THERE must be a place where all good guitar picks go to in the afterlife. A realm; say, some black hole, inexplicably collecting every pick out there from guitarists’ hands—whether they are sober, awake or unconscious. A probable statistic: An active guitar player loses an average of about 10-12 picks a month. One can argue on the specifics, but the truth remains: It happens too many times.
It was a couple of nights ago when she left me. No sign, no clue. Everything’s a blur right now, but I try to recall anyway what went down.
2 p.m. Sunday lunch is always a blessing. And what used to be some extra hours for basketball have turned into some quality home-alone time. Away from the rest of the world, but ironically connected to everyone else through Facebook, I pick up my favorite guitar; a semi-hollow Ibanez that’s been personalized from the bone nut to the electronics. It’s shiny. It’s slick. My smartphone, doubling as a tuner. As a recent convert to Elixir strings, it was pretty cool to play with the strings seemingly staying rust and grime-free even after hours, days or months of playing. I pick up Brown Beauty from a stack of other instruments, and try to pass some time as another busy week comes to calm close. I played away.
4:30 p.m. Apparently, Sundays exist for another reason besides being a rest day. It’s the day most young procrastinators converge in the city’s most well-stocked bookstores. Think vampires in a blood bank, or an original-glazed donut from Krispy Kreme dropped in the middle of an anthill. Internal human memory, especially that of students, always functions when the sun begins to set on a Sunday. We were off to the mall after a few minutes, to purchase some school requirement. It’s all good.
7:45 p.m. Ah, the thrill of Sundays. My siblings and I have now returned home. I play guitar while waiting for dinner.
8:20 p.m. Setting up the table.
8:35 p.m. Dinner time. As our family lunches mostly consist of creative fare, Sunday nights are “remixed-recipes” nights. This, also known as, a leftover buffet. Needless to say, some remix versions are better than the original.
9 p.m.Time to retire miss Brown Beauty. I wiped her off and said goodnight. But then, I began to freak out as the pick holder that I attached behind my guitar’s head was now empty. It had the last green pick I bought some time ago, and I swear I placed it back in the holder some time between the hours of 2 and 4:30 p.m. Where was it?
9:05 p.m. I began my routine inspection, investigation, interrogating probable suspects. The parents and pets obviously didn’t have a hand in the sudden loss. I turned to my siblings. Each I stared down with the intent of squeezing out a confession from them. One by one, they all pleaded not guilty. Who was I to judge?
9:06 p.m. Where do all the lost picks go? After what felt like an hour of grieving, I was resigned to the fact that my last good, green pick had gone on ahead to pick heaven. For some people, they believe pick heaven is the often unexplored space under the couch. Some profess pick heaven to be their mothers’ purses or that empty container filled with junk near the home telephone. Some believe that there is no such thing as pick heaven—at all. How absurd.
Goodbye, Dunlop. You will be missed. Say hi to Alice for me.