A Busker's Life

I'm perched on a collapsible piano bench sitting behind my keyboard in a covered transit station watching an international crowd rushing past, up and down the stairs and poised for the elevator, dragging roller carts, strollers, wagons toting shildren, backpacks and recyclable bags full of groceries.

My gear includes the folding piano bench, a Casio S-300 keyboard I can pick up with one hand, (I leave my more expensive Roland VR 09 at home), a Traynor busking amp, microphone and stand, Martin electric acoustic guitar, keyboard stand and a Korg KR Mini Rhythm, all of which I pack into a collapsible wagon and drag behind me.

My guitar case is hopefully propped open but I don't count on it. It's all about the reaction from the crowd and making the world a better place with music.

I start with the old covers just as a drunk staggers towards me.

"Can ya play The Eagles?"

"Well... I usually play my own songs. Just a few covers.

"Ya ain't much of a musician if ya don't play The Eagles."

"Come back next week and I'll have some Eagles for you."

I suggest, "How about Bob Dylan's song, "Knocking on Heaven's Door?" I know that one."

He ambles closer. He smells of beer and stench. "Mind if I sing with ya?"

I grimace uneasily and move my bench a bit.

"Sure, you know the words?"

The drunk grabs my microphone and takes center stage in front of me.

"Knockin', knockin' on Heaven's door." He laughs and turns towards me. His teeth are cigarette stained brown.

"Hey Mama, open the fuckin' door. I'm freezin' my balls off!"

I'm a bit shocked but more afraid of what he'll do next.

"Those aren't the right words."

"Well, those are my words so go fuck yourself."

He stumbles and falls, almost knocking me off my bench. I grab my keyboard to keep it from toppling. I instinctively pull my priceless Martin Guitar which has been resting on the stand, towards me and clutch it to my bosom protectively.

He collapses against the wall and nods off, half-sitting, slumped over.

A concerned person walking by points at him.

"Is he okay?"

I slide off the bench and squat close to the drunk and do a quick visual observation. I notice that he's still breathing so I've done my duty. I pull out my cell phone and make a call to security.

"Hello, there's a drunk here that's just collapsed on the floor beside me. Can you send someone?"

Tucking my cell phone in my pocket I turn to the concerned citizen.

"Yeah, just leave him alone. He'll come out of it. Someone's coming."

I move my bench even farther away and begin singing my own song "Mississippi Lights". It's a fast moving blues about a girl who's on the run and a few people in the crowd stop to listen and drop change in the guitar case. A little girl dances in front of me.

The child's mother smiles. "That's a really good song!" She throws a ten dollar bill in.

I radiate pride. This is what I come for - the opportunity of bringing my originals to the public for feedback. It's the only way I'll find out if I'm the kind of artist others would come to see. If I shut myself in at home and pat myself on the back I'll never know if it's warranted or not.

I bounce them out to the audience and they respond - usually with kind words, even with - "When will you be coming back this way?" Once, when I was busking with a girlfriend of mine a passerby shouted out to her, "I'll give you $20 if you stop singing."

I thought it was funny. She didn't.

"Thank you. Come by anytime. I'm usually here after my day job a few nights a week."

"So do you do the blues scene downtown?"

"Sometimes... you might see me at jam sessions on Music Mile now and then."

"Yes, I just might."

The little girl's mother takes her daughter by the hand and the two wander away and I'm happy as I load my gear into the collapsible wagon just as the security guard approaches the drunk and shakes his shoulder. I know can't linger here any longer.

He awakes, mumbling and glances at the security guard.

"Who the hell are you?"

Aside I comment to the man in uniform, "What I have to put up with just to play my songs!"

Giving my heavily laden wagon a tug, I head for the exit door leaving the two to battle it out.