It'd been three months since my old guitar had been stolen from the back of car, and it took me weeks to get over my anger. While it was more than thirty years old, its rich tones seemed to better with age. I owned three guitars, but the one stolen had been my favourite by far. Sure, the insurance paid out on it after a bit of squabbling but I knew in my heart it was going to be hard to replace. Just to make myself feel a little better, I'd decided to invest a little more money than the insurance payout and get my something better. Flavell's Music & Instruments was far the best shop in town for guitars, and it wasn't long before I'd made a nuisance of myself.
Most people that know me would consider that I'm a pedantic perfectionist, and they're probably quite right. But anyone who knows anything about guitars would agree that no two are really identical in sound. Two guitars made one after another may have a different sound or feel about it, and I just wanted the best. I was looking for a nice semi-acoustic classical guitar with a cutaway body, its sound more important than its looks. So each time new batch of guitars arrived, the owner of Flavell's, better known to me as Benny these days, would ring and entice me to the shop to try them with the hope of a purchase. I reckon that if I found one I liked, Benny would give it to me for nothing just to get me out his hair.
That particular Saturday, I'd taken a few guitars to an out of the way place at the rear of the shop near the piano section to be out of the way of other customers, just as I'd done before. I was soon in my own little world quietly putting my potential purchases through their paces. It would be fair to say that I'm not a bad player of the guitar; I've played for more than twenty years and had been tutored in a classical in my early teens. Since then, I've developed my own little style; I suppose you'd call it a sort of rock played classically, sounds strange but those who hear it tend to like it as much as I like playing it. Like most guitarists, I like to improvise and have written a lot of my own stuff, some good and I suppose some not so good.
I'd been playing quietly for sometime when I sensed someone was close by but just out of my peripheral vision. I turned around to find a young woman casually leaning against a nearby piano watching me.
"Sorry, I didn't realise anyone was there." I mumbled apologetically. "Am I in your way?"
She smiled, "Not at all, I was drawn down here by your playing. What was it you were playing? I haven't heard it before."
"Just something I made up."
"It's good, how about you just keep playing and I'll listen?"
I smiled graciously and returned to my playing, but my thoughts now on my audience. She looked familiar, like someone I known but never met if you get my meaning. I snuck a few glances her way to where she was leaning on a baby grand with her arms folded watching me. She was pretty with short dark hair; a large pink beret was perched on her head, below were black top and blue faded jeans with black scuffed leather boots. For the next minute or so, my brain drifted as I trine to place her, and then it suddenly dawned on me who she was. I stopped playing and raised my eyes to hers.
"Are you who I think you are?"
She smiled, "Probably, but that doesn't mean you can stop playing."
I allowed the guitar to slip flat against my thighs and grinned stupidly at her, for I was in shock.
She chuckled at my response, "Don't go daft on me. How about you keep playing for a while, and then I'll buy you a coffee for your efforts. Play some other stuff you've written."
For the next few minutes, I played nervously as I came to grips with my situation. For before me stood Clara St Michaels, a rock singer and song writer of fame. She stood in front of tens of thousands of people and awed them with her voice, a voice so pure and powerful it could tear your heart out, and other times a voice so sad that could bring tears to ones eyes. Her songs were a mixture of hard pounding rock and slow ballads that seemed to draw her fans close me included; to me she was one of a kind.
I soon realised what was different about her, her trademark long hair had been tucked up under the beret, and without the bright makeup she wore on stage or on photo shoots, it would be kind of hard to recognise her. I played for a good ten minutes before I put the guitar down, and was most embarrassed to get a quiet clap from Clara.
"What a neat sound, I really liked it. Most unique I think."
"Thanks." I mumbled humbly.
"C'mon, that deserves a coffee."
Now I was kind of embarrassed, I mean why would someone like Clara St Michael want to give me the time of day? I'm just nobody who can play a guitar living in a small hick town.
"Its okay, you don't have to."
Clara's smile waned as she read my mind, "You've earned it, and anyway I hate drinking coffee alone."
A few minutes later, I sat nervously at a café table with a long black in my hand. Clara had taken a seat opposite but facing away from view as if to hide from being recognised, I suppose it would be second nature these days.
"So what's it like singing in front of thousands of people?" I asked.
She smiled and took a sip of her coffee before answering, "It's the best feeling in the world, once I get over my nerves."
"You still get nervous? I thought it'd be old hat after all the concerts you've done."
"Nope, can't shake the nerves. It takes me two or three songs before they disappear, then I'm usually okay."
"What are you doing down here?" I asked.
"Just wanted some time out before the concert next week. Sometimes all the people and fanfare gets too much, all hotel rooms get to look the same and everyone wants something from me. So every now and then, I hire a car and hit the road for a bit of solitude, and here I am."
"In the middle of nowhere." I added.
Clara looked around and shrugged her shoulders, "I dunno, looks fine to me. And how else do get to meet fine little guitar players like you. So tell me about yourself? "
I was kind of surprised at her request, "Why ever would you want to know about me?"
