A String of Fortune

A young musician, Tommy, finds a perfect guitar in a Winnipeg pawn shop, and with his friend Ed's help, they embark on an impromptu jam session, sparking a conversation about their creative futures.

The fretboard felt like cool, aged glass under Tommy’s thumb, even through the thin cotton of his hoodie. He ran his fingers along it again, tracing the faint grooves left by countless hours of someone else’s practice, someone else’s songs. The guitar wasn't new, not really, but to him, it was perfect. The sun, a pale, stubborn disk trying its best through the grime of the pawn shop window, caught the edge of the mahogany body, making the wood grain glow like a forgotten ember.

“She’s a beauty, ain’t she?” Andy, the shop owner, rumbled from behind the counter, not even looking up from his newspaper, which seemed permanently affixed to his face. He’d probably seen Tommy’s kind a thousand times—kids with hopeful eyes and empty pockets, dreaming over instruments they couldn’t touch outside of a quick strum or two.

Tommy didn't answer. He just tightened his grip on the neck, cradling the body against his hip. It was an old Martin D-28, he thought. Or a really, really good knock-off. The kind you saw legends play, dusty and worn on old YouTube videos. He’d seen plenty of guitars, strummed a few in cheap music stores, but this one… this one had a weight to it. A resonance. He plucked a single open E string, and the sound hung in the air, a clean, bright chime, then faded, leaving a warm ghost in the silence.

His old acoustic, currently leaning against his bedroom wall back in his small apartment near the university, sounded like a tin can full of broken glass in comparison. He’d saved up for that one, piece by agonizing piece, for two years. This Martin, though… this was a different league. He glanced at the faded handwritten price tag: $1,800. His stomach dropped like a stone down a well. He had eighty-seven dollars. Total.

“You gonna stare at it all day, kid, or you gonna play something?” Andy shifted, the newspaper crinkling. The smell of old paper, stale coffee clung to the air in the shop. Tommy’s shoes scuffed against the worn linoleum floor, which looked like it had seen generations of hopeful and desperate feet.

Tommy took a deep breath, the dust motes dancing in the weak sunlight. He carefully seated himself on a wobbly stool next to a stack of ancient, unidentifiable electronics, and adjusted the guitar. His fingers, usually clumsy with new instruments, found the familiar chords of an old folk song. He played soft, almost reverently, letting the sound fill the small, cluttered space. The bass response was incredible, a rich, deep thrum that vibrated through his chest. Each note was clear, distinct, ringing out with a warmth his own guitar simply couldn’t produce.

He closed his eyes for a moment, imagining himself on a small stage, spotlights hot, the crowd quiet, just this sound. Just this. He played for a good five minutes, losing himself in the feel of the wood, the subtle give of the strings, the way the sound seemed to bloom and expand with every strum. When he finally stopped, the silence felt heavy, full of possibility and crushing reality.

He opened his eyes and looked at Andy, who had, to Tommy’s surprise, lowered his newspaper. Andy’s face, etched with a thousand small lines, looked almost… thoughtful. "You got good hands, kid. Real good. What's your name?"

"Tommy," he mumbled, suddenly shy. "Tommy Fisher."

"Tommy Fisher," Andy repeated, testing it. "Plays a mean D-28, huh? What you got, a band?"

Tommy shook his head. "Just… me. And sometimes my friend Ed. We just jam in the park, usually."

Andy nodded slowly, picking at a loose thread on his greasy work apron. "This beauty ain't cheap, Tommy. You know that. She came from a guy who knew what he was doing, too. Traveled with her. Played her in a lot of places. You can feel it, can't you? The history?"

Tommy nodded, his throat tight. He absolutely could. It wasn't just a guitar; it was a story, a vessel for a thousand stories yet to be written. "Yeah. I… yeah. She feels… alive."

Andy grunted, a sound somewhere between agreement and skepticism. "She's alive if someone's playing her. She's dead weight in my shop. Been here a month. Nobody wants to pay the price. Everybody wants a deal, but nobody's got the ear for a real instrument anymore. Just want the flash."

Tommy’s heart pounded. Was this… was this a negotiation? He cleared his throat. "I… I don't have eighteen hundred. Not even close. I've only got… eighty-seven dollars. But… I could make payments? Every week? I work at the coffee shop, and I bus tables…"

Andy held up a hand, stopping his frantic offer. "Payments? Kid, this ain't a bank. This is a pawn shop. I need the cash for inventory, for rent. For my own damn life. Eighteen hundred is already a steal. What I paid for it… don't even get me started."

Tommy slumped, the dream deflating like a leaky balloon. He carefully, lovingly, set the guitar back on its stand, running his hand over the smooth, cool wood one last time. It felt like saying goodbye to something he’d just found. Something he desperately needed. A dull ache started behind his eyes.

“Wait a minute.” Andy squinted at him. “How old are you, kid?”

“Seventeen.”

“Seventeen. Playing like that.” Andy scratched his chin. The faint scent of aftershave, sharp beneath the shop's other odors, wafted over the counter. “Look, I got a soft spot for kids who actually *play*. Most of 'em these days just wanna strum three chords and record it on their phones. You… you got something. You got soul.” He paused, then sighed, a long, drawn-out sound. “Tell you what. I need to move her. She’s taking up too much space. One thousand. Cash. You get me a grand, she’s yours. No payments. Take it or leave it. That’s my absolute, rock-bottom, I’ll-regret-it-tomorrow price.”

A thousand dollars. It was half the original price, almost. But still an impossible chasm. He looked at the guitar again, its rich finish reflecting the dust motes. A thousand dollars was a mountain he couldn't climb. Not in a week. Not in a month, probably. He felt the sting of tears behind his eyes, a childish frustration boiling up. He just wanted to play this guitar. He *needed* to play this guitar.

Just then, the bell above the door jingled, and Ed walked in, shaking his head and pulling out an earbud. “Dude, I swear, Mrs. Henderson is losing her mind again. She just lectured me for five minutes about—” He stopped, seeing Tommy’s face, then the guitar. “Whoa. What’s up? You look like someone just kicked your puppy.”

“I found her, Ed,” Tommy said, his voice a low, shaky whisper. “A Martin. D-28. It’s… it’s perfect.” He gestured vaguely at the instrument, as if introducing a long-lost love. “But I can’t… I can’t get her. Andy’s being cool, gave me a crazy deal, but it’s still a thousand bucks. I’ve only got eighty-seven.”

Ed walked over, his backpack slung low, bumping into a display of mismatched silverware. He looked at the guitar, then at Tommy’s face. Ed was good at reading Tommy; they'd been friends since kindergarten, through scraped knees and bad grades and first crushes. He saw the raw longing, the almost physical pain in Tommy’s eyes. Ed himself wasn't a guitarist, more of a drummer, or sometimes just the guy who clapped along, but he got music. He got what it meant to Tommy.

“A grand, huh?” Ed murmured, scratching his head. He was wearing his usual uniform: faded band t-shirt, ripped jeans, and a perpetually worried frown that somehow made him look more approachable. “That’s… that’s a lot of coffee money, dude.”

Andy cleared his throat from behind the counter. “My deal stands, boys. A thousand. Today. Otherwise, she goes back to full price next week, and I’ll wait for the right buyer. Takes patience, this business.”

Tommy’s shoulders sagged. He felt like his chest was tightening, like he couldn't get enough air. The guitar, so close, felt impossibly far. He started to turn away, a dull ache settling deep in his bones, already rehearsing the lament in his head. The one he’d tell himself every night for weeks.

“Wait.” Ed held up a hand, stopping Tommy. He pulled out his phone, a cracked screen glowing, and tapped away furiously for a moment. Then he looked up, a strange expression on his face. “Andy, you take debit, right? Or… whatever for cards?”

Andy eyed him, wary. “Cash is king, kid. But yeah. We take plastic. What, you gonna put down a hundred or something?”

Ed swallowed. “No. I’m gonna… I’m gonna buy it.”

Tommy stared. His jaw hung open. “What? Ed, no. You can’t. You said you were saving for that new drum kit. The one with the double bass pedal. Remember? We just talked about it last week! That’s like, a thousand dollars for the snare alone!”

“Yeah, well, a snare drum won’t make music like that, will it?” Ed waved a dismissive hand. “You, Tommy. You make the music. And you… you need this. I can see it. Besides,” he added, a wry grin finally breaking through his worry, “what’s a drummer without a guitarist who can actually play something that doesn’t sound like dying cats?”

Tommy was speechless. He felt a hot rush of emotion, a mix of disbelief, gratitude, and a sudden, overwhelming urge to hug his lanky, ridiculously generous best friend. “Ed… you don’t have to. Seriously.”

“No, I do.” Ed was already pulling out his card. “Think of it as… an investment. In our future band. Or, you know, just in you not being a miserable mope for the next six months. Because, trust me, you’d be a miserable mope.”

Andy watched the exchange with a flicker of something almost like amusement in his eyes. He rang up the guitar, his fingers surprisingly nimble on the old cash register. The transaction went through. The receipt printed, a long, curling strip of thermal paper. Andy folded it, handed it to Ed. “Alright, kid. She’s yours. Or his. Whatever. Just make sure she gets played.”

Ed handed the receipt to Tommy. “Happy… early Christmas? Birthday? Just, you know, happy Thursday, dude.”

Tommy didn’t even look at the receipt. He just grabbed the guitar, clutching it like a lifeline. He felt lightheaded, giddy. “Oh my god. Ed. Seriously. I… I don’t even know what to say.”

“Don’t say anything,” Ed said, shouldering his backpack. “Just play. Come on, let’s get out of here before Andy changes his mind.”

They practically stumbled out of the pawn shop, the bell above the door jingling their departure. The afternoon air in Winnipeg was surprisingly mild for late spring, a faint breeze carrying the smell of wet pavement and blooming lilacs. Tommy clutched the guitar case, its worn leather a testament to its journeys, as if it held the most precious, fragile thing in the world. Which, to him, it did.

“Where to?” Ed asked, adjusting his own bag. “Central Park? Gotta give the new axe a proper inauguration.”

Tommy grinned, a wide, unrestrained smile that felt like it stretched his face. “Central Park. Definitely Central Park.”

They walked, the weight of the guitar case a comfortable presence against Tommy’s leg. The city sounds, usually just background noise, seemed sharper, brighter. The rumble of a bus, the distant siren, the chatter of people on the sidewalk—all of it felt like potential rhythm. He looked at Ed, walking beside him, eyes fixed ahead, a slight flush on his cheeks. Ed, who had just spent a thousand dollars on him, without a second thought. It was a friendship deeper than words, forged in countless shared experiences, now bound by the rich, mahogany scent of a D-28.

When they reached Central Park, a vast expanse of green in the heart of the city, dappled with patches of sunlight and shade, they found their usual spot. It was under a sprawling elm tree near the duck pond, far enough from the walking paths that their music wouldn't bother anyone, but close enough to catch the faint sounds of kids laughing and dogs barking. The grass was still damp in places from a morning shower, and the air smelled fresh, earthy, almost sweet.

Tommy carefully unzipped the case, revealing the gleaming guitar. It looked even more magnificent in the natural light, the subtle imperfections in the wood telling stories only he could hear. He tuned it meticulously, his fingers flying over the tuning pegs, the strings humming to life with each twist. Ed sat cross-legged opposite him, pulling a small, battered tambourine from his backpack—his impromptu percussion section.

“Alright,” Tommy said, a nervous flutter in his stomach. “What first? Something classic?”

“Nah,” Ed said, shaking his head. “Something new. Something you’ve been working on. This is a new guitar, new chapter, right?” He tapped the tambourine softly against his knee. “Don’t go boring me with a cover band tune. Surprise me.”

Tommy took a moment, letting the suggestions settle. He looked at the guitar, then at the bright, open sky above the elm tree. A new chapter. Ed was right. He closed his eyes, his fingers finding a melody he’d only ever heard in his head, a swirling, bittersweet tune that had been trying to escape for weeks. He started slow, a simple fingerpicked intro, letting the notes resonate, letting the old wood sing. The sound was incredible, full and rich, ringing out across the park. He felt it vibrate through his entire body, a physical manifestation of his own feelings.

Ed listened, his head tilted, eyes half-closed. After a verse, he started to tap a soft, rhythmic beat on the tambourine, a subtle accompaniment that blended perfectly with Tommy’s intricate picking. The music flowed, a conversation between old friends, a dialogue between musician and instrument, and between musician and the wide-open world.

When the song ended, the final chord fading into the hum of the park, a contented silence settled between them. Tommy exhaled slowly, a feeling of pure exhilaration coursing through him. He’d never heard his own music sound like that before. Never.

“Dude,” Ed said, finally opening his eyes, a genuine smile spreading across his face. “That was… wow. Seriously. That was some next-level stuff. What was that even called?”

“Just… ‘Park Song’ I guess,” Tommy shrugged, feeling a flush creep up his neck. “It’s not really finished. Just bits and pieces. I just… I don’t know. This guitar just pulls it out of me.”

“It’s not just the guitar, man,” Ed countered, leaning forward. “It’s you. Always has been. The guitar just… amplifies it. Makes it louder, clearer. You ever think about, like, what you’re really trying to say with all this?” He gestured vaguely at the instrument.

Tommy frowned, plucking a loose string. “I don’t know. I just… I just want to make stuff. Make sounds. Sometimes it feels like there’s too much in my head, you know? Too many feelings, too many ideas, and if I don’t get them out, they just… bounce around and make me crazy. And music is the only thing that really… drains it.”

Ed nodded, tossing the tambourine lightly from hand to hand. “Yeah. I get that. Like, sometimes I’ll be trying to figure out a new drum beat, and it’s like my hands just know what to do even before my brain does. Like the rhythm is already there, just waiting for me to find it. And then when it clicks… man. That’s the best feeling.”

“It’s like… finding a language, right?” Tommy offered, looking out at the shimmering surface of the duck pond. A pair of mallards drifted by, leaving soft ripples. “A language for things you can’t say with actual words. Like, if I tried to explain how I felt right now, about this guitar, about you doing that for me… I’d sound stupid. But I could write a song about it. And maybe it would make sense then.”

“Yeah, exactly!” Ed snapped his fingers. “Like, people always ask what my drumming means, and I’m like, ‘It just means *this*. It means feeling the beat in your chest.’ It’s not a speech. It’s… energy. Pure energy, right?”

Tommy nodded, running his palm over the smooth, worn back of the guitar neck. “It’s also terrifying, though. Sometimes. Like, what if you run out of things to say? What if the well just… dries up? Or what if what you make isn’t good enough?” He hesitated, looking at Ed, a rare moment of vulnerability in his voice. “What if you just… stop feeling it?”

Ed stopped twirling the tambourine. He looked at Tommy seriously. “You won’t. Not you. You’ve been obsessed with music since you were like, five, trying to play your dad’s old ukulele. Remember? You broke two strings trying to hit a D chord.” He chuckled softly. “That’s not something you just ‘stop feeling.’ That’s part of you. Like breathing.”

“But it’s a lot of pressure, too,” Tommy mumbled, his gaze fixed on a distant dog walker. “Everyone expects you to be… creative. All the time. Like a faucet you can just turn on. And sometimes, it’s just… dry. And then you feel like a fraud. Like you’re pretending.”

“That’s when you gotta live a little, I guess,” Ed suggested, picking at a blade of grass. “Go do something dumb. Get into trouble. Read a weird book. Watch a bad movie. Something has to fill the tank, you know? You can’t just keep taking without putting anything back in.”

“Yeah,” Tommy agreed, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Like, maybe I need to go get a really greasy burger. And then write a song about the burger.”

Ed laughed. “See? There you go. The muse of the Winnipeg diner. Perfect.” He leaned back, stretching his legs out. “Seriously though, Tommy. This is big. This guitar… it’s a game changer for you. I can tell. You already sound different.”

“I feel different,” Tommy admitted, the words quiet, almost reverent. He plucked another gentle chord. The sun had shifted, casting longer shadows across the grass, turning the greens deeper, richer. “I feel like… I can finally do what I’m supposed to do. Like, this is the right tool. Like I was waiting for this.” He paused, looking directly at Ed. “Thank you. Seriously. I don’t know how I’m ever gonna pay you back.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Ed said, waving a hand dismissively. “Just play. That’s all the payback I need. And maybe… maybe dedicate a song to the guy who saved your butt from a miserable existence of cheap acoustics and endless moping.” He winked.

Tommy laughed, a genuine, hearty sound that felt good to let out. He already had a hundred ideas buzzing in his head, a thousand melodies trying to break free. The feel of the polished wood against his fingers, the rich, resonant hum of the strings, the quiet presence of his best friend beside him—it all coalesced into a feeling of profound hope. The future, with all its scary unknowns, suddenly seemed less daunting. With this guitar, with Ed, anything felt possible. He tuned a string, a small adjustment, but one that felt like it was aligning his whole world. He looked out at the park, at the fading light, at the city stretching beyond, and a new, bolder melody began to form in his mind, something insistent, something ready to take flight.