Wavy jet-black was the young boy's hair. Seated on a banquito, a small wooden bench, he picked and strummed his seashore-colored Cuatro.
The lute guitar seemed olden. The strings twisted at headstock.
Its tuners careworn and loose from continual bad tuning. The rosette was ripped, and the bridge clinging to black wire tape. Gooey adhesive on the soundboard, vibrating to his improvised tune.
From afar, Manus Neco smiled. Nostalgic memories of his maestro, Perfect Abuelo.
Walking down a dirt path, surrounded by mimosa plants, an altruistic tenderness strikes Manus Neco's mood, appreciating the boy's persistence to convey the melodies.
The boy's determination pleased him, as Manus Neco knew the eventual satisfying result if the boy mastered the Cuatro. An everlasting grail of pride.
Manus Neco decided to interrupt the boy's playing.
The boy looked at the Flat-Footed Astronaut in awe, recognizing who he was.
With genuine politeness, Manus Neco asks the boy's permission to play the grungy Cuatro.
The boy humbly and happily shares it.
Manus Neco emphasizes to the boy the significance of the instrument.
Cuatros carry the essence of an entire people, and deserves to be played only with an inspired soul.
Devotedly, the boy listens to Manus Neco's subtle homily. Grasping its percipience.
Tuning the crippled Cuatro with best effort, Manus Neco plays a pleasant simple melody.
His mask blooming to the tune of a beaming grin.
Unknowing to Manus Neco and the young boy, a crowd encircled the ad lib lesson.
Withing seconds of noticing the sudden congregation, the musical accompaniment of maracas, guiros, pandaretas and palitos joined the melody.
An impromptu parranda.