Osco had worked in the periphery of the music industry for years, he was a clerk in the music section of the university library. In his capacity, he had exposure to all the worlds finest music, from every genre imaginable. He listened to the latest releases before they were put on the shelves for the general student population. He=d always had an ear for good music and enjoyed the efforts of musicians trying to create a sound that would live forever. He admired the inventiveness and imagination that was exhibited.

Inside the music store, the clerk handed him the guitar and discreetly moved away. Osco sat on a stool, next to the piano display and held the guitar in his hands. A light strum of the strings told him that it wasn=t tuned to the perfect pitch, but it was close enough to let him hear the bell-like quality of the steel strings. He pressed some of the strings against the fret board and plucked at them, marveling at the crisp tones. He was hooked.

The clerk finally came back to him and Osco asked the price. He dug to the bottom of his pockets to find that he was a little short of the asking price, but the clerk must have seen something in his eyes since Osco soon found himself walking down the street, guitar in hand, protected in a hard bodied case. The first couple of days he had the guitar, he didn=t do much with it, just plucked a few strings and wished he knew how to play.

The weeks turned into months and eventually years. Osco had taken everything the young man had taught him and kept at it. From time to time, there were others that would come and sit in with the two of them, adding their own features to the sound that was created, almost always teaching something to Osco that he didn=t know before. He soaked it all up like a sponge.

One evening, one of the visitors suggested to Osco that he could appear on a stage, sharing his ability on the guitar with the world, a few hundred at a time. Osco scoffed this. He heard how he played. He heard the mistakes, the flubs, and the hesitations and mis-fingerings. He knew he could play well, but he didn=t think he could play that well.

He continued with the weekly sessions instead. He didn=t fail to notice that the sessions started getting filled with less musicians and more spectators. He ignored them. He had no real interest in anything but the guitar anymore. He immersed himself in his music, and the music of others. He would learn fingering techniques from the visiting musicians and copy them, practicing until his fingers hurt so much he couldn=t pick up a pencil. But when he picked up the guitar, the pain stopped and the beautiful music began.

Eventually, Osco noticed a change in the weekly sessions. It had been a long time since he played with the young man that started him learning, that young man had graduated and gone on to a career with a recording contract. In his place, others would come and go. Osco didn=t mind, each brought their own point of view, and he was accepting of the differences, taking what he wanted from their talent and learning it himself and then continuing with it to expand further his musical envelope. Through the years, the guitar that caught his fancy had transformed from a catalog example of a fine guitar to a vision of a valued friend that had seen some of the same miles as it=s owner. Osco didn=t care, he still was in love with the sound the wood and steel creation could emanate.

In his room, he would practice chording, fingering and runs. He=d create scales and repeat them for hours. His fingers had long ago quit hurting and were toughened into hammer-like ends that assisted him in his efforts. He=d create music that would go for hours, and if he made a mistake, he=d stop and start the entire piece over. Eventually, he=d be pleased with the result, play that piece once at the weekly sessions and then quit that piece of music and search for another.

One week, he was surprised at the end of the session with a familiar voice. He looked up from his instrument and looked at the speaker. It took a couple of minutes, but Osco finally recognized the no-longer young man that had started to teach him. He had someone with him that he introduced as a producer with a major recording label. The two of them had been sitting in the back of the auditorium now used to accommodate the crowds that were attending the jam sessions. The producer told Osco that he wanted to record some of Osco=s music.

Osco began playing. Lightly at first, each note singing out over the crowd. He thought of nothing except the music ringing out from his guitar. From one change to another, fading into run-downs and fiddle riffs, chords blending into each other while his fingers never stopped, blurring in their activity. Before he realized it, he was into the closing notes and realized that he=d hit every single chord, change, note and run absolutely perfect.

Osco didn=t hear the applause. All he heard was the final, flubbed note. His face flushed with embarrassment, he packed up his guitar and left the hall. His shame was so great, that when he arrived home, he put the guitar in the closet, and went to bed. Sometime during the night, he died.

Since he was a recluse, no one discovered the body for almost a week. The one that discovered his body was his original instructor in the guitar. He had come to Osco=s house to ask permission to send the tape of the last concert to a recording label. He had brought with him an eight figure offer for the tape, sound unheard.

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