The Guitar Man of Sauchiehall Street
“A bottle of Jack Daniels...sh, please..sh..son” he said, as he swayed there at the front of the queue.He reached into his torn pockets for the exact money that he had busked for that day, and had counted before coming into the shop.
The Guitar man.......
It was strapped to his back, an old Gibson, well battered and abused over the years, stained and chipped on the corners...but still it was a quality guitar. He had a twinkle in his eye as he waited for the bottle of Jack to be placed in bag for him.
He seemed oblivious to all that surrounded him.
The Guitar man... ...
He had the excitement in his body language of a little boy wating for the counter assistant to bag up a quarter of BON, BON's. He was waiting for the comfort of having the bottle in his arms. No doubt this was a repeat of what he had done in the past... he had been here many times before.
The Guitar man.. ...
He had long greasy hair, he was wearing dirty cheap trainers that had seen better days, a pair of burgundy red jogging pants with stains, held up by a length of white electric cable with the coloured and copper ends fraying out, for his top half he had a long army type trench coat, with a dirty jumper underneath.
The Guitar man..
As he received his purchase he smiled and staggered away, oblivious to the taunts and whispers of the people in the queue around me. I felt ashamed, and guilty. Ashamed, that somehow just by standing in this queue, I was implicated in declaring what was exceptable and what was not. Guilty, because my own judgement was clouded by their taunts and whispers.
The Guitar man..
I watched the “Guitar man” adjust himself at the doorway and stagger off down the street into the night. Perhaps to spend another night among many, inhabiting a shop doorway, drowning his sorrows, reflecting on his losses and dreaming of what used to be.
The Guitar man..
A tribute to the Guitar Man of Sauchiehall Street
