There was a professional smile on his face, but his eyes were cold, distant. Sir, Derek said, can I help you? Perhaps you’re looking for something. Johnny turned his head and looked at Derek. His eyes were tired, but calm. It was a deep exhaustion, not physical, but spiritual. “Yes,” he said. “I’m looking for a guitar.
” “A classic Martin, oldstyle solid instrument.” Derek nodded slightly. He was trying to maintain his professional demeanor, but inwardly he was skeptical. “I see,” he said. “And what’s your budget, sir?” because the instruments we display here are quite special. Uh designed for professional musicians, the prices can be a bit high. The message in Dererick’s tone was clear.
If you can’t afford what’s here, please don’t waste my time. A slight smile appeared on Johnny’s lips. He’d been judged like this for years. as a child in the cotton fields of Arkansas, as a young man playing in small bars in Memphis, in prison. People had always judged him by his appearance. And Johnny wasn’t angry about it anymore.
He was just sad. Sad for people. Could be expensive, Johnny said, his voice still calm. That’s all right. I just want to see the right guitar. A moment of hesitation flickered in Dererick’s eyes. He was trying to figure out if this man was serious. His leather jacket was worn. His shoes were old. He hadn’t shaved.
Derek had seen customers like this before. They’d come into the store, examine the instruments, then leave quietly once they heard the prices, sometimes embarrassed, sometimes angry. But they all left the same way, empty-handed. “Of course, sir,” Derek said, but his voice had grown even colder. But I should mention most of our Martin models start at $400.
If you’re looking for something more affordable, perhaps the secondhand shops on the other side of town might be more suitable for you. Derek’s sentence was polite, but the underlying message was sharp as a knife. You don’t belong here. Leave. Johnny’s expression didn’t change. He just nodded slightly. I understand, he said.
But I came here for these guitars. Now, please, can I see that Martin D28 on the wall? Derek hesitated. This man was persistent. Maybe he actually had the money. Or maybe he was just wasting time. Derek was a trained salesman, and his training required him to show courtesy to every customer. He couldn’t compromise his professionalism, so he took a deep breath, carefully took down the Martin D28 from the wall, and handed it to Johnny. Here you go, he said.
1965 model, original parts, fully serviced, $450. When Johnny’s hands touched the instrument, it was as if he were embracing an old friend. The guitar’s wood was cold at first, but it quickly warmed in Johnny’s palms. The strings trembled slightly. The guitar’s balance was perfect. Its finish was worn, but that gave it character.
Johnny turned the guitar over, looking at the wood grain on the back. Derek watched Johnny and for the first time he began to notice something. This man’s hands were a musician’s hands. His fingertips were calloused. There were string marks. And the way he held the guitar was professional, natural. Maybe this man really was a musician.
But Derek still wasn’t sure. Maybe a small-time musician playing in local bars. He certainly didn’t think he could afford the instruments here. Johnny handed the guitar back to Derek. Beautiful instrument, he said. But the sound’s a bit soft. I’m looking for something with more power. Maybe a newer model. Derek nodded, pointing to a newer Martin on the wall. This is a 1967 model, he said.
Slightly larger body, fuller sound, too. Price is a bit higher, of course. $475. Without asking Derek, Johnny took the guitar onto his lap and sat down. After expertly tuning it, he began to play just a few notes, a simple riff. But Dererick’s hair stood on end because it was played with perfect technique. Johnny handed the guitar back to Derek.
This is good, he said. But it’s not what I need. Do you have other options? Dererick’s patience was beginning to wear thin. Sir, he said, and this time his voice was harder. Maybe if you tell me exactly what you’re looking for, I can help you better. Because frankly, every instrument displayed here is for musicians of a certain level.
If you’re not a professional player, perhaps this price range might not be suitable for you.” Johnny just raised his head and looked at him. “You think I’m not a professional?” he asked. His voice was still calm. There was no harshness. Derek took a step back. No, I mean, I just Johnny smiled faintly. But this time, his smile was a bit sad.
It’s all right, he said. I’m used to it. When people look at me, they just see a worn out man, someone pitiful, maybe a bum, maybe a drug addict, right? Derek didn’t know what to say. His throat was tight because Johnny had just said exactly what was going through his mind. Johnny continued, “I used to be that way, too,” he said.
“I looked at people with prejudice. I looked down on the poor. I judged drug addicts. I looked down on people who went to prison because I thought I was different from them. But then I fell, too. I struggled with addiction. I was arrested. My first marriage fell apart. I lost everything. [clears throat] And that’s when I understood. Johnny stood up.
He stood before Derek. A person’s worth, Derek, is not in their appearance. It’s in their heart. And today, you treated me based on my appearance. But that was your mistake, not your sin. Because you haven’t learned yet. But maybe today it’s time for you to learn. Johnny started walking toward the door. Derek stood frozen.
He couldn’t find anything to say. Johnny reached for the door, but just then another voice rose from the back of the store. Derek, who is that? What’s going on? The voice belonged to an older man. The store owner, Harold Gibson. Derek turned that way. Nobody, Mr. Gibson, he said. Just a customer. I don’t think he found what he was looking for.
Harold Gibson looked at Johnny over his glasses and froze. His face changed color. His mouth opened slightly. His eyes widened. Derek didn’t understand his boss’s reaction. What had happened? Harold slowly walked forward. His steps were unsteady. His voice cracked. Are you Are you Johnny Cash? Dererick’s world stopped in an instant.
His boss, Harold Gibson’s voice was trembling. His face was covered in sweat. His hands were shaking uncontrollably. Johnny Cash. Derek looked at Johnny, then at his boss, then back at Johnny. This wasn’t possible. This worn jacketed, quiet, humble man couldn’t be that Johnny Cash. That man was on the radio, on television, on massive stages.
His concert at Folsam Prison in January of this year had shaken all of America. But this was just an ordinary person. But Harold Gibson continued walking forward, his steps quickening, his breath short. “Mr. Cash,” he said, his voice dropping almost to a whisper. “My God, you really are Johnny Cash, aren’t you?” Johnny smiled faintly and nodded, humble, calm. “Yes,” he said simply.
