The Man With the Covered Guitar 

He was tall with long hair and walked with imperial steps through the avenues of Berkeley. Under his arm he carried a guitar wrapped in old leather. Sometimes he would appear with a red bandana wrapped around his forehead. Often he stopped people waiting for the bus and asked for a smoke or for some change and when they ignored him he would begin to laugh a practiced laugh.

In a small city one notices the new arrivals who come sullen and silent and gaze over the tops of things with the peculiar judgment of the transient soul. Broken loose from other circumstances they are, to the observant, small myths in themselves since one is always curious about where they come from and what they are up to. They wear the same clothing, they walk the same streets, they are around for awhile and then they disappear.

He had come from the Midwest. There was an occurrence in the town he hailed from- a disagreement or an incident in which he was involved. In the town itself there was little pressure actually put on the young man but in his own mind it seemed that everytime he made an appearance in the town he was being severed, however unconsciously, from every relation. He was not sad about this but he noticed, in reflection, that his own image suffered consequences; that the image of himself as a young man growing to maturity on the strength of his desires were withering and if he didn't do something about it he was, without question, going to become some brown-tinged leaf marked down to the gutter.

He had friends but they had fled the town or were in the process of making a great move and when they talked of this move it animated his imagination to excess. He too would move but someplace different than his friends. And so he would talk his talk and there would be encouragement's. First, he would hitchhike. That was the way it was done. How much information passed through this ritual! First, there was a sign to be made out of cardboard and big black letters which told of his destination and then the wait along the entrance to the freeway. He left on a cloudy afternoon. He wanted it to rain and imagined himself standing fully wet and holding his sign over the poncho he wore and then a friendly fellow driving a truck or station wagon would pull up alongside and wave him in. He would tell the man he was from New Hampshire and in the middle of his adventures rather than at the beginning since it sounded more imposing that way and when questioned further he would make up stories about little things that had happened to him. He had enough of a past to do such a thing and he was sick of honesty and the thought of telling little white lies and carrying it off made him more excited as he stood at the entrance to the freeway.

It didn't rain and fell dark on the plains so the plain looked like a corner of space with a galaxy behind him and in the frustration of waiting he gave names to the lamps and small lights coming out of the small town and laughed quietly to himself because now he could imagine the life under those lights as strange, alien and in the process of discovery; yes, a kind of hatchery for new life in the obscure corner of an obscure galaxy and in his mind he liked it that way.

Now came a pickup truck with a young man at the wheel and a wild looking woman or girl beside him and they stopped to pick him up and drove him one hundred miles to the big city, smoked some pot until he was dizzy with sound but he liked it that way if it was he and the sound that drew geometry's in his brain; triangles and rectangles.

At night, the empty places in the city, between the buildings soared with arching sound and he would bring this sound down into himself and watch the geometry grow in his own mind until he saw a face which distracted him and if he saw too many faces he would become frightened and all of his imagination would be used up in trying to figure why they were looking at him that way and between the geometry and fright he would find himself a place to stay.

It was different with the guitar in hand since people took him for a no-good. It amazed him when people took him for a no-good since he was doing what a normal man with talent does; carry his instrument around with him ready to practice at any moment, ready to copy the ambiguous chords he heard from the sky coming through to his instrument. What other things was a normal man with talent to do?

He especially liked the airplanes since their sound went from horizon to horizon and had a dynamic tone, a dramatic tone like the old classics and of all the ideas he had the one he wanted to carry off the most was a composition which would end or begin with the drama of a jet crossing the horizon. He had even drawn a picture of this in his notepad.

He stayed in the gluttonous city for two weeks living out of churches and homeless shelters. He talked to other musicians and even played a couple of sets in a good club though the people in the club were lousy and were more interested in drinking and picking up women than they were listening and encouraging new musicians. He did not understand this and went so far as to ask an old guy who played, "why don't the people encourage rising musicians," and the old guy simply said that entertainers were gods to the people and yet, they were people as well so that they expected the musicians to be their own encouragement; after all, how much encouragement can a mortal give a god? And at the same time the old guy went on saying they want to gods to fail, they want the gods to fall so it's a kind of test to see if you're really a god or whether you're just another joe pretending to be a god.

This didn't make too much sense to the young man; though his heroes had been musicians he never thought of them as gods. But after that, after the old guy had told him this he became more anxious about playing his instrument. Why had the old guy told him that anyway? It didn't make any sense.

And then one afternoon he went outside the little room he was staying at and he looked into the massive crowd downtown and the frenetic traffic and the awkward shadows which came off the big buildings and how they cut everything up and the hundred eyes darting and the silent crazy thing this city really was in spite of the noise, notation if one was quick enough to listen for it and how the body darted this way and that as though the sound was a prod and if not the sound then the clock or the money herding people who didn't want to be herded but who had to be herded otherwise they would have been free and that would have been significant. To be free with all those tools and power underhand.

He wanted to throw his leather wrapped instrument out into the street. The first people he saw he became. He was no more no less than the projection of the first ten people he saw. "I will become the man in the suit and the man with the gold rimmed glasses and the man with the dark shoes and the man with furrowed face and the man with the white umbrella and the man with the black watch and the man who hails the taxi and the man who coughs at passing beauty and the man without interest and the man who enters the building..."

He left that night for the west coast on a bus and after awhile people asked him to play in the back to break the monotony through the states. People could smoke in the back and a pall hung around him for awhile but he liked it that way and the people in the back of the bus were his type of people; young Midwesterners tired of the old ways and excited about getting to the west coast where things were as they were.

He felt sleepy though and begged off playing and those around him reacted in various ways; laughing or making a sarcastic remark or looking back at him as though he had let them down.

He tried to sleep. The bus was cruising over smooth road and the vibration felt fine to him and he dreamed that on the west coast would be a group of people who liked to hear the sounds of the world through the limitations of his instrument and the possibilities of his instrument and who liked to discuss things naturally but with enthusiasm so that the ideas in his notepad would be developed since being alone seemed to stultify that development.

An illusion was an illusion but a group was real enough no matter what illusion they had as a group and he figured most groups were moved by illusion one way or another; it didn't matter since that would be taken car of in the flesh and not in the mind.

No more performance for awhile, he thought to himself. And women. There will be women as a kind of reward. But that is in the future."

* * * * * * * *

He finally arrived at the West Coast fully revived by the chill over the Sierra Nevada's. He had awakened from a powerful dream and when he awoke a child was looking at him from a seat in front as though he had cried out in his sleep and then he felt great shame because he imagined all the things he must have said in his sleep, into the chilled, quick air of the bus and resisted pulling out the notebook where he kept his profound dreams and deep sounds.

It was nightfall as he arrived at the bus station. "One day," he told himself, "bus stations will be my favorite places." and then began whistling past the strange night counter of the bus depot and out into the poor, bedraggled city.

Instinct led him now and, with perfect aplomb, he boarded the first transit bus for the downtown area, paid the fare, and then sat in the back his his leather-covered guitar propped between his legs.

"Hey man, you play music?"

The guitar player turned around and looked at two young black men smoking cigarettes in the back of the bus.

"Yes, occasionally," he answered.

"What kind of guitar is it?"

He told them.

"You make any money at it?"

"Oh, once in awhile."

And now one of the black men had gotten up and came face to face with the musician, offering him a cigarette, which the musician refused.

They talked music for several minutes and then he asked him if they knew where the YMCA was.

"YMCA? You need a place to stay? Why, you can stay with my old lady and me. Sure, we'll go down to the Empress and drink ourselves silly then go back and surprise the old lady. She won't mind some white dude spending the night. One night anyway." And the man laughed and went to the back of the bus and got a satchel. "Com'on let's get off the next stop."

The two left the bus and went a block down a nondescript street until they reached an old hotel that had been converted into a bar and flophouse. The yellow and green sign said, The Empress.

Music was throbbing from within and when he entered the first thing he saw was the band on stage and knew somehow that by the night's end he would be up on the stage playing his guitar.

The man from the bus took him to the bar and ordered a couple of beers. The guitar player felt uneasy for awhile. Why did I get off the bus with this guy and am now in this bar with these strangers, surrounded by clapping, laughing, singing groups of black folk?

"Are you afraid of all us niggers in here?" The man suddenly asked above the noise.

"Not especially."

The black man abruptly go up. "Get up and follow me," he told the musician.

They went along the bar to backstage. He had his guitar in hand. There was a tall, mulatto fellow with a cigarette dangling out of his mouth keeping beat with his hands.

"Hey Charles, I want this boy to get up and see what he can do."

Charles looked at the musician, looking him up an down.

"No can do, this is a union shop. Tell him to join the union."

"Com'on man, he's good. I've heard him play."

"You got a union card?" He asked the young man.

"No, never thought I had to have one."

The mulatto seemed to soften a bit.

"I'll let you play if you promise to get a card. That'll cost you $50."

"I don't have $50."

"That's not my problem man, Now, you either want to play or no. If not go back out in front. I yes, then give me $50."

"Right now?"

"Well, not yesterday."

The guitar player suddenly felt ill at ease and bolted from the back, through the club and out into the night, clear air. He ran awry, with his guitar clipping against his leg, crossed one street, headed toward a long lit area that was several blocks up, reached that area and waited for another bus that took him to Berkeley.

That night he slept in the backyard garden of a church and when he woke up he figured it must have been 5:30 or 6 in the morning; the sky had that glimmer to it, that feeling of prelude to it.

The church was a simple and colorful structure. The garden was surrounded by a small, chain-linked fence and led to a backdoor to an anteroom of the church.

He knocked at the door hoping to find someone inside who could give him a little food. Food and the needs of his belly were the uppermost question now. He had never felt the knaw of hunger before. He didn't have the funds to sustain himself for more than a few days. "Well," he thought, "the day is young. I have a chance to square things away. I will not panic."

The church seemed deserted though it had been freshly painted. It was tucked into a corner of two obscure streets; a car would casually drive by from time to time. Along the sidewalk a student or a person from the neighborhood would walk by.

He felt dirty and rumpled and wanted to clean himself. The city was strange to him. The apartment buildings and the churches were built with architecture he wasn't familiar with. He felt awkward and knew the people would stare at him. He knew that before long he would be among crowds again but it was necessary to be among crowds to find some food and facilities.

He slung the guitar on his back and stroke up the street, avoiding the gaze of strangers. Not only would they stare but occasionally one would yell something at him he could not quite discern.

The street was not like the city. It was small and contained within shops and small buildings and the people moved freely, at ease, up and down the street. As he stood on the corner of Telegraph and Dwight Way he broke into a big smile. "This is is, this is the place," he thought to himself. There was a dark woman, dressed in layers of clothes, blowing bubbles into the air and a big Indian, a fiercely proud looking Indian peering at him from behind a table where he sold belt buckles. There was a moment of transfixion. The Indian gestured with his big hand not saying anything.

"Lookin' for a place to stay?"

The guitar player nodded his head.

"There's a park up the street. It is called People's Park. There are a lot of people in there who could help you; where are you from?"

"New Hampshire."

"Hmm." The Indian peered at him as though he couldn't place the name and then a collegiate girl stepped up with a fancy bag hanging from her shoulder.

The guitar player moved away. He stopped someone. "I am looking for a park. People's Park..." and was directed up the street when it suddenly became quiet. He could see the outline of green and moved toward it. There was a movement of people in the park. When he first looked at it the guitar player shivered. "This is not where I want to be. This is not it at all."

And then he saw a young man with a guitar in hand, strumming the guitar while sitting on a rock. He was surrounded by various people; naked children were running all around.

He stood alone for a moment and then entered the park as though he were entering a strange room. He didn't to want to mingle with the people. He saw a tree and after reaching the tree sat down, stretching his legs and putting his guitar by the side. As he closed his eyes e could hear the sounds of birds in the trees above him; they sounded harsh. And, in the distance, the sounds of people laughing and talking. The sounds mixed pleasantly in his head and he reminded himself to notate what he had heard after he'd rested some.

The rest was good. He saw, again, the bus ride down the Sierra's and into the Sacramento valley. He saw, again, the boy and the bridge and the fastidious looking skyline of San Francisco that he would go to as soon as he could. He would stay away from the city until he had money he thought to himself. He remembered the black men in the jazzclub and how stupid he had been to run. It now seemed an eternity since he had awaken in the church yard.

He tried to sleep to stave off the sense of hunger. Just as he was falling off he felt someone kick the soles of his shoes. He opened his eyes to a bold looking face surrounded by hair and a wild beard.

"Hey, you hungry?"

"Yes, I am hungry."

"Well, get up and come over and we'll go get some food."

The men then turned and went back toward the circle of people in the distance.

* * * * * * * *

It took him a day and a night to get used to the Park. They generally left him alone and he would go to the furthest end of the park and fiddle with his guitar. He would sit and watch the comings and goings; the Frisbee players, sexing dogs, lovers under the trees, students trudging a path toward the University and, occasional arguments between the other, gypsy-like occupants of the park.

One night he had sat around a fire, eating a bad meal and listened to the people of the Park talk about their tales, where they had come from, what musician they revered, what concerts they had been to, what occult and astrological signs they had seen along the way, when the world would end and everything returned to the flux.

He had sat listening slightly in awe but nervous as well, playing slightly with his guitar. There were, in all, thirty people sitting around the fire drinking some and smoking pot and one or two would suddenly lean back and give off a rebel yell or wild laughter.

Finally, someone suggested to the guitar player that he play his guitar. "Show us some licks," he said.

The guitar player balked at first. For a long time he looked into the fire and didn't say anything, hearing the overwhelming silence of the eyes turned on him in the dark. Slowly but surely he strummed his guitar. He began to play a folk song. The others in the park, the gypsy-like and crazy types started to encourage him, began to yell out shouts of encouragement. He became more and more animated and before long was playing like they played in the heyday of rock concerts and after he had finished several people came up to him and said that he should play regularly somewhere.

"Well," he answered, "that's my intention."

"You could play down at the college. Play in the Plaza and get some coins for yourself."

"Where is the college?"

A fellow with hair graying at the temples told him that in the morning he would show him around the place. That night the guitar man's mind was suddenly filled with the dream that had animated him back home. Of playing the guitar before living human beings and the living human beings commenting on the way it sounded and paying him money. He wanted money now and saw that it was necessary; there was no disputing that now. He would take every opportunity that came his way. He berated himself for being reticent and distrustful of the people in the park. "They are just like you but without the talent," he heard himself say.

* * * * * * * *

In the morning he woke at dawn and walked around the cool morning to get the dew off his clothes. It was crisp and the houses surrounding the park, the wood and concrete buildings seemed absolutely solid and eternal. This, he thought, is how it must have felt to the earlier creatures; to wake in the dawn before everything else and stand in the stars and watch the sky lighten. And when he felt this he went to the guitar case and began writing notes down in the case and then went into the trees.

By mind-morning the older fellow came by and introduced himself again. The older fellow was gray and looked beaten from his experiences. He had an animated way of speaking and gestured quite often.

"First I'm going to show you the street and then I will take you to the University."

* * * * * * * *

The day was hot and smug but before it became too oppressive a stiff wind rose from the south and cooled the avenues of the city. The man with the leather guitar strode down Telegraph with his new found friend.

"Yes," he kept thinking, "this is the place; this is an excellent place, a place of inspirations!" The area was crowded with people who moved forward unhurried for the most part, lingering the book book shop window or record store entryway or to buy something from a vendor on a mat or behind a table.

"They come in from the rural areas and sell this junk," his companion was saying.

But the guitar man was not listening. He was absorbing the brilliant smell and color that penetrated the vague rumblings of his brain. He reminded himself to make notations as soon as he could.

There was a man with Tarot cards. The students, for the most part, already looked professional and the street was simply an anecdote they could tell someone in the future. They have taken over the myths of their fathers that the fulfillment of life was measured by cash. Mingling with them were an assortment of street people, working people, housewives shopping for shoes, dogs, and policemen who looked like ex-surfers.

They crowded Bancroft Avenue and went into Sproul Plaza.

"This," the companion was saying, "was the place to be a few years go. This is where everything that was happening, happened. Now, you just set your guitar right over there and wait a bit."

The guitar man unwrapped the leather cloak from the instrument and raised it high in the sunlight.

"Oh, you should have been here just a few years so, it was wild. I was there. There were stones in the air and wild running through these avenues. Oh, it was all wild. The cops were at every corner, cars bashing together for all of the confusion, and it was like war. It was war without bullets and bullets were only a finger trip away. Now, goddamn it, now it is all placid and still and these damn feet are trampling down the history that was made here. This is what you are against kid. This is what you are against. That is your audience now; they don't know the past, they don't know the marvelous foolery that occurred in this town, right here, just a few years ago. Was it that long ago? Well, it will never come back but I will tell you the history as I know it; it sticks in my head. I see them all, all the cops and people, every face as it was a few years ago and they are alive as they were then."

The guitar player was lost in his thoughts. He did not want to hear the sentimentalities of his host. He wanted to play. There was something in the daylight, moving crowds that wanted to make him play and he was anxious. He wanted to hear those drums. He wanted to hear the sounds form his guitar.

"I see a few of the people from time to time; all dressed differently now. They all seem preoccupied and busy so I don't bother them. I cry about it you know, yes, I break like a little boy and cry at all that energy that was lost a few fears ago and the profane feet that now cross the streets where history was made."

The crowds were lively. The students looked clean and as if they had come from the farm; the farm that he despised but looking at them he felt a tinge of nostalgia for the place he had left. They are everywhere, he thought again.

His host led him down the wide plaza that featured a spouting fountain and down a series of stairs. At the top of the stairs he could hear the throb of drum beating, drum beating, beating from the concrete that lined one side of the plaza. There were six drummers, beating congas in an accusative fashion, mad and defiant, a life rhythm and one he recognized although it frightened him from time to time.

"They are here every day, at noon, and in the evening and anyone can join in and play with them.

There is no greater unhappiness than the artist who, rushing into life, is captured by it and burned of his passionate desire to please other people. He must know the people who he is going to please and so rushes headlong into any experience that will give him a sense of the estate of the creature.

The guitar player, so full of hope and inspiration as he stood on the Midwestern plain now felt ashamed; ashamed and bitter toward the people who he had misjudged; the people who went on in their business unaware that he was possessed with sounds and forms none of them had experienced before. That they had never touched even the bottom of what moved him and yet they would live, as he lived, and with sheer numbers always forcing him to the margins.

Ah, the margins! He loved the people who had been cast out. But, even there were misunderstandings and even less knowledge of what inspired him.

For days the guitar player went to the pawn shop on Telegraph Avenue at Alcatraz and tried to get a better price than the fifty dollars the pawn dealer offered each time.

Rags. That was it. Transform it in the guise of rags!>




David Eide
January 24, 2014