Beth (& MysteryGuy?)

Busking was a tricky thing.

Under the guise of artist, I had made it my right and their privilege, but I knew the precipice I walked. I thought of it constantly and so far the view was still worth it.

"My good Gentleman, would you by chance spare--" I heard snippets of the mobile panhandler Jay during a long rest as he made his way toward my corner of town, on his dozenth round of the night. My cello drowned out his approach when it came but he stopped in my line of sight to address another of our worldly patrons. His appearance was more frequent during certain songs for they tended to have an impact on some folks, and as the distracted woman listening fumbled with her purse and generously handed Jay a fiver, he winked at me. I wouldn't have let anyone else get away with it.

The wild-haired sage had a face seemingly gray with its permanent coat of dust and at the moment the angle of the freshly risen moon put a gleam in his wide eyes that I knew he would use to his advantage at the game. Clothes more ragged than necessary draped his every limb, and in layers as it got colder quicker now. His hands were perfectly calloused and clean. He, too, was a musician, but not here; he thought himself pure. I watched him keep my time on his way back against the foot traffic.

The woman five dollars poorer stayed to hear me play twenty minutes more. She was a regular charge, if ever I could claim one, and had been for the last month. She came at the same time each night, stuck around for half and hour or so, and then leave. She always approached from the same direction and the returned again without ever passing me, so I knew that i was the main event of her journey, though she never left any money for me even while I'd seen her dish out plenty to Jay, among other. Not only did I not mind this, I dreaded the evening that would see her drop off a handful of cash and then take back her lunch-break, robbing me of another worthy audience.

When my momentary admirer had gone for the evening once more, I stopped my playing for a while as was my timed habit. The baby crowd that had gathered continued on their way after leaving me with a quantifiable/the counted amount of their appreciation.

I smiled steady at them all as they went steadily on, but didn't respond to the compliments the threw carelessly my way. I never talk to them, it was an exceptionless rule. The fact that most didn't notice wasn't what kept me silent, though I couldn't say exactly what did. Nonetheless, if that one woman ever spoke to me, perhaps I would answer.

I got up to look and saw Jay almost to me again. My cello set carefully on the second-hand stand next to my stool. I bent to retrieve my first shift's wages and then tucked the soft gray case between the two objects. When I rose Jay was there, and I smiled my gratitude as he painstakingly perched himself atop my former seat. I told him I'd be back in a few minutes and he nodded solemnly before hunching forward and closing her eyes. He'd been walking the same hour long routed for the past decade and he was looking old these days. A good man, Jay was, I thought to myself.

Leaving him then I crossed the street. My spot was located on a steep slope; when I play I'm completely facing the folks climbing the hill while my back is to the faces of those coming down. The position seems to work well since most of the people who stop to listen only do so for an excuse to catch their breath. Then they have to pay out something so that they can continue to think nobody noticed.

The other thing this tilted perspective effects is where I go on my breaks. I choose entirely based upon how tired I am or how hot it is rather than where I might like to go or for what I hope to fetch. Consequently, I hardly know what I want anymore. (Aren't the lot of us mood-oriented?)

Up the hill and into the heat, I went as a closet masochist will do. I felt I needed to be tired and slightly feverish to pull off the rest of the night. It seemed I might even play better that way. Too bad for my retired fan.

The places on my right stood still and let me pass. I could distinguish them from those on my left only for the side of my neck that currently throbbed. I could see sounds being created in the distance but what I heard moments later was bodiless and distinctly alone. I stopped suddenly on my intent passage when I noticed a new face to as old a profession as mine.

He was a youngish boy, probably nineteen. Sitting cross-legged on the concrete, he had a cat on his lap and held a harmonica to his mouth, wailing on it in a way that I hadn't realized was possible. He'd yet to draw any serious people but I knew that would change; his hook was an irresistible one. Even to me. I left him a quarter of what I had made so far (we don't think in terms of amount when we give up our own earnings, but rather percentages). He didn't even look up at me and I knew pride at this. After staying to listen for a little while I turned completely around and left, hoping he felt the same way I did when my woman did this. I bought Jay a sweet, sweet coffee on my way back to him, carrying my own bitter brew in opposite hand.