A Lesson in Rust

Climbed slow onto the lowest landing of an iron fire escape, where an unhoused guitarist sat tuning a battered acoustic with missing pegs. Parked my heavy beer mug right on the cold, rusted metal grate. Noticed his fourth string was wrapped twice around an old bent drywall screw instead of a tuning key. 'Never buy actual machine heads, brother,' I rasped with deadpan gravity, leaning close against the peeling black railing. 'Hardware store screws catch the damp fog better, gives your minor chords that pure basement feedback.' He paused, looked down through the iron slats, and let out a wheezy chuckle before strumming an unvarnished bar chord. Good talk. True grit needs no polish.