They ate in silence: Charlie, because he was desperately hungry and the burrito was gooood; Roland, probably because he was Roland. Sooner rather than later, they were done. Charlie cleaned his hands by wiping them on his pants, and then producing a small bottle of Purell--not to eradicate germs, but to rid his fingers of the excess oils. He offered some to Roland.
The extra guitar he'd brought was a simple Ibanez acoustic, which had seen better days, but was certainly in playable condition. But it clearly wasn't as well-loved as Old Dusty.
"Shall we?" he asked, gesturing to the still latched cases.