I’ve already told part of this story. When this Taylor first crossed my path, I wrote about the pull of Hawaiian koa, first impressions, and why I initially walked away. This piece is the continuation of that original story.
[the original Taylor 222ce-DLX koa story]
Day after Christmas. Evening.
Post–leftover dinner inertia.
I’m in pajamas, planted on the couch, watching movies I’ve already seen, full of cheese and ham, sipping a hot-ass coffee, like it’s the only thing holding the universe together. The week between Christmas and New Year’s, where time forgets its job and everyone collectively agrees that sweatpants are formalwear.
My phone buzzes.
Local number.
Guitar Center.
I don’t answer it.
What could it be? I had already returned the guitar. That chapter felt closed. Decision made. Lesson learned. Besides, it was late, I was full, and I wasn’t ready to reopen anything involving koa, rosewood, or unfinished feelings.
So I let it go, but a Christmas miracle is about to go down.
The Voicemail
Saturday morning—12/27.
Coffee again. Different mug. Same thoughts.
I remember the missed call and check voicemail.
It’s my guy, Nick, at Guitar Center.
He found the case.
Not a case.
The case.
The one that belonged to the koa Taylor. The one that had gone missing and was now found at Guitar Center after I returned the guitar. Plush interior. Proper fit. That case.
“I found the case and put it in the manager’s office,” he says. “Give me a call and let me know what you want to do.”
After listening, I check online. The guitar isn’t listed indicating it had been sold. I assume it must’ve already moved and that Nick would need to call whoever bought it.
I let it sit.
The Call Back
I wait until noon.
Not because I’m indifferent, but because calling the moment the doors open felt like ripping off a Band-Aid I wasn’t ready for. I needed a little distance in case the answer was disappointment.
When I call, Nick picks up right away.
“Hey Nick, it’s Rob calling you back about the koa Taylor. You found the case?”
“Rob! Thanks for calling back,” he says, genuinely excited. “Yep, I found the case.”
I tell him that’s awesome, but yeah, I returned the guitar.
He doesn’t hesitate.
“Yeah, I know,” he says. “We didn’t list it. When we found the case, we wanted to make sure you had first shot at it. I know that guitar meant something to you.”
My man.
“I really appreciate you,” I tell him.
“I’ll be there in a few.”
And I mean it.
The Store
When I walk in, Nick is at the register mid-shift, juggling people and small moments the way good retail guys do. The store is busy. Way busy.
Two women are locked in a serious debate over a Fender T-shirt and a couple packs of picks, clearly post-holiday gifts for someone who isn’t with them and probably has no idea this level of deliberation is happening on their behalf. A guy stands nearby waiting on a check for the gear he just sold to the store, trying not to look like someone who’s already mentally spent the money.
Near the guitar strap display, a couple pretends to browse the leather and nylon options, but they’re really watching the checkout line, far more interested in whatever’s unfolding at the counter. I briefly imagine they’re trying to pull something off. Some elaborate heist at the Monroeville Guitar Center. A distraction. A diversion. I chuckle to myself and decide it’s probably just what Pittsburghers call “being nebby.”
I also notice the walls are bare. A lot of guitars moved over the holidays. The place feels oddly empty, like putting away the tree and lights in January, when the room looks bigger but quieter and sadder. Plastic cutouts hang in the empty guitar racks, reading We Want Your Guitar. I do a quick mental inventory and wonder what, if anything, I could part with. What would I replace?
Off to the side stands a woman, almost certainly someone’s wife, wearing the unmistakable expression of boredom and a person slowly dying in a guitar store. Meanwhile, her husband moves through the room the way a kid moves through a museum: touching everything, reading nothing. He wears the face of a man granted five precious minutes of freedom after spending hours in her store.
Face to Face
Nick looks up, catches my eye, and gives me a quick wave and nod. Then he turns back to the two women.
“Give me one second,” he says, disappearing into the office.
He comes back carrying the koa Taylor and its hard-shell case.
The guy by the strap wall immediately starts rubber-necking, pointing it out to his wife. Even she looks up.
I step to the counter and shake Nick’s hand. I thank him for the effort, the persistence, for refusing to let the case disappear into the void.
We both laugh.
“Man,” he says, “I’m so glad this is the ending. I drove people nuts about this case.”
I smile, nod, and thank him again.
Suddenly, it all makes sense.
Closing the Loop—For Real
The call didn’t send me into a spiral.
It didn’t reopen doubt.
Nor did it reopen an old wound.
Actually, this closed the loop.
I bought the guitar again, this time the right way. The whole thing. Guitar and case together, complete. And when I opened the case, there it all was: the case candy, the original hang tag, the price, stock number, paperwork, everything that should’ve been there from the beginning.
That mattered more than I expected.
The guitar had left.
And then it came back, whole this time.
That matters.
Giving It the Night It Deserved
Bringing it home this time felt different.
There was no urgency. No evaluation or comparison to anything else on the rack or in my head. I gave it the night it deserved; quiet, unhurried, intentional. Just sitting with it, playing it, and letting it speak without judgment.
Somewhere in that space, it stopped being a guitar I bought and became one of my guitars.
It’s part of the collection now. Part of the arsenal. Not because it’s rare or flashy, but because it carries a story. It found me, left, and came back. It earned its place.
Some instruments arrive loudly.
Some arrive slowly.
This one arrived honestly.
And tonight, with its proper case beside it, and everything inside that case exactly where it should be, the story finally feels complete.
And just as I’m finalizing this blog, my phone buzzes again. It’s Scott, asking for everyone’s schedule this week. No explanation. No emojis. Which, historically, means either nothing is about to happen… or everything is. We’ve seen this movie before: conflicting calendars, hospital detours, sicknesses, getting in the way. Still, the question hangs there. Maybe a jam happens. Maybe it doesn’t. But for a brief moment, in the quiet week after Christmas, hope sneaks in. And honestly? That might be a second Christmas miracle. I’m sure Scott will toss in a P.I.B.E. before it’s all over.
Happy New Year.