Writing The Guitarist [PG-L]

[Shinmaru]

This is a short story I wrote today. I had an idea for a short story centered around a folk singer (which I turned into a 55 Fiction), but I just simplified that into a guitarist for this. This story originally started out quite different, but then I realized that my original idea blew, so I scrapped it. I think that this is much better. Hopefully some people here will like it.

Comments, critique, etc. are all appreciated.

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There?s a man who plays guitar on the street corner during the day. He?s a tall, slender man. He has a strong, youthful body, though his face is slightly lined and creased. When he plays, his left hand grips the neck of the guitar smoothly, and his long, worn fingers slide swiftly up and down the neck, continuously changing the notes that he plays. He plucks the guitar strings, gently at first, and then harder and harder as the song progresses, slowing down and speeding up his movements at just the right time.

He sings along with the music he plays. The guitar notes he plays are mournful and full of sorrow, but his voice is strong and full of hope. People usually walk by him while he is playing, sometimes pausing for a moment to toss a nickel, dime, or quarter into the hat laying upside down near his legs. Occasionally, though, a person will stop and listen to him for a while. Maybe they?ve heard him before in one of the small clubs that he?s played in. More often, it?s their first time hearing him play. But there is something about his music that makes certain people stop and listen, something that they cannot quite put their finger on. The guitarist is not very concerned with this. He is just happy that some people like to stop and listen to his music.

As the day goes on his voice gets stronger. It takes a while for him to warm up, but once he does, he sings with a passion and pure conviction that few people possess. He usually plays into the early evening, when people are going to the subway, ready to find their way home after a hard day?s work. Just like in the mornings most people do not stop to listen to his music, because they are too defeated by work and life. However, there are a few people who walk home everyday who life has not made too cynical, and stop to listen to the guitarist play. Sometimes they gather in groups, and sometimes they do not. These people do not leave the guitarist with very much money, because they do not have very much to give. The guitarist does not mind, though, because they share his love of music and that is enough to satisfy him.

When it starts to get too dark to stay on the streets, the guitarist makes a quick trip home. He used to go straight to the convenience store to take on the night shift, and he would take his guitar with him, strumming a few songs along the way. His guitar was almost stolen a couple of times, though, and the guitarist decided that he would have to stow his precious guitar at home while he worked.

The guitarist always takes the same path to his cramped apartment. He walks past the small crowds of people along the dirty sidewalks with the trash blowing around on them. He shuffles forward with his hands in his pants pockets, glancing from here to there at the various people littering the streets. Sometimes there will be a fight between rival gangs. Other times, there will be a few random muggings. It?s all the same to the guitarist; he just tries to steer clear of them.

The guitarist makes it to his apartment and walks inside, closing the door behind him, cringing a bit due to the loud squeals of the hinges. The apartment is small and dirty, enveloped nearly in darkness because all of the shades are drawn. He toes his way across the front room, carefully stepping over the pots, pans, and other assorted items scattered across the floor. He walks into his bathroom, and emerges a few seconds later, making a mental note to clean the room as soon as possible. He walks over to his bed, and lays down upon it. His sheets are very worn, and dampened by sweat. His mattress is old, and some of the springs jut into the small of his back. The room smells very sharp, and the average person would be repulsed by it, but the guitarist has grown used to it. He stares at his dingy brown roof, thinking, as he always does before he goes back to the convenience store.

He rolls onto his side and steps onto the floor. He bends over and searches under his bed, taking out a dusty brown case from the darkness. He opens the case and a musty stench escapes into the apartment, and the guitarist coughs harshly for a few seconds. Wrinkling his nose, the guitarist puts his guitar into the case and snaps it shut. With a grunt, he lifts the case off of his mattress and puts it back under the bed. He pauses a moment and wipes some sweat from his brow.

A small sigh escapes from his mouth. Deep down he wishes that his life were more than this, but he never voices this opinion aloud. He thinks to himself that he has much to be thankful for. He yawns loudly and stretches his arms into the air. His muscles are a bit sore from lifting the heavy guitar case. He rubs his eyes with his right hand, and walks over to the sink in his bathroom. He turns on the faucet, looks at the water to make sure that it is not dirty, and splashes some of it onto his face. He shakes his head quickly and some of the water flies off of his face and falls to the ground.

The guitarist dries off his face with a towel, and looks into the mirror for a few seconds. His skin is light, but healthy looking. His dark brown eyes are tired, blaze with fire deep down. He caresses a few of the lines on his face. He then leaves the bathroom and leaves his apartment. The sun has set almost all of the way, and it is almost pitch black on the streets. The streetlights are on, shining light onto the sidewalks. Groups of people hang out under the light talking with each other, and glancing around in all directions every so often. He keeps to himself as much as possible, and doesn?t look over at the people talking amongst themselves on the sidewalk.

Eventually the guitarist will make it back to the street where the convenience store is located. He walks past the spot where he plays the guitar every day, and he pauses for a few moments. A few cars will roar past him while he stands around contemplating about nothing in particular. He?ll sigh again and cross the street. The automatic doors leading inside of the convenience store will open up, and he?ll go inside. The person whose shift is about to end greets him when he steps inside.

?Hey,? the man says. ?My shift almost over already??

?Yeah,? the guitarist answers. ?I?ve just got to stay until midnight tonight, right??

?That?s the plan,? the man replies. ?Would you mind cleaning up a bit? I?d do it myself, but I?ve got somewhere I have to get to real quick.?

?Okay,? the guitarist says. ?I?ll do it.?

?Thanks,? the man replies, walking out of the convenience store. ?The mop?s in the back room with all of the other junk.?

The guitarist watches the man leave, and then he goes to the back room. He scrounges around for a minute or two, and unearths the mop from behind a couple of ladders. Then, he sees a bucket near the door and picks that up. The bucket is halfway filled with water. He hauls the mop and its bucket to the front room, and begins mopping near the automatic doors. After a while he dips the mop into the water, takes it out, and sweeps it across the floor. Some of the water splashes up from the sweeping, and hits the lower half of his shirt. He puts the mop down, leaning it against a shelf, and he decides to get an apron from the back room.

There is a closet in the back room where some supplies are kept. The guitarist ambles towards it, and opens up the closet door. There are a few blue aprons hanging from some hooks on the back wall. The guitarist takes one and puts it on. He ties the strings holding it together in a loop behind his back. He hears a crash from the front room and jogs back into there. A customer stands by the front desk, holding himself up by pushing against it. A few cans lay on the ground. One of the cans is cracked open, and a gooey brown substance is seeping out onto the floor.

?What happened?? the guitarist asks.

?I slipped on the wet floor!? the customer yells. ?You didn?t even have a sign here!?

?I?m so sorry,? the guitarist says. ?I was only gone for a few seconds, I was just getting an apron--?

?I don?t care if you?re sorry!? the customer shouts, interrupting the guitarist. ?You know, this is just sloppy work here. You?re cleaning the floor, but you don?t even have the decency to put a caution sign there. How am I supposed to know if the floor is wet??

The guitarist stays silent.

?You?ll be lucky if I ever decide to shop here again!? the customer yells. ?And do you see that can of beans down there? I?m not paying for them.? The customer settles his feet, turns around, and leaves the convenience store. The automatic doors close behind him. The guitarist sighs and goes into the back room again. He rummages around and finds a caution sign. He brings it back to the front room and sets it down near the doors. He then dips the mop back into the bucket and starts mopping once again.

The floor is soon cleaned up. The guitarist puts the mop and bucket back into the closet, but he leaves the sign in front of the door. He walks back into the front room, and goes behind the cashier?s desk. He leans forward a bit. His left hand props him up against the desk, while his right index finger taps softly against the flat surface. A couple of hours go by, and only a few people walk into the convenience store. Most of them only buy a couple of items. A very nervous man buys a pack of condoms. A teenager tries to trick the guitarist into selling him a pack of cigarettes and six-pack of beer. A young woman buys a pack of gum.

About fifteen minutes before midnight a tall, burly man walks into the store. He walks around the store, weaving in and out of each of the small aisles. He picks up a bag of potato chips, a six pack, and a couple of lotto tickets. He then walks up to the cashier?s area, fishes around in his wallet, and pulls out a $10 bill. The guitarist rings him up, takes his money, and deposits it into the register. The receipt churns slowly out of the register as the guitarist gathers the burly man?s change. He rips the receipt out of the register and hands it to the customer, along with his change.

The burly man begins walking away. He stops after a few steps. He turns around and glares at the guitarist, who is busy fixing a couple of things on the cash register.

?Hey!? the burly man yells. ?I gave you a $20! You only gave me change for a $10!?

?You didn?t give me a $20, sir,? the guitarist replies. ?You only gave me a $10.?

?You know damn well that I gave you a $20!? the burly customer shouts.

?I don?t want to make any trouble,? the guitarist sighs. ?But you gave me a $10. Look at your receipt and see for yourself.?

?And how do I know that you didn?t just screw with the register and say it was a $10 instead of a $20?? the burly man asks. ?Explain that to me!?

?Please, sir,? the guitarist says, raising his hand to his eyes. ?My shift is almost over and I?d like to get home to rest. I have something I need to do tomorrow night, and I can?t do it if I?m too tired.?

?I don?t care what you have to do!? the burly man bellows. ?I want my change!?

?Look, sir--? the guitarist begins. But before he can say anything more, the burly man grabs him by the collar of his shirt and jerks him forward. The burly man pulls the guitarist?s face close to his own. The burly man?s breath rushes forward against the guitarist?s face; his breath is warm and wet, and smells strongly of alcohol and onions. The burly man?s electric blue eyes stare directly into the guitarist?s own brown eyes. The guitarist?s breaths come out in short, nervous twitches of his chest.

?That?s my money you?re stealing!? the burly man screams. ?Nobody steals my money! Nobody!?

?S-sir,? the guitarist says, struggling to calm the butterflies in his stomach. ?You?re aware that the security camera up there is taping this as we speak, right? Please, for both of our sakes, don?t do anything that you?ll regret later.?

The burly man keeps a firm grasp on the guitarist?s collar as he cranes his neck to the camera. He peers at it for a few seconds, squinting his eyes. He grunts softly and pushes the guitarist away, letting go of his collar.

?Fine,? the burly man says. ?Have it your way. Steal my money, I don?t care! I?m not the one doing anything wrong here, you are!? The burly man turns and leaves the convenience store. The guitarist calms down and walks to the back room. He takes off his apron and hangs it back up. When he walks back into the front room, the man whose shift was next walks in through the automatic doors. He steps slowly into the convenience store, looking at the caution sign the whole time.

?Ah, there you are,? the man says. ?Ready to go home??

?Yeah,? the guitarist says. ?I?m ready to go home. Would you mind putting that sign back into the closet? The floor?s not wet anymore, so you wont? really need it.?

?Not a problem,? the man says. ?You have a good night?s rest now, you hear??

?I hear,? the guitarist says. He leaves the convenience store and has an uneventful walk back to his apartment. The city grows cold at nighttime. A soft wind blows through the streets, and the guitarist raises his hands against his arms, rubbing his skin, which is riddled with goosebumps. He makes it to his apartment, opens his door, and walks inside, closing the door behind him. He doesn?t bother to take off his clothing, and instead flops directly onto his bed. He falls asleep after a few moments.

The next day is Saturday. The guitarist sleeps most of the day. He wakes up around midday and takes a walk around the block to get his blood flowing. He comes back to his apartment after an hour and eats. When it is early evening he takes out his musty guitar case from under his bed, and brings out his guitar. He straps the guitar onto his back and walks outside. The sun is almost finished setting and a few stars can be seen. This is the only time of day where any stars can be seen; when the streetlights come on, it makes it impossible to see any stars. The guitarist walks along the street in the opposite direction of the convenience store.

About three blocks along, he comes to a stop in front of an old building. A neon sign above the front door reads ?The Music Box?. The letters in the words ?the? and ?music? flash intermittently. The guitarist is about to open the door and walk inside, when an old man opens the door and stops him from advancing further.

?Ah,? the old man says delightedly. ?I was waiting for you to show up!?

?I bet you were,? the guitarist smiles. ?How many people are in there??

?Not many at the moment,? the old man replies. ?I doubt that there will be very many people in there until you start playing.?

?Anyone else going to play tonight?? the guitarist asks.

?No,? the old man says. ?Nobody but you.?

?Great,? the guitarist says, removing his guitar from the strap on his back. ?Good thing I practiced for a long set tonight.?

?I bet you practice for a long set regardless of how long you?ll be playing,? the old man chuckles. ?Anyway, I won?t keep you waiting, it looks like everyone is getting restless in there.? The old man steps aside, giving the guitarist a clear view of the club. The club is nearly pitch black, lit only by a few blue lights spread here and there. A light haze of smoke hangs near the roof of the club. There are a few people sitting at the bar, but most of the people inside are sitting near the stage, sipping at mugs of beer.

?Yeah, I think I?ll head inside now,? the guitarist says. Before he walks inside, though, the old man gently grabs his sleeve.

?Tell me,? the old man says. ?Why do you like playing here so much??

?I like playing everywhere,? the guitarist answers. ?I guess I feel a bit more comfortable here than everywhere else, though. I couldn?t tell you why.?

?You?ve been playing here for so long now,? the old man says. ?You?re such a talented young man, it?s a wonder you haven?t been snapped up by some record company yet!?

?Yeah,? the guitarist sighs, lost for a moment, but quickly regaining his composure. ?It doesn?t really matter that much to me. I just like to play music, and to have people listen to it. Hopefully someone gets something out of it.?

?Well, you have a lot of listeners today, it seems,? the old man says. ?Maybe today will be your lucky day.?

?Yeah,? the guitarist says. ?Maybe today.?

The guitarist walks into the club, closing the door behind him.

[lea]

Wow. That was really good.

The only thing that I noticed that you could fix is how you used some words too many times, within a span of a few sentences.

Like in this part:

The guitarist watches the man leave, and then he goes to the back room. He scrounges around for a minute or two, and unearths the mop from behind a couple of ladders. Then, he sees a bucket near the door and picks that up. The bucket is halfway filled with water. He hauls the mop and its bucket to the front room, and begins mopping near the automatic doors. He dips the mop into the bucket of water, takes it out, and starts mopping the floor. Water from the mop starts spreading across the floor. Some of the water splashes from the mop, and hits the lower half of his shirt. He puts the mop down, leaning it against a shelf, and he decides to get an apron from the back room.

There is a closet in the back room where some supplies are kept. The guitarist ambles towards it, and opens up the closet door. There are a few blue aprons hanging from some hooks on the back wall. The guitarist takes an apron and puts it on. He ties the strings holding the apron together in a loop behind his back."

The words "mop","bucket", "floor", and "apron" are used a lot of times, in those two paragraphs. You could use different words in place of some of them every few, use "it" or something like that, or join some of the sentences together.

Other than that, it's very good. *grins*

[Mitch]

[quote]The guitarist always takes the same path to his cramped apartment. He walks past the small crowds of people along the dirty sidewalks with the trash blowing around on them. He shuffles forward with his hands in his [b]pants pockets[/b], glancing from here to there at the various people littering the streets. Sometimes there will be a fight between rival gangs. Other times, there will be a few random muggings. It?s all the same to the guitarist; he just tries to steer clear of them.
[/quote]

I believe "pants pockets" here is possessive. So it should be pants' pockets? But that seems wrong. It is only a minor detail, but minor details are about all I'll be able to point out, because this piece is wonderfully written.

[quote]The burly man keeps a firm grasp on the guitarist?s collar as he cranes his neck [b]towards to the camera[/b]. He peers at it for a few seconds, squinting his eyes. He grunts softly and pushes the guitarist away, letting go of his collar.
[/quote]

Just use "to" here - it is shorter than "towards."

I enjoyed the use of present tense, it gave the piece a nice feel. I liked how descriptive the piece was - I could easily picture a lot that was happening. The part about the burly man I found quite interesting.

Wonderful job, Shin.