Other than the light green and chrome of the car, Cruddy Quintana couldn’t see the night in his memory.
Just that flash, pale green and chrome of a car probably built in the 70s, before he was born.
When his car stopped spinning he got out.
The other car was gone, not a surprise.
Lots of people skated on accidents for no insurance or no ID or whatever their reason might be.
Cruddy couldn’t remember seeing his guitar, only the deep, deep longing for it to be okay. The feeling was panic woven into love and nestled into a dirty blanket of truth that his guitar was the only thing he had in the world that meant a damn thing to him.
He just remembered pushing his destroyed car to the side of the road so he wouldn’t get a ticket for impeding traffic, but he can’t see himself do it in his memory. He can just feel the ache in his arm muscles from trying to push a car that had a wheel on a rim. He can’t see that wheel in his mind, just hear the grinding of metal on asphalt as he pushed his tattered vehicle and his triceps argued.
He wound up under a tree on a small hill, more of a rise than a hill really. He can’t see it, just feel his back against the bark as he strummed his guitar, beautifully and miraculously intact.
His head hurt, his head hurt just remembering it, but he realized he had a bag of weed in his pocket.
He can smell the weed he rolled up on the back of his guitar, his beautiful guitar, and feel how the bark of the tree melted with him and how he started playing, eyes closed, fingers on his left hand dancing, stomping, praying, preying on thin strands of metal.
He played the god chord that night, not looking, just feeling, absorbing the relief that his only companion, his favorite companion, his soul inflated, was alive and intact and wanted to let his fingers help it sing.
That ruined car was the last car Cruddy ever owned.
He didn’t care about the car, but he closes his eyes and honors it in his mind, for keeping his guitar together and able to sing with him.
Cruddy has a hat now, he doesn’t care about that either. It’s near his feet, because his guitar case is closed. He doesn’t want people putting their dirty money in it.
People put their money in his hat when he plays songs they recognize, and he smiles, tries to remember their face.
Sometimes he’ll play the song with the god chord in it, Cruddy’s own song, the song he wrote leaning against that tree, thanking the universe for his guitar.
Sometimes people smile when he’s playing the god chord, the chord his fingers created that night, with the help of his guitar.
Cruddy smiles back, and he can see those faces forever.
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Have you ever cherished an inanimate object like it was alive?
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Photo Courtesy of Getty Images
Prey and pray. Sometimes you have to devour what you love, still, it rejuvenates. Really powerful and beautifully written.
I could feel his relief when he realized his guitar was not damaged.