In any case, I can’t say that playing Cal’s guitars made my loneliness go away. But I could make those guitars feel what I was feeling, and that made me less lonely. I could transfer my longing to whatever instrument was in my hands, and I could turn it into beautiful sounds. It didn’t heal me, but it comforted me, and I needed comfort more than I needed anything. Each guitar was a companion, a friend with whom I could commiserate. I wasn’t alone when I was with those guitars.

There was one instrument I got particularly attached to. Like the mythical Micawber, it was also a Telecaster, but this one was a 1961 Sunburst. In 1961 it was a cheap and unremarkable guitar. Cal bought it in 2014, and by then it was neither of those things. In fact, it had purportedly lived an incredible life as the guitar a couple of Nashville session players had traded around to record with Roy Orbison. Rumor had it that Roy had dubbed the guitar “Sammy” in honor of Sun Records founder Sam Phillips. Obviously that name bore a different, but no less powerful, significance to me.

I hold a mystical belief that people leave behind their essence or energy on anything they touch, anything they care for. That’s why vintage guitars are so special. History gives a guitar a character you can feel when you play it. Like a living thing, a guitar has a spirit, and the spirit of the 1961 Fender was deep and kind and, above all, wise. I know it sounds crazy, but this Tele was the wisest guitar I’ve ever played. When I had a question, it had an answer. When I didn’t know what to say, it said it for me. When I wanted to pick up and run, it talked me into staying.

Sammy also had the best neck of any instrument I’d ever held. Before holding that guitar, the best neck I’d ever touched was on a 1952 Les Paul that belonged to Elvis Costello. Right before our senior year, Cal and I had summer jobs at The Sweetwater, a small music venue in Mill Valley where Elvis would occasionally show up to play. We happened to be working one of those nights, and Cal being Cal, he sauntered up to Elvis’s guitar tech and told him I was the best guitar player under thirty in the whole Bay Area. The tech took one look at me and laughed, but he let me tune some of the guitars, including Elvis’s ’61 Tele and his ’63 Jazzmaster. Once I’d sufficiently impressed him, he handed me the Les Paul. It was a hard, feisty guitar. It fought me, taunted me, made me work for the magic. The damn G string wouldn’t stay in tune, so I was on edge the whole time it was in my hands, but on edge in a way that made me feel alive.