My Red Guitar

There's nothing more badass than carrying around a guitar.

When I see a guy with a guitar case, I think:
1. He's in a band
2. He might know Jewel
3. Is that a gun?

I took a guitar class in college from a hippie woman who loved vegetarian food and saving mice. We learned a few songs, and even how to finger pick (a little). My signature song was James Taylor's "Fire & Rain" and playing it for my final earned me an A.

My dad has this guitar that he's kept in the luggage closet for thirty years. I was (and still am) not allowed to touch it. But back in college, Dad bought me my own guitar--it's a deep red color--in a moment of father/son bonding so I didn't have to rely on a loaner.

And I loved Tuesdays and Thursdays that semester, when I hauled that guitar all over campus. Not only to guitar class, but to the class before it. . .my 'busy' schedule didn't allow for a pre-class stop past our frat house. Back then, we didn't worry about guns on campus; everyone knew it was a guitar inside. Everyone was watching me, and thinking that I potentially harmonized with hot Alaskan sirens.

And now? The red guitar hangs by its neck at my house. I haven't played it since I moved in (three years and counting). I'm no musician, so I'm thinking I should just move the guitar to a closet where no one can touch it.