The Guitar Stand, A Ten Mile Walk For A Nut, A Fanny Pack, Chili Cheese Fries and Other Insults

It's my story, so I get to connect as many dots as I want, even if they are all unrelated. A narrative is a selective string of facts with or without overt interpretation. The simple selection of events and the language used to describe them can lead one toward a belief (or away from one), to draw conclusions and ascribe meaning to things where none exists, or not. Quite possibly nothing in this universe has any intrinsic meaning, but that's a polemic for another day. 

So let's get to the facts, shall we? 

On my second day in San Diego, I went out to the store with my mom to pick up some last minute groceries. When we returned home with the bags, I helped my mom into the house with hers and was about to take mine upstairs, when she suggested that I take the guitar and guitar stand that she had planned to give to me. My hands were full with groceries and the guitar, so I left the stand on an outside table on their patio.

The patio is adjacent to a walkway leading from Mission Beach to Mission Bay. During the day it receives its share of foot traffic from people accessing either place. When I went upstairs with the guitar and groceries, I promptly forgot about the guitar stand and began cooking breakfast. I was excited about the guitar, but I'd wait until after breakfast to pull it out of its case. 

Midway through cooking breakfast, I had a sudden thought about the guitar stand that I'd left on the table. It had been twenty minutes or so, and I thought I'd better run downstairs and grab it before someone took it. Too late, I found, when I looked on the table, and it was nowhere in sight. Someone had lifted it during the time it took to chop a few vegetables and fry a couple of eggs.

I was a bit anxious and wondered if I should ask if anyone downstairs had brought it in the house. I was too embarrassed to ask, though, fearing that they would say that they hadn't and that I'd have to tell them that it had just been stolen. So I kept it to myself, wanting to spare my mom the frustration that I was feeling about people stealing stuff, how you just can't trust anyone these days, etc. I didn't have much faith in humanity to lose, but I still didn't feel too good about it, mainly for my mom's sake. I have other guitar stands at home, so no biggie.

I was still excited about the guitar, so after breakfast I got it out and began tuning it up. Ka-jang! Dowww!  Bing bing bing bing -- bonk! It sounded terrible. I kept trying to tune it, but it refused to make one decent sounding chord. Something was off. Glancing down the neck to the one particular string that had the really sour sound, I saw that the nut was broken. 

(The nut is the little guide thingy that separates the strings on the end of the neck with the tuning pegs, for you non-guitar people. The bridge is the larger version on the body of the guitar, which serves the same purpose, though it has adjustments for determining the height and length of the string. You wanted to know all that, right?)

I googled "nut replacement Takamine G series" and watched a quick video on YouTube, detailing how to replace a nut on that specific guitar. They are generally glued in place, and it looks intimidating. The process for removing one is relatively simple: Inspect for any glue on the fretboard and headstock which may cause problems by adhering to the wood and taking chunks of it with it when you go to remove it. If there is glue visible it is necessary to use an exacto knife or some such precision blade to get in between the wood and the nut and break the bond.

Not finding any glue, I went on to the next step: Tap it ever so slightly with a wooden peg and a hammer. Not having either, I grabbed a TV remote and just bipped it enough to break it free from the little notch where it was minimally held in place with a drop or two of glue. Bip, bip -- bingo. It was off, and pretty cleanly, if I do say so. Now to find a new nut.

I made a quick search of the local area for music stores and honed in on one that sounded promising, Mark's Guitar Exchange on Midway drive. I called them and they indicated that they might have something suitable, but I'd have to bring in the original part and try to match it up. No problem, it was within walking distance, and I needed to get my steps in for the day. 

I walked south down the bike path alongside Mission Bay, taking in the atmosphere. There were bikers, scooter riders, skateboarders,  people walking dogs, jogging -- you name it. On the bay side people were playing volleyball, paddleboarding, swimming or just hanging out on the beach; on the residential side people were on patios and balconies, drinking beverages, listening to music, barbecuing and generally having a good time. 

I strode along purposefully, knowing I'd have to keep up a good pace in order to get there before they closed. I reached the end of the bike path and went over a bridge, down some sidewalk and then ran into a snag because some roadwork was being done which had eliminated the foot path on the side of the bridge. I looked at my phone and found another route, one which didn't involve me walking in traffic, at least not for the length of an entire bridge. It did, however, add an extra mile to my trip.

No matter. I arrived at Mark's none the worse for wear and found the place cramped and packed floor to ceiling with guitars, amps and accessories of all kinds. Someone was playing a few licks on an electric guitar while the clerk, an Alice Cooper looking gentleman with spectacles, was taking an interminably long time ringing up a customer. I'd just walked five miles, though, so what was five more minutes. Or ten.

It was finally my turn. He remembered me from my phone call. He brought out a box of nuts of various sizes and configurations, some six and some twelve string varieties. I looked them over thoroughly and was not quite finding a match. I started getting a bit flushed. I didn't want to be the nut who walked five miles to buy a nut only to turn back around and return home nutless. 

The last one I looked at had the exact size and configuration as the broken one. I put the pieces together and compared the two, looking at them side by side from every angle. Yup. This one would do. He rang me up and it came to five bucks. I looked in my wallet and found seven. Whew. Another potentially embarrassing bullet dodged, since they didn't take credit cards, only cash. 

I left the store and began the long walk home, having the satisfaction of a finding an exact replacement, on a Sunday, within walking distance from my apartment. Things were falling into place. 

As I walked past a large grass field in front of some apartments, I saw a hat on the ground. It looked brand new. There was nobody around, and it looked to have been abandoned, or ditched, certainly not cared for or claimable by anyone in close proximity. 

I picked it up and tried it on. Yeah, I know, gross. But looking at the condition of the hat, I felt I had more chance of giving it the cooties than the other way around. I walked off with a new hat that said "San Diego" on it and felt all at once very touristy, and perhaps a tiny bit guilty, in case there was someone, somewhere, missing this hat and searching desperately for it. 

I kept going. After crossing back over the bay bridges and walking along Mission Bay Blvd. for a while, I decided to sit at a bus stop for a minute. On the bus stop, unattended and with no one in close proximity (again), I found a fanny pack with a Frisbee under it. I looked up and down the road in all directions, and there was no one in sight. 

I opened it up and found a driver's license and a bunch of ladies grooming accessories, a house key and an envelope that looked like it might contain a paycheck, or something official from a business, addressed to the person on the driver's license. 

I knew what I must do. I must take the items and try to locate the person and return it to them. It seemed like the right thing to do, since leaving it there would most likely result in someone else, possibly with less altruistic intentions, taking it and making its contents their own.

When I got home, I emptied it out, searching for clues, and out of curiosity, of course. One always wonders what ladies really carry around in their purses. I found out that this one belonged to a fairly attractive twenty nine year old Bianca Ann Hawks, female, brown hair, blue eyes, height 5'3", weight 120. I would have guessed Hispanic, but it was probably just because of the way she wore her hair in the picture, parted in the middle and tied in a tight bun in the back.

Along with the previously mentioned items, the pack contained a phone charger, earphones, an eyelash curler, several shades and flavors of lipstick, a few nickles and quarters, a pocket knife -- and last but not least -- a small baggie of unidentified white powder, and a loose bud of cannabis floating around freely among the lint. I sniffed the bud and found it to be of high quality. The powder I did not touch or even sniff. Not my cup of tea. 

The presence of the last two items made me unsure of the best course of action to take. I would certainly give everything back, not try to take whatever minuscule amount of drugs she possessed or attempt to be a narc or a finger-wagger. But it did mean that I'd have to give the pack directly to her. I couldn't leave it with an apartment manager, say, if she wasn't at home. They might open it, which could have the unintended consequence of getting her evicted or arrested, who knows. I left it all in there for the time being.

The next day my mom and I went out on an excursion to the address on the license. It was a fair distance from our apartment, so I wasn't going to walk it. My mom needed quite a bit of help navigating the streets and freeways, getting a bit frustrated with me and my slow response times giving her the exact lanes to be in and places to turn. I make a terrible GPS, even with Siri's help.

We finally got there and I rang the bell. No one answered, so I guessed that would be the end of it. I would just have to keep the items, assume her identity and live out my days as a twenty nine year old female named Bianca Ann Hawks. Or not.

When I got home, I did some more investigating and decided to call the number of the company whose address was on the envelope. If it was her employer, certainly they'd know how to get in touch with her. It turned out that she worked about two blocks from our apartment. 

I rang up the employer and they told me that she wasn't working today, but that I could give them my phone number and they would relay the message to her about the missing items. She could then call me and schedule a pickup. Brilliant. Within a half an hour I got a call from a very grateful Bianca, and by the end of 45 minutes she was downstairs outside my apartment. 

I brought her the pack and the Frisbee and gave them to her. She mentioned how glad she was that I didn't drop the bag off at the address on the license. That was her dad's address, and he'd most certainly have rooted through her items and found the naughty stuff. I told her no worries, I wasn't going to judge her for anything; I was just trying to do a good deed. 

She hugged me and thanked me once again, asking me how long I was staying in town. I told her, and she mentioned that she'd be working down the street for the next two nights. I told her I might stop by, and that was that. Off she went on her way. I felt lighter for having done a good deed, even if I knew nothing was going to come from it. At least I did get a grateful hug and her appreciation. Good for me.

The next part of the narrative is unrelated to the previous two stories, but I'll have to back up just a bit to give the context. 

I was out walking the night before the purse reunion, making up my steps for the missing two days that I'd spent driving and preparing to drive. I am meticulous about not losing progress on my yearly goal of 1000 miles. So, if I have to walk at ten o'clock at night in order to avoid getting sunburned, so be it. 

I'd only gotten a few houses down on Sunset Court, when I was eyed by a group of youths hanging out in an alleyway. I caught the attention of one of them apparently, because he started singing the Neil Young song, "Old Man" very loudly while looking directly at me. 

"Old man, look at my life, I'm a lot like you were."

I looked at him, sizing him up quickly and then continued past the group. He sang the lyric again, this time even louder, staring at me as if to challenge me in some way.

"You will be," I told him menacingly, not quite Yoda-like, but close enough. 

I'd hoped to instill the fear and dread of the realization that youth is fleeting, old age and death inevitable and his taunt a pointless waste, since he was mocking an old man with a lyric that would apply to him soon enough. All of that intent was not sufficiently transmitted nor received, apparently, since he went on singing and laughing to himself as I walked into the distance.

I went on another two or three miles to the end of the beach, where it ends in a jetty. No further incidents occurred, and I decided it was safe enough to walk at night, despite the presence of many nighttime travelers along the beach walkway. I could handle a little singing.

The next night, tonight, the night that prompted me to have to unburden myself of all the backlog of accumulated experiences of the last two days, I was down at my parents apartment eating dinner. After dinner they played a game called Rummy Cube, some kind of tile based version of rummy where you make confusing combinations and try to be the first one to divest themselves of their tiles. I sat it out.

While they played, my stepdad Greg brought out a piece of the missing guitar stand and set it on the table. I looked at it in amazement. 

"Did you find that outside?" I asked, still thinking someone had made off with the rest of it.

"No," he told me, "Someone brought it in the house. The rest of it is in the bedroom." And he went and produced the rest of the pieces.

"I was sweating telling you guys about it, since I was embarrassed about losing it so quickly. I thought someone had stolen it, and I didn't have the heart to tell you," I confessed.

I felt a lot better having gotten that off my chest. Plus, I was beginning to think that karma was possibly working in my favor for a change. I'd done something good for someone, and now the universe was repaying me by giving me back something that I thought I'd lost. I was almost believing in synchronicity and all that magical positivity stuff that I eschew. Almost. I did feel better for a while, though. 

After that, I went out for my evening walk. It is June 22, the 18th anniversary of Sharon's and my wedding. I brought some of her ashes along to spread on the beach. It is a ritual that I promised to perform, spreading her ashes on every beach we had ever been to together. San Diego was one stop of many that I have already and still have yet to do this. 

It was an ultra high tide so this was a perfect opportunity. I walked to the end of the walkway in the opposite direction from the night before. There were lots of people on the path, since it was right around sunset. Many people were taking snapshots of the rosy sky with cellphones. I gave in and took one myself, but only when there was a break in the crowd. I'm pretty self conscious about taking pictures in public for some reason.

I walked down to the beach and released her ashes into the surf. I milled around on the beach for a moment or two and then turned back and headed for home. I felt a little guilty about having so little actual feeling about the ritual. It was simply a ritual at this point. A few years ago, it was much more emotional, although not cathartic at all, just sad. What was wrong with me? This was like dumping out a half empty soda can onto the ground. 

As I walked back home, my thoughts were on a million things that weren't Sharon, nor about anything much of significance at all, really. I took the main road, Mission Bay Blvd. this time. I thought I might walk past the place where Bianca worked. In my pathetic mind, I reasoned that she just might be grateful enough to be my company for the evening. Perhaps she was a party girl, and she'd be amenable to spending a little time with me, if only to have a place to hang out.

The reality of the situation was far from whatever I might be able to conjure up in my fantasies, though. I know I'm an older, less attractive man, unkempt, unappealing, more likely sending out a grandfatherly vibe, based on the reviews from the local youth singing brigade. I'm an old man, worn out, whose time has passed. I was muddling these kinds of self-pitying thoughts about in my head when it hit me. Literally.

The chili cheese fries, soupy and soppy in their paper serving basket, were hurled from a passing car and struck me on my left ear. Smeary, goopy chili juice ran down my neck, sprayed onto my glasses and soaked the left side of my hair and beard. The assailants laughed and sped off as I was just barely figuring out that I'd been assaulted with leftovers. 

"What the fuck?!" I said, as it slowly dawned on me what was happening. 

I saw the car at a stop light and started walking faster towards it. They quickly backed up and changed lanes, still laughing and congratulating themselves for their achievement. 

"Oh, look! Here he comes!" And with that they exited the intersection, made a left, and I figured that was the last of it. 

I saw them again, however, in a few minutes. They cruised right past me again, rolled down their window and laughed at me some more. What a pathetic loser I was, moping down the road, chili still wet in my hair and beard and smearing my glasses. I cursed them and gave them the finger, but to what end? They were already off on another adventure, and this time I wouldn't see them again. I'd put a brick through their window if I did, I told myself. 

Although I had the adrenaline and anger to do such a thing, I also had the common sense not to tempt fate. There were probably at least four of them, and I wouldn't have a chance. I'd just get beat up, possibly phone-jacked, in addition to being the victim of a drive by food attack. Plus, I remember being that young and doing similar random anonymous pranks and hurting an untold number of innocent victims. Karma again, but this time not in my favor.

I told myself many such stories, interpreting and interpolating the events of the last few days, and the whole of my life up to this point. I was the pathetic sufferer, the old man, the mocked one, someone at whom things are thrown. This was the proof. If I added it to my basket of self-criticisms, I'd surely have a case for defining myself as a washed-up, has-been/never was, losery loser, a real life Aqualung, wretched and unlovable.

But even as much as I wanted to wallow in the defeatism that I felt (and still do feel), I couldn't get myself on board. It wasn't about me. It was random. It was about how stupid kids do stupid things, for no reason pertaining to me. It just was an event that happened. I can read into it what I want, but it doesn't give it that absolute value. The chili could have just as easily been bird poop, or space junk, or sewage dumped from an airplane. It wasn't personal; it just was.

So, here I am, at the apartment, showered, eyes bleary from typing all of this. My butt is sore from sitting so long, and I am not convinced of anything. I really wanted to tell a story, though. Now, I have, and I don't feel any better for it. It was long, filled with boring details, and just enough self-pity to make me unlikable. 

I give up. I'm going to bed. Maybe tomorrow I'll fix the punctuation or try to make it flow a little better. For now, I'm done.