My Guitar Story

In my senior year, bored stiff, I went online for comfort. Suddenly on the campus forum I saw a post: “Free guitar lessons at the milk-tea shop by the X University gate—small class, don’t miss it.” It was two days old. I thought for a second and sent a text—and he replied instantly and called right away. I answered the phone nervously. He said we could meet near campus first; we agreed on the restaurant entrance.

I put on pants, found presentable shoes, and walked toward the restaurant full of hope. After a short wait, a middle-aged man appeared—slightly heavyset, quite kind. After half a minute of small talk I said I was a complete beginner but determined to learn. He said he would take me as his only student, and we parted happily.

The next day he called and told me to come to the milk-tea shop at noon for the first lesson. I was thrilled, washed my hair early, and styled it as usual. My roommates looked baffled, thinking I was going to meet a girl.

At noon I arrived on the second floor of the shop and met him. He had two guitars, black and yellow; I chose yellow. Then payment—free lessons, but you still buy a guitar. 1,600 yuan; my heart bled. He said the guitar was only about 800 online and the other 800 was my tuition; he would teach only me until I learned, then open a new class. I felt I had struck a bargain and laughed: “Of course you should be paid—there’s no free lunch.”

Then the teacher played a song that impressed this rookie, taught me some fingering, and class ended. Before leaving he told me to wait for his call. I carried the huge guitar like holding a naked girl, avoided the main road, slipped along a side path into the dorm, and tossed her on the bed. Roommates were napping; I had no time for sleep—I went straight into Summoner’s Rift.

Days passed with no call; I felt scammed. I mustered courage and dialed. He said: “Little Cai, I’m on a business trip in Yantai, back tomorrow probably. How’s your basic fingering? Never mind, wait for my call—I’m back tomorrow.”

He did return the next day, same place. I ordered two bubble teas; business was so good that teaching had to stop. In chat I learned he was a wedding host, graduated from a nearby city’s university, with a daughter in kindergarten. His work meant constant travel, unstable; in college he had a small band, dreamed of music, ended up hosting—still on stage, though.

When the crowd thinned he taught some strumming and rhythm. I’ve mostly forgotten; now holding the guitar I don’t know what to do.

After that I never saw him again. He called a few times to invite me; I was fighting with my thesis advisor, graduation was hard, no spare mind. Under the advisor’s yoke I endured until defense, then graduation and parting—no mood for guitar.

Yet she is still beside me, proof the memory was not a dream. Time is limited either way—that is my whole story with the guitar.