Guitar Man

On letting my guard down and playing it forward.

Frankie Chamaki on Unsplash

In close friendly circles, I’m the life of the party. I’m zany and affectionate and pretty damn loud. But I keep a much lower profile when in the company of strangers. A lot of this has to do with being a chronically anxious person who sees the potential for disaster in every situation, no matter how safe or mundane, assuming anyone bold enough to walk up to me and start talking out of nowhere must be looking to abduct, solicit, and/or brainwash me. (See “chronically anxious person.”)

I don’t approach unfamiliars lightly and I certainly don’t give off a vibe to strangers that says, “approach me, please. I am open to whatever agenda you’re concealing under your metaphorical trench coat.” My ultimate goal when navigating any public excursion is to get back home with as little damage to my brittle sense of inner calm as possible.

Needless to say, I’m guarded.

So, when a short, stocky, bald man with a mischievous grin walked up to me in the cereal aisle the other day, I had to perform mental gymnastics to keep my nervous system from over-firing, causing me to frown, raise my eyebrows, exhale exasperatedly, put up my Lucky-Charms-toting dukes, and/or run away at his approach.

“I just have to share,” he began with enthusiasm.

I bit my tongue to stop myself from saying the words, “No. You really don’t.”

“I was jamming out to a great song in my car, and you just have to listen to it.”

At this point, I was holding my breath, waiting for the hairpin turn in the conversation where he says something ANTI- [insert thing I’m decidedly PRO] and I have to resort to frown, eyebrow raise, annoyed exhale mode.

“It’s called Guitar Man and it’s by a group called Bread.”

Aside from being guarded, I’m also easily distracted. So, the fact that I absorbed every word he said and then repeated it back to him while maintaining eye contact surprised me.

“Guitar Man. Bread. Thanks, I’ll check it out.”

“You won’t be disappointed.”

He went on his way, and I breathed out ninety seconds worth of unnecessary anxiety and finished shopping. While at the self-checkout, I watched him walk up to the employee at the customer service desk, and then listened as he gave her the same spiel he gave me.

He even started it the same way.

“I just have to share…”

Was I jealous that he was spreading the word of Bread to anyone and everyone, and I wasn’t some elite target for his music evangelism?

A little.

Until he recognized me as his first and favorite disciple from the cereal aisle and wished me a “good day, ma’am,” on his way out.

Jefferson Santos on Unsplash

I held the song title and artist in my mind for the short drive home. Before I put the groceries away, I pulled the song up on Spotify and played it through the Bluetooth speaker in our kitchen.

It wasn’t what I expected. I mean, the guy said he was “jamming out” to it, so I expected something with a little more … uh … jam. But it was a good song. One I recognized but knew I had never heard before at the same time. The lyrics spoke to me as a musician and as a writer. And it made me think of my buddy, Ben Wakeman, and wonder if he knew the song or had ever played it.

I told my husband about my run-in with the cereal aisle guy, and he said I should write about it. But I was already planning to, for two reasons.

• To mark a time that I let my guard down with a stranger, and nothing but good came from it.

• To spread the gospel of Bread’s Guitar Man to as many people as possible.

Because I think that’s all the short, stocky, bald man with the mischievous grin in the cereal aisle was trying to do.

That and to give one chronically closed-off person something to listen to.

And write about.

Then you listen to the music
And you like to sing along
You want to get the meaning
Out of each and every song
Then you find yourself a message
And some words to call your own
And take them home

Guitar Man by David Gates