The Forgotten Platfrom

 

On the platform severed from main line there was bench left peeling in the sun. There sat the old guitar man, with his bundle of bedding, and his worn string-less guitar.

He had sat there for as long as I can remember. When I was young he used to play for money. He played sharp furious blues. He used to draw small crowds during the carnival week. I heard him play and wondered why a man with such talent wasn’t in a band.

I was in my teens the day he lost his first string. The story went round the town fast, as nothing much happened after they cut us off from the mainline. The loss of the string didn’t affect his music. He recalibrated and began a different style of playing, which drew a new crowd of people.

            One by one, the other strings broke. Each time he adjusted and evolved into a different groove. I can still remember when he only had one string left. One string was all he needed. He made use of every note, pausing and bending and laughing when his hands tried to play the space where the strings used to be. His hands remembered the melody; searching for the notes, finding only ghosts.

            When the last string broke there was a strange tension in the town. People began to wonder if he would re-string his guitar. He refused offers when people tried to buy him new strings. He changed after the last string went. He had always kept a tidy appearance until it snapped. His hair was always tied back in a pony tail, his beard well combed, his suit, although very old, was always brushed down and neat. After the string went, he let his hair grow wild. His beard followed suit. His jacket buttons fell off and he gave up trying to be neat.

            He went from an eccentric, to a joke, to the object of sneering contempt, teased by teenage boys on their way home from school. They shouted: “Still waiting for that train? Play us a tune old man.” and other less witty slurs that uneducated people utter when they have low self esteem. He would laugh and say: “Still waiting. Can’t you hear the music,” as he strummed thin air.

            It was sad to see him fall deeper into disrepair. I brought him bottles of water and sometimes whisky when I could afford it. He thanked me and offered to play me a tune. I never stuck around to listen.

 

One night, a thunderous rain storm whipped across the town. I knew he was sitting where he always sat, on the peeling steel bench, under the leaky asbestos roof. The thought of him out there in the storm drove me to put my coat on and go see if he was alright.

            I left the warmth and moved through the rain. When I got close a lightning flash illuminated him. I saw him playing, fingering the notes, strumming the rhythm where the strings used to be. As I got closer I heard him crooning the chords, humming the melody and pausing to tap the wood. The rain fell like brushing snares. The sound brought tears to my eyes. They ran down my cheeks into the rivers left by the rain. I left him alone.

            The next day he was gone. The news pinged around town. People came to see if it was true. They found his empty bench with the peeling plastic. There was a patch of smooth steel where he used to sit, worn by his buttocks. A frantic search was conducted, they found nothing. He was gone along with his guitar. The initial worry wore off. He was forgotten after a few months. The pessimists thought he was murdered or dead, the optimists thought he had to have moved on. I didn’t like to think of him dying alone in the storm.

            Maybe his train came in and took him away to rest, a big red locomotive with a luxury carriage, a bar and buffet, a one-way ticket to the stars.