Day 6

I played from noon till six today. The blisters on my thumb and fingers have formed into loose dead skin. I met Valentine, the Russian sax player that plays not too far from where I set up. Said he’d been out there for seven hours.
“Man, do your lips get sore?” I asked him.
“No, it all comes from here.” He pointed towards his stomach and said, “Good exercise.”
“You do o.k. today?”
“No, slow, no money. But c’est la vie. This is the life we choose. Practice. It’s good practice.”
My only break today was two minutes to inhale some leftover pizza, ten minutes messing with some broken string issues and amazingly I managed to leave with a hundred bucks in my pocket. Couldn’t believe it. It was much needed after most of the past week was slow. The Labor Day crowds were out. The first few hours were pretty typical, lots of change thrown into the case, tons of pictures taken (I wonder if maybe I should put myself in a cage and have a sign around my neck pointing towards the zoo. Aside from street musician I’ve also come to be Central Park direction guide. Half of them come up to me desperately wanting to know where the closest bathroom is. For all of Central Park's great qualities, bathroom locations certainly isn't one of them). Some kids told me that one of the other musicians said they had to give him a couple of dollars to take a picture with him. I’m not all into that. I know it works for the Statue of Liberty guy out on 5th Ave. and 59th but I just can’t bring myself to that point.

People seemed to be really into the music today. Three hours into the day though I break the string on my guitar and of course I have every other string except for the one I need. I tried to put a larger string and it sounded horrible. Dejected, I started to pack up my gear. Then I put a higher string on. It didn’t sound great but I figured it could pass. This is the beauty of setting your own terms in the tunnel. Fumbling around like this at a show in a club would never work. Anyway, I was playing a song by Guy Clark when a couple stopped to listen. It was a man maybe in his late forties and a young, stunningly beautiful black-haired French girl. She was wearing a dress and I couldn’t help but stare at her. They loved the lyrics to the song, The Cape. It’s about a man who, convinced he’s Superman, continually jumps off of his garage, a flour sack used as his cape. “Well, he’s one of those that know that life is just a leap of faith. Spread your wings, hold your breath, and always trust your cape.” They were really digging it and I even closed my eyes myself and felt the muse. They threw some money in but I didn’t look to see how much. They asked me if that was my own song. I said it wasn’t, but I could play them one of my own if they wanted. I played them a song about a woman that is living in Alaska working at a cannery who one day decides to leave her husband and drive her Mercury Comet across the country, picking up an eighteen year-old Indian kid in Sioux Falls. Thus an affair ensues. They seemed to like it and then went on their way. When I looked down in the guitar case there was twenty-five more dollars. Couldn’t believe it! I’ve played in punk bands for years when we were happy just to get 30 bucks and a 12 pack of beer for a show. Now I’d made that much just for a couple of songs.

An hour later a man approaches. He has that Italian suave look, hair down to the shoulders. He’s dressed very sharp, big camera in tow.
“You got change for a ten?” he asked.
I looked down and said I did.
“Actually, let’s do this. Give me five back and play something happy that will make them dance. You know Beatles?”
I’m probably the only one on earth that doesn’t know Norwegian Wood. I’m not even a huge fan of the Beatles. Oh well. I was in a strange open d tuning anyway and only new one song that I could play.
“I just know the blues,” I said.
“All right, that’s fine, whatever, just make them dance.”
I looked to the left of me and noticed a crowd of jovial wedding goers approaching, dressed to the tee in red dresses and tuxedos. There was also another cameraman with a huge video camera taping it all.

So as I played John Hurt’s Pay Day I had them dancing in circles around the tunnel, the married couple in the middle. The rest of the folks had their arms raised and were holding hands. Laughing. Singing. It looked like some kind of Greek or Russian dance. I didn’t know if what I was playing actually went along with their rhythms but I just kept on playing. They seemed happy. I think I repeated the song about three times. They even brought the party over to the center of the tunnel and continued in circles and I almost felt myself get dizzy. When I finished the father of the bride thanked me and threw in a good-sized tip. He seemed elated. Off they paraded out of the tunnel and around the corner. It’s time like these when it all seems right. The rest of the day was relatively quiet, but I didn’t mind.

At the end of the day I calculate my earnings for the week. I do the math and it comes out to about seven dollars an hour. I figure it comes out to the same amount I’d make if I was working as a dishwasher except I’m not washing dishes. I’m just banging away on my old guitar. Life ain’t bad.