The Eleanor Blues

23 dollars, a quarter, two dimes, a nickel. And 14 pennies.

Screw pennies, thought Rachel, counting her change.

She had played all afternoon at her usual spot near the lake. It was almost dinnertime. Her stomach let out a dispassionate gurgle.

Rachel’s friends wondered why she bothered with New York City Central Park busker cash. She had another retail job that would take her on full time if she asked. She wasn’t doing great, financially speaking. Most days she didn’t make enough to justify a full dinner, opting instead for a bag of chips at the bodega on West 73rd or one of those slowly-rotating, fluorescent red, three dollar hot dogs.

Yet Rachel kept up her busking in the park — powered by an unbending pride, certainly — but also an uncompromising, true love for the guitar. She wrote her own music, but she made way more money playing Beatles covers and pop song instrumentals. People enjoy the moment that they recognize what you’re playing. It makes them feel clever. So they give a dollar. Or sometimes they don’t know the song you’re playing but they want to get rid of their spare change.

So they give you a penny.

“The pennies used to bum me out too,” said a voice.

Rachel undid her cross expression and looked up from her coins to find a woman with red eyeglasses, black braids and a guitar case slung behind her. Rachel thought the woman could be around her own 22 years of age, but something about the way she stood told Rachel that she was older.

“Eleanor,” said the woman.

“I’m Rachel,” said Rachel. “Can I help you?”

“Two things, babe,” said Eleanor. “First, that song you just played. I liked it. But you should know it’s a Blues song.”

“Oh? Which song?” said Rachel.

“That song you just played,” said Eleanor.

Rachel was confused. The last song she played before packing up was one of her own — an untitled angsty indie song that she wrote after her dad had passed away last year.

“No,” Rachel insisted, holding up the little black Moleskine notebook she used for chord sheets and song lyrics. “I wrote it.”

Eleanor laughed. “I had a feeling you wrote it. And I know you didn't write it as a Blues song. I’m just saying that’s what it is at heart,” she said, literally tapping her chest with her index finger like that was supposed to help Rachel understand.

“Never mind,” said Eleanor, sensing her growing distrust. “What I really wanted to say was …”

She removed the guitar from around her shoulder and thrust it into Rachel’s calloused fingers.

“Here.”

Rachel froze. “You’re giving this to me? Thanks? But I already have a guitar.”

Eleanor looked at her with what Rachel interpreted as pity, but later she’d realize it was something else.

“Sell it, play it, I don’t care,” she said. “All I know is I walked by just now, I saw you playing. And I got a feeling that this guitar will help you way more than it ever helped me.”

* * *

It was dark by the time Rachel reached her apartment in Queens. She could see the silhouette of her curly brown bun against the door of her building. It almost looked like a crown. And the guitars on each of her shoulders, a pair of oversized wings.

Once inside, she immediately took the guitar out of its case. It was an acoustic with a big dreadnought shape, light gauge steel strings, and some kind of dark wood — maybe mahogany? She strummed the strings with the back of her nail. Rachel didn’t get nerdy about specs, but she knew a quality guitar when she played one. In fact, she was sure she had never played a nicer guitar in her life. The notes sounded so rich, so clear and deep.

Later that evening, Rachel showed the instrument to Evan — her mediocre roommate, good friend and crucially — a huge guitar geek.

“Damn,” said Evan. “This is an expensive guitar, Rach.”

“Dude, I know. It feels great to play,” said Rachel.

Evan steadied himself. “The thing is, this guitar isn’t just great. It’s special.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, like, you could walk into any guitar shop in New York City and get an easy 20k for this thing.”

Rachel was dumbfounded. Even the guitars she fantasized about weren’t that pricey. Evan explained that the guitar was a vintage 1963 Special Edition Martin. There were less than a few left in the world.

“Who would just give this to you?” asked Evan.

Rachel described the encounter as best as she could. Sam’s eyes narrowed.

“Eleanor. You don’t think that woman was ... Elle Denelle?” he said.

“Elle duh who?”

Evan groaned. He was always chastising her for not knowing more about all the scene-y musicians in town. “Elle Denelle! She’s a local legend. She’s known for doing a lot of experimental blues stuff. Apparently even some of the old-timers have mad respect for her.”

He googled her name and showed Rachel the first image result. That was definitely her. She was even wearing the same red glasses Rachel had seen her in earlier that day.

“So let me get this straight,” said Evan. “Elle Denelle told you to rewrite one of your songs, gave you her $20,000 guitar and then just walked away?”

* * *

Rachel didn’t go to the park the next morning like she usually would on a Thursday. Instead she sat on her bed holding Eleanor’s guitar like it was her newborn child.

The blues, huh…

She knew she would sell it. She had to. $20,000 was a life-changing amount of money for a “starving artist.”

But first…

Rachel pulled out her notebook.

If I replace a few of the major chords with dominant 7ths, and use a different strumming pattern…

She spent a few hours fiddling with arrangement and then tried it out. She had to admit, the bluesy version sounded a lot better. The song had been so edgy and combative before. Some songs are meant to be angry, but she realized how much those edges had obscured all the other subtle emotions of this song, flowing just beneath the surface. The song was sadder and more mournful now, but in a good way.

Huh.

Rachel looked out her window. It was a perfect day. Suddenly she decided that there was nothing she wanted more than to play her new song in the park. And when she arrived late in the afternoon, who else would she find but Eleanor, sitting on the exact bench where the pair had crossed paths yesterday.

Rachel practically sprinted towards her. “Hey, you were right,” she said breathlessly. “About the song. You were right.”

Eleanor turned slowly to face her. She stared at Rachel for a long moment and then said:

“Let’s hear it, babe.”

Rachel carefully took the Martin out of its case and started to play earnestly and softly:

You left without a sound No dire warnings or announcements You left without a single sound You left behind your shirts, your car…

Eleanor started to sway a bit but kept her gaze locked on Rachel, whose eyes were beginning to sting —

And even though I’m bound inside this circle with no exits...

Rachel started to tear up a bit. It had been a hard year. She hadn’t wanted to admit it, but there it was. It had been a hard year. She felt a type of sadness that she hadn’t felt in a long time. Sad for everything she would never lose, because it would never even be found in the first place.

Know now that yes I mind he the wanderings of your ghost at night...

Eleanor looked at Rachel with an even greater intensity than before. The thought that maybe they were about to kiss flickered through her mind.

Eleanor closed her eyes.

And then she collapsed, right to the ground.

Rachel screamed and dialed 911. The paramedics arrived and asked her a bunch of questions that of course she didn’t know the answers to. She dashed after them as they hauled Eleanor’s limp body up the hill and into an ambulance.

“Hey, what’s wrong with her? Will she be okay?” Rachel called out.

One of the medics said: “Baby girl, you’re an angel. We’ve got it from here.” And only then did Rachel reach behind her and realize.

Oh no. No no no no no no no.

She rushed back to the spot where her and Eleanor had been.

It was gone.

The guitar was gone.

Someone had taken it. She had owned a $20,000 guitar for 24 hours. It had helped her write maybe the only good song she had ever written. And then it had been swiped up in an instant — probably by someone clueless to its worth.

Years from now, Rachel would look back on meeting Eleanor and finding and losing her guitar as one of the greatest, most disappointing privileges of her young time in New York. But she didn’t think about anything so grand in the moment. All she did was sigh and think: At least my backpack is still there.

Then she sat down and watched the orange sun make its ritual descent into the lake. When that too was gone, she unzipped her bag and took out her black notebook. She flipped to the page with the new version of her song which she titled, “The Eleanor Blues” in a shaky cursive.