I saw a little man riding a child’s bicycle in Berwyn, Illinois, outside Chicago, on the sidewalk, along Roosevelt Road. He was carrying a guitar; this was the first thing that caught my attention. The guitar was strapped over his back. But it was also slung down partly across the side of his body so he could cuddle it with one arm while he steered the bike with the other and pedaled the small pedals with his small legs.
This was a busy neighborhood, but anyone paying attention would surely notice that there was something special between this little old man and his guitar. He held it like it was an animal or a person. He held it delicately while he rode his bike down the sidewalk; he kept it close to him; and he held it with love. It looked like a small classical guitar covered in road miles. The body of the guitar was red around the edges fading into orange with flower patterns on the pickguard. The strap that held it to his body was an old red one.
The neighborhood was busy, with cars steadily moving in both directions along Roosevelt Road. The famous music venue, Fitzgerald’s, was across the street and both sides of the road were lined with old brick apartment buildings and new corner smoke shops; tattoo parlors; bars; Italian ice and Italian beef restaurants; a bank; a gas station; and Euclid Square Park in the distance.
But the little old man with his guitar was riding the opposite way. Soon on Roosevelt Road, he’d be pedaling into urban devastation, a city’s almost-peopleless wasteland, unless he turned around.
He was small and he was old. By old, I was guessing sixty but he also looked much older while seeming much younger in the way he moved. His long, gray-brown, wiry hair fell all over his shoulders and half way down his back. His small bearded face was wise, wizened, and lean, with deeply sunken cheeks. He was small and old and covered in road miles like the bike and his guitar. This little, homeless-looking man was not someone you would mess with because of his overwhelming presence no one was noticing. And he held his guitar like a knight holds his lance; like a warrior carries his club; like a conductor wielding his baton; like a dog walker his leash; like a priest and his chalice.
He had a shocking presence as he steadily pedaled with his guitar down the sidewalk: if you were paying attention. He looked like he was going somewhere, or maybe just anywhere. He wore an old blue button-down shirt over an old white T shirt and he had blue shorts on that went past his knees. His foot gear had once been white tennis shoes and he had rope bracelets covering both wrists. His skin was dark brown and wrinkled, permanently browned by sun, wind and sky. His nose was large and his hands were long, and his eyes were fiery, dark, black-circled, peering intensely from under calm, or calmly troubled, brows. The backpack on his back spilled over from its pockets with plastic water bottles, handkerchiefs, bits of clothing, paper, pens, and other stuff.
And the little man disappeared into one of the city’s worst neighborhoods pedaling on his child’s bicycle: carrying his guitar like a lifeline.
A few weeks later that summer, I saw him again. I was taking a stroll around Euclid Square Park with my Siberian Husky, Boo. Euclid Square is a large grassy green space surrounded by houses and trees and Roosevelt Road along one side behind another row of trees. He was sitting directly in the middle of the large, grassy field that was the center of the park. His bike lay in the grass not far away.
And he was sitting cross-legged in the grass in the middle of the park, playing his guitar.
I was too far away to hear well in the wind, but it was fascinating to watch this virtuoso working over his guitar. He played fast, he played slow, he rocked back and forth, and then he rolled, he rolled half forward as his hands kept flying all over the guitar. I couldn’t hear it much, but he looked beautiful playing, like a wild man, like a magician: like an escape artist.
Soon I noticed that a friendly-looking old lady had become fascinated with his playing too. The smiling old woman was approaching him on foot across the grass. I saw her reach him, and I saw her bend down, and try to hand him some money, at least a few dollars because she had more than one bill in both of her hands.
But by now he had stopped playing. He had rolled into a little ball over his guitar which he was holding upside down. The man wouldn’t play any more, and he kept his head down, but he reached up and took the money from the old woman. She smiled and was happy and turned away to rejoin her party on the other side of the park.
As she walked away, I looked at the old guitarist. He flung the money away from him, out across the grass. Both he and I watched the wind blow the bills away across the grass.
Then he looked around to make sure no one could hear him.
And he started playing again.
Image: A dark image of old hands playing an acoustic guitar from Pixabay.com
literally stories 
Dale
This is an excellent portrait of an artist as not necessarily an old (after all I’m 65)–but as a mature man. He knows that money does not set you free, it chains.
I’ve seen many people like this fellow in Seattle–a Goldfinch among the Sparrows–just as free, but maybe a little more so. I wonder where they come from and what series of events culminate in someone who, as here, rides a bike with his guitar and throws money away. Is that person designed that way, with no choice, or did he make up his mind about it on his own.
Beautifully done and old Picasso would improve of what you were inspired to create from his painting.
Leila
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Although on the surface this character seems to be someone that most of us would think is in need of maybe even ‘pity’ though that’s a loaded word he is in fact freer than so many others who are chained to possessions and greed and the rush and dash of modern life. I have to admit to a degree of envy though I could never be brave enough to plough my own furrow. This is a wonderful story. Thank you – Diane
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Dear Diane,
Thank you for reflecting on the freedom of the old guitarist from the usual entrapments and chains of modern life, as well as on the price to be paid for such a turning away. I also want to take this time to thank you for your own work, as I’ve been reading some of your stories lately. One of the things I really admire about your writing is its “Englishness”: its sense of place. I’m a lifelong reader and a huge, massive fan of British literature (and I studied it in college, as an undergraduate and graduate student, up to and including the PhD level). Your work has a Dickensian sympathy for the characters presented. And the way you capture Englishness in the details, the dialogue, and the dialects is truly well-done and inspiring. I’ve never been to England (or Europe), but I feel like I know the essential spirit of England through its tradition of literature, which has been so endlessly, hugely influential on American writing. Thanks for continuing the tradition in the way you include and write about the details of place so well. Looking forward to exploring more of your work!
Sincerely,
Dale
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thank you so much. Your comment has really cheered me and from a writer of your caliber it is especially precious.
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The author really conveyed the presence of the guitar man! I could feel him near me. He is a bit of a riddle, a koan. He rejects money that one assumes he needs. His guitar is everything to him. He is at once very vulnerable and very powerful.
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THANK YOU for UNDERSTANDING this story so well. Your words express this understanding so well, too. “Riddle, koan”: exactly! Also, “at once very vulnerable and very powerful.” This phrase perfectly expresses the paradox of the old guitarists in this world. Again, I thank you for your understanding. Dale
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An odd little story about a musician who plies his guitar for its own sake or for his own sake, caring nothing for money or the creature comforts that money can by — a true musical iconoclast. Interesting narrative, though I don’t know that I like a 60-ish man being pegged as an old-timer.
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Thank you for pointing out the oddness of this story. The oddness, the strangeness (even the uncanniness), of this character and the experience of witnessing him, was something that I struggled to express. In my own experience, almost all iconoclasts have something of this oddness or strangeness to them. There are some people who you can see once, and never forget (they stand out amongst all the lemmings on the train). The old guitarist was one such.
I know what you mean about 60-ish being an old timer. As someone who’s 57 and who has already experienced at least one stroke (that I know about), I’m amazed at how youthful, or how old, I can feel on any given day (usually youthful on writing days, and old on non-writing days). Both my grandmothers (who were both wise sages, and who lived to 88 and 94), imparted to me the lesson that you’re only as old, or as young, as you feel inside: this human truth is really, truly true. Thanks again so much for your responses to my story. Deeply appreciated! Dale
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vividly described, and a wonderfully open ending. I enjoyed this very much 💗
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THANKS so much for pointing out the descriptions (which I wanted to be like a painting in motion). On one level, it was extremely easy, because all I did was take note and describe what I actually saw in and on the streets. (Later, fictional details from Picasso were incorporated.) Also, thank you for mentioning the open ending. As a wanna-be Chicago “realist” (or truth-teller), I find that these types of endings are more believable; though not always so easy to get just right (Saul Bellow was a master of these). Thanks again! Deeply appreciated. Dale
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I have a friend who learned to play guitar after retiring. He played for me one afternoon sitting in a chair in front of his sheet music. He fell sound asleep mid-strum with his guitar in hand. I left him there.
Yeah, there is something Koan-ish about “The Old Guitarist.” A bit like performers who continue to perform to non-audiences. Happens all the time. Thanks Dale for reminding me. More ironic than sad.
Gerry
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Hi Gerry,
Yes, some people do it for the love of the game, and not for any other reason (not even to impress their friends). Without them, the game would end. This definitely makes it more ironically joyful, or joyfully ironic, than sad or tragic. THANKS for reading and responding to my story. Deeply appreciated by me! Thanks again. Dale
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Dear Leila,
The old guitarist presented here is directly based on an individual I actually saw, in the place where I actually saw him. It was instantly clear that this person was an artist; not a famous artist, not a wealthy artist, but an artist for sure, and maybe more so because of his outcast condition. Only afterward did I think of the Picasso painting of the same name. After researching, I found out that Picasso had created his “The Old Guitarist” while he himself was suffering depression, despair, and poverty (there was a period when Picasso was desperately poor, which helped to give him deep sympathy for the downtrodden and cast-aways of this world, a sympathy which never left him). And yet, my old guitarist had not seemed necessarily unhappy with his condition. It occurred to me that maybe he wasn’t poor because of the evils of society, necessarily. Maybe he had made a bargain, a deal with an angel or a devil. Maybe he had traded the spoils of the world to preserve his personal freedom to create, because it was worth so much more to him.
Since then, I’ve seen two or three other artistic-looking, homeless-looking men riding their bikes with their guitars around here, almost as if this character is a type in these parts (and in your own Seattle, as you say). Picasso’s painting “The Old Guitarist” is in the Art Institute of Chicago. I like to think that the real spirit of art lives on, despite everything anti-artistic going on in the world these days. I like to think it lives on, in the streets as much as in the concert halls and museums.
THANKS, and thanks again, for your understanding, Leila, on behalf of the old guitarists!
Sincerely,
Dale
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Thank you Dale
The response to your work is first rate. Glad to see that.
Leila
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“Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose”. I think Kris Kristoferson said that and Janis Joplin repeated it in”Bobby McGee”. The story leaves me to wonder. Could the guitarest be a trustafarian? Good stories open questions.
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Thanks for quoting Kristofferson in regard to my story. I love his work! Janis too. Deeply appreciated. Sincerely, Dale
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Quirky with an odd kind of charm, just like the guitar man. Well-crafted and an enjoyable tune of sorts.
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Thanks for reading my story, and commenting. I was hoping the sentences had at least something of a musical ring to them. Deeply appreciated. Sincerely, Dale
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Hi Dale,
Some wonderful comments and first rate replies I might add!!
This was brilliant.
As a rule, I don’t enjoy description. But in reading your story I realise why. When others do this they concentrate on one aspect for many a paragraph, page or even chapters. (I blame Tolkien!) Your description is punchy, image after image which DOES create a picture and not boredom!!
‘Overwhelming presence’ – This is an observation on something that I believe, we could all recognise at one time. You just knew who not to mess with no matter appearance or stature. Some kids these days have lost this skill / survival instinct. (Maybe there will be an app created for this if enough geeks get beat up!)
I was happy that Boo has made another appearance!
Everyone has looked at the ending in a similar way. But sadly in this day and age of over-analysis, you could have the sensitives and metaphor hunters overthinking.
It’s good to leave mystique well alone.
…Maybe he only accepted fifties!!!!
Superb my fine friend!!!
Hugh
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Dear Hugh,
Hello! Thanks for reading my story with such wise judgement, sympathy, and perception. And living in an area overflowing with questionable characters, I agree with you: it’s crucial to understand who NOT to mess with, on the street or anywhere. (In Chicago you can end up shot if you irritate the wrong person. I’ve seen two people pull pistols on other folks in my neighborhood this summer. No shots were fired. One of the pissed-off gun-owners was male, the other was female. Their antagonists backed down, and the pistols were returned to their hiding places.)
Also agree with you on Tolkien. I love his work! But he’s best read skipping around for the good parts, mostly (and, watching the movies).
And thank you so much for mentioning Boo! He insists on making his fictional appearances under his real name. (He’s my first reader.)
Deeply appreciate your comments. Thanks again!
Dale
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Intricate description of the guitarist on a child’s bike… a man with a purpose, we know his appearance and follow his drive, the narrator a very precise observer but I wondered… who is this bicycling gnomelike guy? The narrator has made me very curious. After the small but very energetic fellow plays on the grass like a magician, then throws the woman’s money away I felt “Yes, now I know who he is.” What I find interesting also is that the narrator never actually hears the music, he’s always slightly removed from actual connection, as the little man is from him. Good 1.
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Elegant and evocative description here of a really interesting character. The line: ‘But the little old man with his guitar was riding the opposite way.’ says everything about this story in the the most simple, beautiful way. I believe Tolstoy said something along the lines of there are only two stories, someone we know leaves town or a stranger comes to town. This story is a perfect example of the latter.
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Dear Paul,
I recently saw your comment on my story about the old guitarist and wanted to say thanks. Your words were both heartening and inspiring. It means a lot to me that you understood my story so well. The Tolstoy reference helped explain my own work to me. Thanks again.
Sincerely,
Dale
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Dale
You had me hooked by the end of that perfect first paragraph.
Found this whimsical in the very best way, difficult to pull off and well impressive.
Michael Tyler
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Dear Michael Tyler,
Thanks very much for reading and commenting on my story. Your words gave me a fresh perspective on the old guitarist, who is still sometimes riding his bike in my mind.
Also very glad to hear that you’re a Saul Bellow appreciator. Herzog belongs with his Augie as an unforgettable character. When I was a youth in the Chicago area in the 1980s, his work was all over the map. I spoke with several people who went to high school with him and got a few different angles on how people remembered his complicated personality.
Thanks, also, for quoting HST, who was obviously as close as you can get to fearless in his endless explorations, like Bukowski. I loved it when he described himself as “a road man for the lords of karma.” Thanks again!!!
Sincerely,
Dale
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