My Friend Fox by Heidi Everett

Author:Heidi Everett [Everett, Heidi]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781761150159
Google: nKU8zgEACAAJ
Publisher: Ultimo Press
Published: 2021-09-15T23:32:29.101989+00:00

‘He holds a guitar to his love-starved chest and his fingers point to places on the strings.’

THE OLD MAN AND THE GUITAR

THE OLD MAN SITS IN the Frankston psych rehab music group, seemingly irrelevant. His face is pulled down with invisible weights; his body is thin and gnarled like the final leaf on a dying tree in a drought. He holds a guitar to his love-starved chest and his fingers point to places on the strings. With a small flurry of atoms, his hands begin to twinkle. Music wells up from his core and spreads across the room in ribbons of slow motion lightning. His music is very different to the strained cat noise that we suffer through every second Wednesday—where we all moan along to Beatles songs, pretending to enjoy ourselves, while inside we’re all geniuses who could solve world hunger if we were in the UN Creative Discussion rehab group instead of this music group.

This music, it’s royal. Something in me goes ‘ping’ and I feel my heart fill as if it has just connected to a missing part. Everyone in the room is listening with heads tilted, eyes awakened. The old man keeps playing without visible fear. We only see the top of his tatty old hat; his bobbing head is down, almost covering his hands, and it’s clear he’s absorbed in his project. The music is a simple melody yet it unfurls a huge map in my headspace, touching every synapse laneway and firing every neuron alley.

Serenade completed, he puts the guitar aside. He looks up and reveals a gnarled, pockmarked face, old but youthful. Thin grey strands of half-hair trickle from under his cap. His body betrays deep embarrassment yet his humanity allows himself to accept little nibbles of praise proffered by those who can. We all know it’s the best music we’ve heard in this room. The staff give one side of their face to congratulations, yet I see the other side is shady with disdain. How dare Andrés Segovia interrupt their music therapy!

The room empties and the therapist forgets to put the guitar back in the safe. It leans benignly against the far wall and I have an urge to approach it. When everyone is gone, I sidle over and pick it up. It feels weird. I’m aware I’m holding something so precious, so sacred, without the permission to do so, but the guitar seems willing. I sit on the floor and try to wrangle my lumpy hands into the shape of the old man’s dancing hands. It’s awkward. I gather that guitars are like horses and judge a person in a millisecond of contact. It must now hate me. I pray that no one can see me and report my belligerent thought of smashing it. I persevere with fumbling fingers until we reach our first treaty and a single clear note emanates. I make a commitment to the universe that I will do everything I can to learn the language of the guitar.

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