The man peered out at the almost moonless night from dark sunglasses perched on his nose. A limp leather hat concealed a receding hairline; its partridge feather plume bent in the summer breeze. A thick black beard covered most of his face. His only recognizable feature was a Cheshire cat smile which looked almost obscene in its ecstasy.

Propped up against a locked glass and brass door, the man sat with a guitar grasped to his chest. Stubby fingers danced upon the fretboard. A silver flatpick flashed between the metal strings. He swayed like a snake charmer behind a cobra basket.

He imagined the notes creeping along the sidewalk, tempting people to follow, beckoning them. They seductively coiled up blue jeans, caressed nylons, slid up short silk skirts. A C slipped between a kissing couple, flickered at a group of haughty teens, wound around a knot of giggling girls. Fs and Gs pulled at tee shirts, rubbed against midriffs and tank tops, entwined themselves in ponytails, mustaches and curls. He couldn’t understand how they were ignored.

Even though no one stopped he knew the magic of his music. Each run unfurled in perfect disorder. Each progression had just the right variations of sevenths and minors. He used all the tricks of the trade time had stored in his memory. His fingers placed themselves. Will gave way to presence. Rarely could playing alone conjure such spirit. Jamming with others might, but now his music alone cast the spell. He intoxicated himself through the amorphous melodies. And like a labyrinth, one unknowable path led to a surprising other.

Time passed. He didn’t know whether it passed quickly or slowly. All but musical time (the instant to pick a note or change a chord) faded from his consciousness. Rhythm remained. Phrasing remained. But time, that subtle confusion which only man can perceive, seemed to have floated away and vanished into the ether. In the same way fog lifts from a bay and reveals the clear eternity of water stretching towards an unreachable horizon.

A feeling of infinitude fluttered through his veins and gathered like electricity at his tingling finger‑tips. He felt the music being tapped from them as it metamorphosed into sound. It was an alchemical process, one he knew he could never duplicate, not by intention or purpose, only by chance. This was an unrepeatable experiment. He had conjured gold. It was there for the taking. But as soon as it came into existence it dissipated like a specter. Only the memory of the moment remained.

He heard the hollow ring of metal hitting metal clink from his guitar case. It was the first coin that night, though it looked like he’d earned more. Experience taught him to prime the pump. As that capitalist adage goes, “to be successful, look successful.” It was all part of the pose.

The momentary patron looked ill‑at‑ease at he stood still and conspicuous. He was an obstacle to teenage couples hurrying to their cars as they watched each other’s eyes for signs of assent. He tried to dodge the girls in their designer costumes ready‑made for the after‑hours clubs and parties for which they were headed. But he couldn’t avoid the loud families—father like son, mother overdressed like daughter—who raced from boutique to boutique, and buffeted the poor music lover in their haste to consume. Consume more. Finally, he was swallowed by the thick tide and carried too far away to hear any more. The busker was left to the embrace and solitude of his music.

Maybe it wasn’t a good spot to play, the musician wondered as he picked. Maybe up the street would have been better, or on the corner, or by the steps of the fountain where the juggler had set up. Maybe he should have tried another part of the city: the park or the village. But it didn’t really matter he realized; there was no place anymore, at least not to hawk such out‑of‑the‑mainstream musical wares.

He remembered playing years ago in Golden Gate Park and the Panhandle. There room was plentiful and people stopped to listen. Really listen. Not all gave money—not many could in those days. They would clap along and sing and other guitarists, drummers, sax-players and what‑have‑yous would join in, drinking and sweating and dancing under the August San Francisco sun. No one held back. Not there. Not then. Not anymore.

A joint would be passed and someone would hold the stained paper to his lips; he would suck on it without missing a note. Then it would continue on its way, from an old weathered black man (whose voice rasped out haunting home‑made blues), to the tye‑died blonde (whose body swayed without shame), to the businessman who had loosened his wide paisley tie and postponed a meeting (he had his priorities straight). When the spirit faded or the mood changed the crowd inevitably thinned and the musicians would trade songs and licks and grope for another tune or progressions upon which they could all agree.

That, though, was a long time ago. Now, he was in another town, another culture, a different era. He was another person. Now, freed from the rusty manacles of time, present and past blended into the melting pot of one undefined here, one undefined now. He borrowed from those tunes he no longer heard, those visions he no longer saw, those ideals he had conveniently consigned to forgetfulness. He had thought time had tarnished his attempt at the sublime. But he did his best. A lyrical montage without words was woven with music, memories and emotions.

As the busker repeated the rhythmic formulae he had been taught long ago, the chords changes that had become standard repertoire, the variations he had developed over his many years of playing, an audience began to collect around him. A few people appeared, like apparitions from his past: first one girl, then a college‑aged couple. Soon people seemed to feel that since others had stopped, they could also. The guitarist looked up at them with his wide toothy grin. He played more complex chords and licks. He modulated his melodies and syncopated his strum.

The sharp notes tried to penetrate the barriers which prevented the gathered from succumbing. People watched absently; they were too self‑conscious to give in, to join themselves to the music. Too many passers‑by crowded them together. And, besides, this was the city, it was frowned upon to dance in the streets. Standing still was even more difficult. The beat demanded response, movement, something! But it was the wrong place and time. They stood awkwardly, half listening, nodding mechanically and stretching their heads this way and that, looking for their next diversion. They needed the surrogate of words to paint meaning in their minds, to hold their attention. This is how they had been trained. Something had to take them along and guide them.

Some in the audience squirmed uncomfortably, wondering about the etiquette. Was it an affront to leave in the middle of a tune? Were they expected to pay, and how much for how long of a stay? When were they supposed to applaud? It seemed the music never stopped.

This wasn’t like a concert or a record with a set of packaged three-and-a-half minute songs; each ran into the next. Any random note could become the beginning of a different tune, tone or timbre. There was no break for the listeners to dissolve back into the uninterested crowd hurrying past. Some tossed coins and nodded approval as they resumed their window shopping and people watching. Others slipped away when the guitarist seemed too involved with the music to notice. Only a young, long‑haired man remained tapping his foot as he listened while leaning against a tree growing from the cement.

When the busker’s guitar pick finally broke from the strain of the strumming, the guitarist’s single loyal fan spoke up. “I really like what you’re doing,” he said.

“Thanks,” hacked the musician.

“Here often?”

“No. First time.” The busker swallowed as he spoke.

“Well, hope to see ya again. I come around with my flute. I play classical, but it’s great to hear any music from the heart, with soul. It’s so rare, these days.”

“With all the folks just walking past . . . I wondered if it worked.”

“It does. People just can’t be bothered.”

“Wonder if they’d stop for some name?”

“Only if they were told. Put up a sign. Neon lights. Either that or you need a gimmick. Up the street some kids have gathered a crowd by banging on a stringless banjo and singing off key.”

“Now, that’s entertainment,” chuckled the guitarist.

“Mild, yet mindless. Anyhow, I’ve got to go.” The flutist slipped a fiver into the guitar case. The busker called out another thank you, but the man had already disappeared into the crowd. It was nice to know someone had noticed, understood, appreciated.

He looked in his case for another pick and found nothing. Then he searched his pockets and found only his keys and change. “Damn, must have left them in my other pants,” he cursed. “I’d never have done that in the old days.” Undeterred, he started to play again, making the best of the broken pick. Restricted, new sounds emerged, like revelations. He plucked with the cracked edge and picked up speed.

He picked a D, three long Cs and strange mutations of G cords and then repeated and repeated, each time with a subtle change. His hand flew haphazardly along the frets. The chaos of his fingers, the sweeping frenzy of their dance, the stretching and curling spawned pools of colors, exploded into sparks of illumination and concocted whiffs of sweet intoxication. Fragments of conversation found their place into the musical dream. His senses tingled with everything and nothing at the same time.

“. . . painted clear . . .” Cloudy white light filtered through his closed eyelids. Taxi horns screamed. “. . . time to . . .” Calcutta snake charmers summoned a crowd with their rising cobras’ dance. He felt as if he were hovering. Higher. Higher. “. . . at 9:45 behind . . .” Fireworks burst into pure colorless light. He felt the crowd’s quick shadows. Warmth. “Give me a . . .” His mouth grew dry with the taste of almond. “Yes?” Threshold crossed. Sandalwood scent. Smoke frozen in motion. Time trapped, subdued. Fingers frantic. “Play!” Musicmind’s magic. “Yes.”

Suddenly a string broke. Still, the musician played on. He tried to ignore the inevitable. No success. His eyes slipped open; the spell had been broken. His vision vanished. As a balloon begrudgingly releases the warm air that has filled its insides, so too the busker gradually let go of his trance. It took him a while. He was reluctant to quit. He didn’t want to lose the feeling he had forgotten he could feel. But he knew he had to. He had no other D string with him. Delay did not alter the unalterable. Resigned to his fate, he set down the guitar, buttoned his jacket which no longer protected him from the now cold wind, and he gathered his things. His beer‑belly plopped into place as he stood.

The busker examined the money in the guitar case and stuffed it into one of his Levi’s pockets. Besides the fiver from the flutist, he had been given only a few dimes and quarters. He felt guilty about the fiver, but, the others . . . well, he deserved more. If only they had known. It didn’t matter. He smiled that wide famous grin of his and put guitar away. He felt drained and elated, yet vaguely disappointed and sad.

When he arrived at the car he shoved the guitar case into the back seat, found a kleenex and wiped the black dye from his graying beard. The dye had done the job, concealing his true appearance. When he took off his hat, his hair fell into place. He watched himself in the BMW’s rear‑view mirror as he brushed the knots from his hair. He hummed to himself instead of turning on the radio. He hadn’t felt like that in year. He hadn’t played like that in years. That was why he had started. That was why, despite everything, he had never given it up.

He sank into the soft leather seat and drove slowly back to the hotel. Time again held him in its selfish grasp. He couldn’t afford to get back too late. The band had a studio session scheduled for the morning.

The Busker © 2017 Marc L. Sherman