As a child, I thought of machines. I dreamed of cars and planes and spaceships and improbably steam-powered contraptions that worked brilliantly but never left their complete forms in my waking mind. I had no sympathy for people, no interest in their stories. I re-enacted famous naval battles using paper ships on my bedroom floor and consigned thousands to death with the serene indifference of a general officer in the Union Army.

Only lately has it occurred to me that every true, every worthwhile story is a story of people. That only the human element matters in the long run. So while this is, in theory, a short story of trading two guitars for another one, then changing my mind and trading yet again for a fourth, it’s also a long story of people. A millionaire who died young and a craftsman who retired old. Four people who continued a tradition and one man who redefined it. Two aging middle-class men who have done tens of thousands’ dollars worth of business on absolute trust. Most of all, it’s about the hunger to collect, possess, trade, change.
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