The Clumsy Interloper

You swing open the door to a seldom visited storage room and peer past the darkened threshold. Instinctively both arms lurch forward like oscillating metronomes into the void, as if divining the light into existence. The pull string dangles innocently from a lone bulb affixed in the center darkness. In one swift jerk the room is illuminated and the mystery laid bare.

You cautiously step between stacks of paint cans, boxes of old tech and a bookshelf embossed with cobwebs and Milton Bradley rejects. In the far corner you spy your prize, a caramel-colored spruce guitar with a tobacco sunburst trim peeking out from behind a moth eaten luggage set. You lift it gingerly, almost worried that a firm grasp would turn the forgotten relic to dust. The curves of the instrument contour effortlessly and nestle under your arm. You pluck the strings, dialing in the tunning pegs until a dulcet tone emerges. You winnow away until the flabby notes tighten and settle like a quiet dandelion seeds upon your eardrum. You are pleased with this ritual. A favorite pick rattles inside and you shake the inverted guitar like a ketchup bottle until the ruby token flits onto the cold concrete slab.  

You begin to explore the fretboard with undulating fingers. The familiar timbre joyfully penetrates your memory like seeing an old flame and exchanging a wordless smile across a crowded room. The cold fretboard warms to your touch as you glide across it, losing then finding the correct sequence, dwelling in a staccato succession on particularly elusive note progressions. Finally once you have your bearings, you play a blues riff and you think of the Buddy Guy & Junior Wells cassette tape your Uncle Bobby gave you thirty years ago. The storage room, moments ago dank and silent, is now vibrant and essential.

After several minutes of this, you place the guitar back against the wall. Content.

You pause at the door and turn back, wistfully contemplating this buried portal to your childhood one last time. You make a promise, then and there, to come back again soon. To not let the days pile up before your next visit. You snap the string and the blackness envelopes all once more.

The 2025-26 Chicago Bears were just the tuning session. The stage is set.

Let the Good Times Roll.