A Sage in the City

Never-ending throngs of strangers shifted down the cement sidewalks.   The heavily packed street was filled with yellow taxis, shouts, and honks, while the traffic lights shined red.  Sky scrapers towered around me with illuminated advertisements of Kodak, McDonalds, and Virgin Mobile.  Neon strips streaked across buildings, while light from the city leaked into the sky overpowering the stars of the night.  At the corner of the street sat a busker, showered in the glow of a street lamp.  Behind him, a brick wall was the canvas of a graffiti artist. 

He slouched over his old guitar that had been strummed so many times that a new hole was developing where a pick guard should have been.   A stick of incense protruded from the headstock and the aroma twisted through the air like a stream between hills.   His ragged clothes and long-greasy hair were off putting to most.  Many would walk by without a second thought, but the man seemed unbothered.  I waited patiently for him to do anything that would hint at the fact he was alive, but he simply sat looking off into the distance, with a sparkle in his eye as if he were drunk. 

After a long couple of minutes he finally moved.  It appeared to have taken great effort as he flung his right hand over the body of the guitar.  He flipped back his long-greasy hair and began to play.  The melody was methodical and his left hand moved across the fretboard with great dexterity, while his right hand kept the beat with mutes and quick plucks.  Each strum was full and rang down Lexington Street, capturing the attention of tourists and young children.  It wasn’t until he began to sing did the crowds gather with their cracked faces.

The soul wrenching vocals were filled with passion and emotion.  As the song continued the man become more eccentric as if the music was controlling his body.  The tempo sped up, the strums became louder, and his limbs followed.  Legs flailing up and down while his torso rocked back and forth.   His head bounced around his shoulders as he wailed. The crowd around him became bigger as the tension grew.  Dollar bills were being tossed into his guitar case from all directions. 

The song continued to build until it reached its final chorus.  The busker was upright and his shadow danced around him as he shifted in and out of the street lamps stream of light.  He strummed his final chord, stood still, and then nothing.  The song was over and the man hunched back into his previous state as if he required time to recharge from the emotionally drawing experience.  I approached to inquire about the man’s life when a hooded figure ran from the retreating crowd, grabbed the money from the guitar case and ran down a side alley way.  The man continued to sit there, unfazed by what just occurred. 

In frustration I asked, “How can you sit there dirty and poor, and not even care when you are stolen from?” The man looked at me with dazed eyes as he said, “I have lived a life where I have tried to find success following the rules of society.  I have sought wealth and fame, but even after attaining such things I was never satisfied. I did however find happiness through playing the guitar.  It has always brought me joy, since I first began to play as a child.  The emotions it evokes and the way it resonates within people inspires me play.  As for the money, it is my source of income, but maybe the thief needed it more than I.  As long as I have enough money for bread, I will continue to sit on this street corner playing my guitar.  

Read aloud at the Freedom Cafe in Durham, Nh