Richard Jernigan -> RE: Guitar Making Disasters (Sep. 17 2015 5:03:15)
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Does the threat of disaster qualify? For years I ordered guitars for friends from the famous Mexico City luthier Juan Pimentel. I would pick them up on one of our frequent trips to Mexico. Everything always turned out pefectly, except for the matter of the delivery date. One of my friends in California kept pestering me about when his guitar would be ready. I sent him a reply on a post card with a picture of the Aztec calendar stone. Pimentel would predict when the guitars would be finished, sometimes a few months in the future. A month before the planned pickup date i would phone him. "Maestro, will the guitars be ready on the date we discussed." "Sí, como no, Don Ricardo. No habrá problema.¨ "You remember our talking about this gringo company I work for. They want to know when I will leave on vacation, and when I will come back, the exact dates..." "Séa tranquilo, mi amigo. Las guitarras serán bien terminadas, dias en anticipacion." "I am sure that they will be. I have perfect confidence in you. But you remember last time---I was a day late getting back to work." "Well, that was unfortunate, but circumstances..." "I'm sure the instruments will be ready this time, when we come to pick them up." "Of course. Don't worry, my friend." I called before we left Austin. Pimentel assured me the guitars would be ready when we arrived. We drove to Mexico City in our big red Pontiac--my blonde and blue-eyed (now ex-) wife, who speaks fluent Spanish, our 4-year old son and 5-year old daughter. We arrived in Mexico City on the predicted delivery date, with a week to spare before we needed to start back. I went by Pimentel's shop. He greeted me at his workbench and said there were only a few finishing touches to the finish on the guitars. They would be ready in two days. Pimentel had an extensive professional clientele in the Capital, who not only bought instruments, but also brought them in for repair, setup adjustment, etc. The best I could figure out was that he allocated his time to whomever was present, and to whomever he judged had the most urgent need. The squeaky wheel got the grease. I showed up two days later, still no guitars. I was beginning to get worried. I was also beginning to be annoyed, though I was careful to conceal it as much as I could. I was very well aware of cultural differences with respect to time, and made allowances for it when in Mexico, but I thought Pimentel could reasonably be expected to reciprocate somewhat, at least for a good customer. "Maestro, we have to start back on Friday, to arrive at home in time for work. Friday is the last possible day." "No problem. The guitars will be ready by then." On Friday afternoon we packed our bags, loaded up the car and checked out of the hotel, then drove to Pimentel's shop. As I expected, the guitars "weren't quite ready." Only a little rubbing out of the lacquer remained to be done. We had discussed my revenge in advance. The car was parked where Pimentel could see it from the window at his workbench that opened onto the sidewalk. "As you can see, we are on our way out of town. Shall we wait here for the guitars?" Pimentel was visibly chagrined, but the only polite response open to him was, "But of course, my friend." My wife and kids got out of the guitar and trooped uninvited into the shop. There was no room for customers. He dealt with the majority of clients through the window at his workbench while the customer stood on the sidewalk. He generally invited me in, since I bought five or six guitars per year. In the rare event that Pimentel invited you in there was one chair where you could sit, probably playing a guitar he would get into your hands to assess your playing style. Pimentel's chagrin turned to shock. The shop was full of power and hand tools, all dangerous. There were guitars in various stages of construction or repair. At the time there were a Santos Hernandez and a Domingo Esteso on workbenches in for repairs. Despite his horrification, there was only one thing for him to do. Orange crates were found for the children to sit on, the chair was given to my wife, and another was found in the maze of small rooms further back in the shop. It looked pretty bad, but it supported me. A boy was dispatched to the corner store for sodas and bottled water. The guitars were brought out. Assistants got to work rubbing out the lacquer with rubbing compound. Pimentel went back to work, but looked over his shoulder every few seconds, clearly expecting to see a maimed child or guitar. The assistants worked up a sweat rubbing at top speed. The kids sat perfectly still on their orange crates for about half an hour, hardly moving a muscle, but taking in the shop and all that was going on in it. I take no credit for their exemplary behavior. They learned it in Montessori school, but I had observed it for enough years by then to be sure how they would act. The guitars were finished, tested, and put in their cases. I paid Pimentel, and he wrote out the receipt. As I shook hands and said goodbye, the kids still sat quietly on their orange crates. "Say goodbye to the Maestro, kids." They did, gravely shaking his hand and thanking him again for the sodas. Pimentel wore an expression of mixed relief and admiration, as he complimented the kids on their manners. He said he looked forward to seeing me again-- but he didn't include the kids. Due to our late start, we only made it to Queretaro that night. We checked into an unfamiliar, old but respectable hotel on the town square. The next morning was New Year's Eve. We saw men setting up fireworks in the square and decided to stay that night to see what developed. We were rewarded with the double-damnedest blinding and earth shaking fireworks display we had ever seen. When it was over the people filed into the cathedral for midnight mass. My daughter and I were still standing on the balcony. She turned to me and said, "They're just going home to eat supper. They'll be back in a little while for more fireworks." My wife had held my son on the balcony for a while, then he asked to be put down, and went into the room. After the fireworks were over we couldn't find him. After a somewhat concerned search, he was found under a bed, where he had taken shelter from the bombardment, then fallen asleep. RNJ
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