Pottery, violins, exhibit after exhibit. He walked slowly down the hallway, taking it all in. Then, he
came to something that interested him quite a bit. It was a temporary exhibit of blue acoustic guitars.
In his opinion, the best thing at the Smithsonian Institute Museum Of American History.
While blue was not his favorite color, red was, he held a deep respect for every shade of it. Blue
was the only color that could represent every feeling, every emotion, every single thing, living, or
dead.Blue was the only color that knew him, and here were more than a dozen blue instruments.
Each was special, and he wished that he could touch each one to feel its power.
He wandered around the room in utter amazement. Each instrument was quite unique, and not only
because they were a slightly abnormal color, but, because of everything. The sound holes, the
pickguards, everything was straight out of a dream. And then there was the color. Of all the guitars in
the room, all but three seemed turquoise, and each was a bit different in color than the next one.
Of the remaining three, one seemed quite purple. Another was a blue the color of darkest night. And
the third was what he considered perfection. It was a deep blue color near the edges, and faded to
palest blue near the strings. The pickguard was clear, but sandblasted with a simple design on the
backside. The strings gleamed silver. It was the type of guitar that only someone with a wonderful
imagination could dream up.
Of course, he didn't play the guitar. But, if he had that guitar, he'd take up lessons as soon as
possible. He looked up from the guitar when his watch beeped. 3 o'clock, it was time to go. He
glanced at the guitar once more, almost wistfully, before moving on to the room devoted to Ella
Fitzgerald.
A month later, he sat down in his living room wearing a pair of blue warm-up pants. "Alien" was
playing on the television. He flinched a bit when a particularly gory part came on. With that, he
noticed something in his pocket. He dug it out.
He fingered the triangular piece of plastic delicately. It reminded him of the guitar. A nice guitar pick,
dark blue fading to pale, etched with a silver design of a simple nature. He walked out to the garage,
pick in hand, picked up his brother's guitar, and began to play. It wasn't very good, far from it, in
fact. But, it was something else to do when he got a little bit blue.
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