I sit slowly drinking a margarita when the song comes floating above the tables, around the freshly-painted room, and bumps up against me at the bar. The old man plays the melody with his thumb, the chorus with his fingers, and the Spanish words are sung softly. A one-man band. The song is unhurried and melodic, belonging to an older time.

And the guitar he’s playing? My goodness. It also belongs to an older time. It is chipped, faded, and peeling. Perhaps it was placed a little too close to the fire one day at some sing-along high up in the mountains. Or left out in the rain during a raucous rock festival. Or maybe even accidentally dropped off a truck.

More likely, the guitar has been played so hard and has been around so long, its musical bones are starting to show through the wood and age spots have appeared on its old veneer. But it plays faithfully.

“My name is Alfonso Martinez. I am 83 years old.”

Alfonso Martinez doesn’t speak English. I don’t speak Spanish. One of the owners of the restaurant where Alfonso plays, El Patron Mexican Restaurant & Cantina on Douglas Avenue, translates for me.

“I don’t know exactly why I started playing. Since I was little, I used to play the guitar.”

Alfonso Martinez strums slowly. A young couple comes into the restaurant and sits. After a bit, Alfonso excuses himself, walks over, sets down his tip jar, and begins playing. The song starts gentle and aching, then soars into the chorus, and then back to a lingering regret.

“This guitar has seen some use. It’s very old since Mexico. I brought it from Mexico.”

Alphonso stands next to me at the bar. Ramrod stiff. All business, as I sip my margarita and ask questions.

Mexico is where Alphonso was born and raised. He used to work for an advertising company there, but even then he would bring his guitar to work and play for people at lunch and during breaks. Eventually, he quit his job and began playing in restaurants. But then he saw an opportunity in the U.S.

“One of my friends brought me to Des Moines. It was many years ago that he brought me here.”

Alphonso begins to play his guitar as we speak. Picking and strumming.

“My voice is unique for here. I used to play in the Skywalk downtown. And I would play on the bridges.”

He leaves again to serenade an older couple in one of the brightly painted booths. A romantic tune. Slow and quiet, but then with a refrain that builds and builds, until he finishes the song with a crash of chords and vocals. The older couple and the other patrons applaud.

People are not exactly sure how to respond to a modern-day troubadour in a restaurant. After the first song, however, everyone settles in for a little show with dinner.

“It gives me joy to play for people. It is why I do it. I have people who return and watch me play. That is important to me.”

So, how many songs do you know, Alphonso?

“I know a lot of songs,” Alphonso says.

More than 20? says the lawyer in me.

He laughs. “More than 300.”

When do you play at El Patron?

“I play on Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. 5-8 p.m.”

And the rest of the time?

“I walk the rest of the time.”

Do you think about retiring?

“Retire?” Alphonso is amused by the question. “Always, forever play. I am going to die singing and playing the guitar.”

Alphonso leaves me at the bar to play for the folks in the other room. Straight-backed. Drake Relays cap firmly pushed down. Creased pants, ironed and pressed. Plaid vest buttoned down tight. Shoes polished.

It’s show time.

A slow strum. Just a light caress across the strings. A gentle plucking. And the guitar, beaten-up and aged and scarred, sends perfect chords echoing softly through the restaurant.

And then the old man begins to sing.

Joe