The long-haired kid with his two chords and his weak poetry. I was actually relieved when he stuck me in a basement corner that day, the day he came home with his hair cut off and wearing the red, white and blue uniform. His Mom cried, and his Dad said how proud he was of him, and he was gone. Except for his little brother trying to play Louie Louie on me, I fell into a long sort of sleep. And I remembered (dreamed?) all of those others who had drawn music from my frame, and for a long time that was plenty.

Then one day, the kid's mom wrapped me up in a wool blanket, put me in the case, and took me to the airport. Innumerable bumps and drops later, I felt myself swelling in a tropical heat, and when the case opened and the cover was removed, there was the kid again. He wasn't wearing the bright uniform, though. He had green fatigues on, and fatigue in his eyes as well. But they lit up when he saw me.

Yes, he had improved. He left some ash-burns on my spruce top, but the songs came from deeper down. And he had four chords now. I was kept in a canvas bag under a metal bunk for some time, but later my bed was the corner of a room dug from the earth. I made music for the kid and his friends almost every night, even when the loud bass vibrations shook the earth, and made them pause in their singing. Sometimes the kid left tear stains on my finish, and I had to admit he had the soul to bring from me my best. But he didn't have the time.

One day he just didn't return, and I was again bundled away, and awoke to the noise and light of a busy shop on a busy street. I was price-tagged and hung in a window, where I watched the new and shiny instruments leave one by one. The man changed the tag, then changed it again, then placed me on a dark shelf at the back of the store.