Portrait of Garrett
(or Changing the Stereotype of Teens)

by Margaret V. Doran

He slouches in, an almost sullen expression on his face, his eyes downcast. Baggy fatigues too long for his legs, with the bottoms frayed and ragged. A T-shirt of non-descript gray and shoes ... well-worn athletic shoes, originally white, but now caked in months of abuse, with the laces untied, tattered and trailing along behind. He is, of course, carrying a guitar case. It, too, shows signs of use with bindings scuffed and worn.

Without saying a word, he selects a straight chair and sits down too heavily for one so young. He's big for his age, tall and broad-shouldered. As he carefully places the guitar case on the floor in front of him and begins to undo the many latches, you notice his hands for the first time. Strong, big hands with long, lean and agile fingers. Hands that he has yet to grow into.

He flips back the velvet cover and extracts a guitar with built-in electronics. Still without speaking, he slides the guitar under his right arm and it seems to become an extension of his own body. He plucks a few notes, listening intently to the sound, then reaches to twist the tuners. He plucks again and nods almost imperceptibly. Then, still without saying a word and eschewing all the fancy electronics, he begins to play. His fingers move like lightening over the strings and Celtic music, fast and furious, pours from the guitar. A small smile insinuates itself on his lips and his eyes close, then open again as he looks down, but not at the guitar or the strings, just lost in the moment of his own music. Without even a pause, the music shifts to blues then to bluegrass and on to new, untried tunes, all played with amazing speed, feeling and expertise. For over an hour he continues, then stops, sighs, and returns the guitar lovingly to its case, carefully closing the velvet-lined lid over the strings.

He leaves as silently as he entered, still slouching, carrying the guitar case as if it is weightless; his shoestrings are the last to exit the room.

Margaret Doran lives in rural Oregon, writing poetry (whenever there is a free moment) while looking for a new job and a new school.