velvet all through the inside. It was one of those serious, vintage types that had a lock built in one of the silver snaps - one of those types that were going to become obsolete because they were just too pretty and too big to continue being made. The case came as a gift from a sad aunt of mine because I had been complaining all summer long that I couldn't take my guitar onto a plane without one.
"It was Tony's. One of the girl's took the guitar out of it though," she said apologetically.
I knew I shouldn't take it then. It belonged to her first born, twenty years dead at that point. But she insisted. And it was beautiful. My low end Martin had now found its home.
Three years later, guitar, case, and I were living broke and hungry with heroin junkies in the basement of a house far away from the sad aunt and the other place I called home. I got there because I thought I was in love. I stayed there because I thought I could be someone's savior. And one day when that someone told me he needed money for a fix and did I have anything to pawn? I knew I did, even as my heart broke. I went through the humiliating pawn shop dance for him. I told myself I'd get it back out. In my head, I mouthed promises and swore oaths to my sad aunt. But with the forty dollars in my hand, I knew I'd never see it again. I stopped lying to myself and started praying for my lost soul. I asked for forgiveness from the dead.
Now, the case nine years gone, I'm sitting with my older first cousins back at home. Someone reminisces that Tony was a great musician, remember? All of them do remember, in hushed tones. They remember the mystery of his death and how none of their fathers and mothers knew, but they all did. And like cousins will do, they never reveal the truth until time allows it to unfold. Tony did not die in the hospital of pneumonia like everyone said. He was murdered because he owed money to a heroin dealer. His body somehow desecrated and then cast away in the rain. I continue sitting, but with my mouth shut tight and my heart skipping beats.
I hope my cousin understands the reason for the sick epilogue I contributed to his memory. I hope the beautiful hard shell case with the gold velvet lining - that once belonged to a nineteen year-old killed for a hit of dope and then sold for a hit of dope - is in the hands of an innocent. I hope its dark days are over.
posted by techa @ 3:37 PM
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