The Guitar Pick

Juan was a man without friends. Without money. Without love. Juan was a man without. But Juan, didn’t let these facts of life bother him. He had deliberately led his life this way, because Juan had his music and music was everything. And Juan didn’t need anyone else. He didn’t want anyone else.

Juan strolled the streets of downtown, wandering aimlessly with no destination. He did this every Friday after work. Allowed himself to get lost in the city, let his mind go, people watch and maybe get inspired by what he saw. What he heard. He constructed compositions with the sounds of the city. Trucks, birds, construction, shouts from cars and pedestrians, blaring of horns, wind, rain, heavy footfalls. He put the rhythms together as he walked and raced home when he felt he had a song.

And today, as he stopped in the park and sat and listened to the soundscape, he looked down and saw a dull, green, cracked, guitar pick. He felt as though it were looking at him. Waiting for him. As if it had been placed there, just so he could find it.

Just for him.

He went home to his tiny studio and immediately took out his guitar. He took the pick from his pocket and smiled at it. He sat down and thought about all he had heard that day. And then, though he knew it was impossible, the pick began to play.

When he stopped, three hours had gone by, though it felt like he had played for mere minutes. He stared at the tiny green pick in his hand and felt a surge of energy go through him. He felt vibrant, he felt like he was vibrating, and he didn’t know why. Well, he knew why, but it couldn’t be that. It absolutely couldn’t be that, because that was impossible.

Juan recorded three songs with the pick, all inspired by the sounds of the city. He played notes and rhythms he never thought were possible, he never thought he could create, he never thought he had the skills for. But he did them and it was easy. When he listened to them later, he couldn’t believe it was him.

For what felt like the hundredth time, Juan contacted Kia. The producer with the key to make you rich and famous. Kia had turned Juan down time and time again, saying Juan didn’t have the sound or the look he was going for. But Juan knew that this time Kia would say yes. Kia would beg.

“You did these?” Kia asked, looking at Juan in disbelief.

Juan nodded with a smirk.

Kia looked Juan over. “You look different.”

Juan just shrugged.

“Play for me now,” Kia said, needing to prove that Juan was for real. That Juan was legit.

Juan took his guitar confidently and played. And the pick guided his way. And Kia was enchanted and seduced and thought to himself that Juan might just be the best musician he had ever heard. And Juan glistened and smiled and gripped the pick with pride and urgency.

Juan rose to power quickly. He kept the pick in his wallet so that it was always with him. And Juan, a man who had never cared for being rich, who never had that as an aspiration, suddenly found himself with so much money. Too much money. Money he didn’t know what to do with. And instead of doing the thing he had always thought he would do, donate to non-profits and charities, he kept everything for himself. He bought a house and a car and high-end furniture and designer clothes and watches and shoes and got himself a butler and a maid and a chef. He deserved it, didn’t he? After being poor for so long and living off pennies, didn’t he deserve this? He did, he thought. He absolutely did.

Juan, a man who had never cared much for love or companionship, found himself suddenly surrounded by women. He assumed it came with the territory, but he never imagined it would be like this. Women coming up to him. Women asking to sit with him, dine with him, walk with him, sleep with him. Women who lined up at his hotel, waiting for him to return from a concert. Women who seemed thrilled just by the sight of him, of being next to him, of being in the same room with him. And Juan took advantage of the situation to the highest degree. He enjoyed it. He reveled in it. He loved all of them and they loved him. And even if it wasn’t love. Even if it was something else. It was fun, wasn’t it? It was all in good fun.

Juan was getting better looking. His hair was lush, his skin was clear, he seemed to gain muscle without ever having to work out. And while he grew and blossomed, the pick seemed to shine too. Its color was brighter, its crack was gone. Juan noticed these changes in the pick but did his best to ignore them. Because if he thought about them, if he spent too much time pondering the reason, he’d drive himself crazy. And he’d have to admit that everything that was happening, everything that he was being given, was because of the pick. The pick. The tiny, green piece of plastic he’d found in the middle of downtown. And that was impossible. It was absolutely impossible. It was his talent that had brought him all of these things, wasn’t it? It was him. It was him. It was him.

“And where do you get your inspiration?” the long legged, blonde asked Juan eagerly, leaning forward with a dazzling smile.

Juan smiled back and watched the anchor swoon in her chair.

“From the city,” Juan replied, “There is so much to hear and get inspiration from. The city is full of music and I just compose what it gives me.”

There was a sigh of pleasure in the room. Of agreement. Yes, everyone thought. Yes, that’s it. The city. The city and its music and its rhythms. And Juan just put notes to it. Made sense of it. Allowed the people to enjoy it.

“Aside from the city,” the anchor continued, “Is there any one thing you think about when you compose? Is there someone or something that motivates you?”

Juan shook his head and said, “Just the city. The city is all I need.”

As people applauded, Juan could feel his pocket vibrate. As if in anger. As if the thing inside his pocket was indignant.

But that was impossible.

Juan played and lost himself in the music on the stage, with the thousands of fans in front of him screaming his name.

He wanted to call everyone who had ever told him he’d amount to nothing. Family. Old friends. Old girlfriends. Everyone who had left him behind. If they could only see him now. And maybe they did. Maybe they knew. Maybe they were punching themselves right now for how stupid they had been. Juan could only hope.

He played the show and left the stage and allowed himself to be complimented and adored and loved and in the midst of shaking hands and hugging and finding a beautiful woman in his dressing room and kissing her without even asking for her name, he didn’t even notice the pick slip out of his pocket and roll away.

Franco sat on a park bench wondering what his next move would be. Wondering how he would ever recover from the heartbreak and the hurt and the betrayal. He had never loved anyone like he had loved Manny. And would he be able to again? It was unlikely.

He could write a song about it, he supposed. He could do the cliché thing that everyone did and put lyrics to his heartache. He could create a song that no one would ever hear. That no one would ever care about, except for him.

And there, as if appearing from nowhere, as if it were waiting for him, lay a tiny, dull, green, cracked pick.

It’s looking at me, Franco thought.

It’s sitting here just for me.

Just for me.