At this point, there is little that will make any difference.

I can protest that I am a victim.

I was always a victim, the same as everybody, but I can't ask for your forgiveness.

I'm recording this to tell you how it happened.

That won't matter either.

It's the only thing I can do at this point,

so it's what I'm doing. I found the guitar in an old pawn shop in Boston. The proprietor

was a caricature of a pawnbroker, a bent little old man with a hooked nose and wisps of

white hair around his ears. His face creased with a permanent frown from too many years of feigning disgust with the stuff

people brought in.

I didn't bother speaking to him at first, just walked up and down the narrow aisles between

the shelves stacked with endless junk.

I thought people brought their valuables to pawn, but this guy had somehow acquired piles

of rusty old hand woodworking tools, random glassware and salt shakers, chip china, flatware

that wasn't silver.

I felt curiously drawn to a battered old wardrobe that looked like it had been built of leftover tongue and groove siding.

I almost opened it, but I was sure it could only be filled with mink coats.

Judging from the rest of his stuff, probably moth-eaten mink coats.

I felt his eyes glued on to me, waiting for me to try to lift something.

With my mohawk and torn jeans, I often got that look. But given the worthlessness of

this crap, it was almost insulting. I said, screw it and headed for the door.

Can I help you with something? He said, husky and suspicious.

...