We both agreed to pack less for this trip than we usually do, as we have the habit of not using at least half of what we take. This is why I got a bit upset (OK… bitchy) when Kevin insisted on taking his bigger guitar on this trip. He has a Martin Backpacker for these occasions, but he was adamant that he needed his full-size guitar for Key West. I finally bit my tongue and let him have his way. I’d just save my energy for plotting revenge.
He packed extra strings and flaunted the entire extra bag he needed just for his music lists. I refused to give in to the bait and just mentally snarled, planning on getting even with a shoe-shopping extravaganza once we hit our final destination.
We loaded the car and left for parts south. When it was finally my turn to drive, the first thing I noticed was that the damn guitar case was on its side, blocking a substantial part of the view through the back window. I asked him if it couldn’t be laid flat, and he hemmed and hawed for a bit before finally laying it flat the next time we switched drivers. Now he was concerned with the fact that he’d laid it strings-down and feared he was hurting his baby. I was internally growling and thinking, “why didn’t you just lay it down the right way to begin with!?” but I realized it would be spitting into the wind to bring it up again.
With stops to visit family on the way down, we were gone for four nights before he actually removed it from the car and took it into our hotel room. During these four days of travel, he rearranged it in the rear of the car repeatedly; moving suitcases around to keep it appropriately cushioned and checking that it wasn’t being jostled about too much. I remained quietly exasperated, but accomplished one helluva lot of eye-rolling. I was certain that if I had to watch him fussing over that thing for much longer, my brains would leak out of my ears from all the unreleased pressure. Finally, after spending an entire day with his parents, he was ready to haul his precious love out and unwind with a little strumming.
I was decompressing by reading out on our room’s little patio, when he burst out, ashen faced, wide-eyed and yelling, “SOMEONE STOLE MY GUITAR!” (OK, call me a bitch [again], but his expression totally reminded me of a lemur.)
What? How could someone steal his guitar? It’d been in the car for four days, and that car was always locked when we weren’t in it. Back into the room I went, and saw the empty guitar case on the bed. After about thirty seconds of pondering where and how this could have happened, I asked him if he had actually even put it in the case. He looked at me like I’d suggested that he would look smashing in a pink, sequined tutu, and then became adamant that he did, and that someone broke into the car at one of our stops, took the guitar, and left just the case, “to throw us off of their tails!” Yeah, I was having trouble swallowing that one immediately, but he was totally inconsolable and irrational. His vacation was ruined, and he refused to call home to our house/pet sitter to see if he’d left it behind, because he was certain there was no way he would have done that.
With just a bit of coaxing (OK, maybe I was bitching again), he did finally call home. Yes, his Martin guitar was safely beside his computer on its stand in the corner, and our house-sitter had enjoyed playing it very much. We’d just traveled 1200 miles with an empty guitar case that he’d fiercely protected all along the route. Now it was my turn to become hysterical, but I was hysterical with laughter. I was out of commission for at least twenty minutes with tears pouring down my face.
The next morning, we Googled used guitar dealers in the area, took a couple of hours to find the place, and I bought him a replacement. I mean, how can you go to Key West without your muse? I felt like I was a true Guitar Hero.
Oh, but the payback was really a bitch. 😉
(Lemur image courtesy of Google.)