The music store was louder than a jungle and brighter than a spaceship. It smelled like paint and leather and when the heavy glass doors whooshed open, Mudpedal Clark stepped into a world of electricity and noise.
It was the day after his tenth birthday and, for once, he wasn’t just browsing.
This time, he had money. Real money.
It had taken nearly six months of vacuuming the entire house every Saturday, washing his dad’s truck until his fingers were prunes, and even picking up all the dog poop in the backyard twice a week. He didn’t even have a dog. It was the neighbor’s dog. But the neighbor gave him two bucks each time, so it counted.
Now, finally, his piggy bank – shaped like an armadillo in sunglasses – was empty, and his pockets were full.
He was going to buy his very first electric guitar.
Inside, the store was wall-to-wall guitars – big ones, small ones, shiny ones, guitars shaped like lightning bolts, and some that looked like weapons from a space war. They hung from the walls like sleeping bats. Very loud sleeping bats.
Mudpedal stood still for a second, overwhelmed. His eyes flicked from one wild-looking instrument to another. Some of them were painted with flames. Others sparkled like treasure. One had a neon green paint job that seemed to vibrate even when nobody touched it.
His dad put a hand on his shoulder. “Well, birthday boy, see anything you like?”
Mudpedal shrugged. “I dunno. They’re all cool. Maybe too cool.”
His voice was quiet. He didn’t want to seem like he didn’t belong there, but he couldn’t stop the feeling that the guitars were watching him, deciding whether he was worthy.
A man behind the counter noticed them. He wore a black T-shirt with the words LOUDER THAN YOU written across the front and his name tag read Ray. He had a thick black beard and bright eyes that looked like he hadn’t stopped smiling since breakfast.
“Can I help you find something?” Ray asked, stepping out from behind the counter.
“We’re looking to get this young man started with a guitar,” Mudpedal’s dad said proudly, patting Mudpedal on the head like a dog that had just won a ribbon. Mudpedal flinched a little. He hated when people messed up his hair. His parents made him keep it short and neat, combed over to the side like he was going to an accountant’s birthday party. He wanted it to stick straight up, wild and spiky like Jet Drako, the main character on Laser Knight Vortex, his favorite TV show.
Ray nodded. “First guitar, huh? That’s exciting. Follow me.”
They walked past rows of ukuleles and banjos – stuff Mudpedal had zero interest in – until they reached the electric guitar section. The wall here looked like a superhero’s headquarters. There were guitars that gleamed in chrome and ones shaped like lightning bolts or ninja stars. Mudpedal didn’t even want to touch some of them. One in particular – black with jagged edges and red flames – looked like it might bite.
Ray pointed to a blue one on a low rack. “This is a Stratocaster-style body. Classic shape. Good for beginners.” He lifted it carefully and handed it to Mudpedal, who took it like he was holding a newborn T. rex.
“Try this one out. Let’s plug you in.”
They stepped into a corner of the store where amplifiers were stacked like Lego blocks. The names Fender, Marshall, and Peavey loomed across them like ancient runes. Ray picked one with a cord dangling from it and plugged it into the guitar in Mudpedal’s lap. The amp made a low hummmm, like a dragon purring.
Ray flipped a couple switches and the amp glowed orange inside. Mudpedal felt a thrill run through him. This was real. This was happening.
“You’ll want to use this,” Ray said, handing him a small, colorful triangle. “That’s a pick. You strum with it.”
Mudpedal took it, held it like he’d seen people do on YouTube, and plucked a string.
BWAAAAAANGGG.
The note rang out so loudly he jumped a little, accidentally yanking the pick across all the strings in a jumbled strum that sounded like a robot falling down a staircase.
“Nice!” Ray said, completely serious. “You’ve got tone already.”
Mudpedal grinned.
Then he tried pressing a finger on one of the silver bars underneath the strings. The string buzzed like a mosquito. He frowned.
“Try pressing just behind the fret, not on top of it,” Ray said, kneeling next to him.
Mudpedal adjusted his finger and tried again. Ping! It made a new note, higher and sharper. He liked that. It felt like discovering a new color.
He tried a few more notes, experimenting, listening. The guitar buzzed when his fingers were too soft and sang when he got it right.
Ray handed him a couple other guitars to try. One was red and had glittery stars on it. Another was so big it felt like a surfboard. And then…the black one.
It was the one Mudpedal had noticed earlier – the pointy one. The angry one.
Ray chuckled. “This is more of a metal guitar, but no harm in giving it a go.”
Mudpedal nodded politely and took it. The edges dug into his leg like it was trying to escape. When he played a few notes, they came out harsh and jagged. He imagined a volcano erupting. It didn’t feel right.
“I don’t think that’s my kind of guitar,” Mudpedal said, handing it back.
“Good instincts,” Ray replied.
Eventually, they landed on a black Ibanez with a white pickguard. It looked like a Stratocaster, but simpler. Sleeker. It looked like his guitar.
“This one,” Mudpedal said, pointing at it.
Ray smiled and nodded like he knew it all along. “Great choice. Solid sound, good action, and affordable.”
Mudpedal’s dad checked the price tag and gave a satisfied nod. “Looks like we’re in business.”
They picked out a small Crate amplifier – just big enough to shake the room but not the whole neighborhood. Ray pointed out a headphone jack for “quiet practice,” which made Mudpedal’s dad happy.
They added a soft, padded gig bag, a dozen plastic picks in assorted colors (Mudpedal picked the blue ones with flames), and a book titled Getting Started on Electric Guitar. The cover had a picture of a kid in sunglasses standing on a mountaintop, holding a guitar like a sword. Perfect.
Back in the parking lot, Mudpedal sat in the front seat staring at the guitar case in his lap. It was heavier than he expected, but it felt good. Important.
“I guess you better start practicing,” his dad said as he loaded the amp into the back.
“I will,” Mudpedal said. “Like…right away. Like, the minute we get home.”
And he meant it.
Because something inside him had shifted. It wasn’t just about buying a guitar anymore. It was about becoming something. Someone. A kid with a guitar. A kid who could play.
As they pulled out of the lot, Mudpedal leaned his head against the window and watched the store disappear behind them.
He thought of Ray, plucking out that cool riff from Carlos Santana, and the way the amplifier had made his chest rumble when he played that first note.
He thought of Jet Drako, blasting through the cosmos, and imagined a guitar solo as his entrance music.
Mudpedal Clark had a guitar now.
The world better get ready.