Soulful Station

A massive man wants to smash a guitar over my head. I can see it in his expression as he lumbers towards me in the dank subway station. It has raised the question of whether I’d rather continue making my audience laugh or meet my fate by his clenched fists. The decision is made the split second he threatens to break my only speaker which sits at my feet.

My hand slides down the fret board of my cherry red guitar until I reach the bass notes that perfectly boost the man’s deep voice. I wait till he lowers his stubby chin to threaten me again before I mockingly match his tone with my instrument. It seems that I have reached the final straw as the man lunges for my collar. He pulls me close enough I can smell the street hotdogs in his breath and shouts at me until my ears ring.

All the while, I can see the commuters gathering around us. Many are laughing at the scene and a couple look vaguely concerned. An older woman shuffles forward when the man holding me has obtained his revenge and tosses me away from him. I stumble to catch my footing as she worries but mostly chastises me for being so reckless. I simply give her a lopsided grin and inform her, loud enough for the whole crowd to hear, that tips are the only form of help she can offer.

The woman’s demeanor flips from mothering to disgusted as she turns on her heel and stalks away from me. She vanishes into the chuckling crowd, but I could care less. The only outcome I care about is the dollar bills being dropped into my guitar case.

That money is my escape from everything: the humiliating street performances dressed as children’s characters where toddlers pull at the fabric and teens try to flip the costume head backward, scrappy breakdancing on store corners that make holes in my jeans, and even the jobs that would pay me in sauce packets if the law allowed it. The money is my chance to finally pay for music school and make a name for myself beside the subway crasher. Until then, I play the guitar underground for the ears of anyone who’ll listen.

This station in particular has the most people, which in turn means profit. I’d get thrown around any day if it meant I got to do my favorite hobby and earn money doing it. Unfortunately, that also means I must sit through the boring phases when everyone in the station files onto the trains and I have to wait for the next group to arrive.

As it turns out, just as I’ve gained the crowd’s attention the train rolls in with its screeching brakes and steals my audience. I watch it rumble back to life once it’s filled and fly into the dark tunnel before it. I let my eyes glaze over as I wait for more commuters to walk down the stairs to my performance hall.

As I calmly play some of my songs, I observe a few people stumbling down the stairs only to realize they’ve missed the train. They mingle by the tracks or lean on the ceiling supports as they frustratedly wait. The tranquility feels strange compared to the hectic scene not even ten minutes before. Out of boredom, I start to fidget with my whammy bar when suddenly I’m interrupted.

On the other side of the station, another guitar player strums and harsh series of notes, loud enough to diminish my song. People stare at my opposition as he starts jumping to the rhythm of an unrecognizable song. His movements are jerky, causing his golden chains to flail around and his patch-ridden jacket to fall off one shoulder. The musician steps back so he’s standing on the steps behind him and flips curly blonde hair from his eyes. He glares me down from across the room, his face declaring “This is my stage.”

Huffing in indignation, I turn back to crank up the volume on my speakers. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t worried about it shaking itself to pieces, but I’m not about to let another man take my performance hall.

As said man shines with all the attention on him, I trickle in my own sound with his song. He continues to play like the heavens decided to join in his chorus, and ever so slightly slows down the tempo. Without hesitation, I slide down to the first fret and string out a boisterous solo rivaling his loud introduction. There’s no need to glance up to see the startled look on his face because I can hear when he falters mid-strum. I leave him no room to recover as I pull a string down to let a note ring throughout the station. The concrete echoes the sound back to me causing a shiver to run under my skin.

In an unashamed display, I grin at the musician across from me as I drop the note and take on his harsh strumming patterns. With my eyes, I tell him, “Try and take it.”

The smile on the man’s face stretches even further and while I can’t hear it over the speakers, a chuckle rocks his shoulders. He flashes that smile around to get a feel for the growing crowd as people start to flow back into the station.

As he scans our audience his demeanor abruptly changes. I don’t get why until I do the same and am greeted with angry commuters whose daily route was rudely blasted with music. One woman looks close to punting my speaker onto the track while others are edging closer with malice in their eyes. Looking up, I can see the guitarist across from me shooing away a dog whose owner is encouraging him to chew on the amp cords.

Surprisingly, the man is still attempting to play his guitar. Even as that dog moves on from the cords to his pant leg, he glances back up at me and cues for another solo.

Before I can take up his offer, the train comes roaring into the station and the breaks screech on the tracks. Our sound is drowned out, and the people, vindicated by the chance of an easy exit, start to move towards us. Suddenly, a rough hand grabs my hood and yanks backward. As I stumble, my cord is ripped from my guitar and my speaker vanishes into the crowd. I hear a vague crash that causes my heart to jump to my throat.

In a last-ditch effort to get to my equipment, I snap back to retaliate on whoever grabbed my hood but the person is gone. I whip my head back when a twang alerts me to a young boy breaking my e-string with a pair of scissors. He promptly dashes towards the train, and I try to follow but the sight of wreckage within the dispersing crowd glues my feet to the floor. As I stare at my demolished speaker, people saunter past with satisfaction written on their features. With a shove to my shoulder, the final person passes and boards the train, leaving me alone with the consequences of my actions.

An eerie silence takes over the station as the train doors slide shut. It begins to roll forward then launches itself into the dark tunnel. After it’s gone the only sound remaining is the soft drip from a leak on the ceiling and a high-pitched ringing in my ear. The sound of my slow movements is amplified as I move to collect the pieces of my speaker.

It took me a whole year saving spare change to afford the thing. On top of it, my speaker was another source of income that I just lost.

Speaking of which, my guitar case, previously filled with a decent amount of cash, is now empty except for someone’s candy wrappers.

I rake my hands through my hair, pulling painfully on the strands. Grumbling about my stupidity, I hardly notice when another hand reaches into the case, pulling out a few wrappers.

“Couldn’t even leave you a full one,” A man remarks as he crumples the paper. He turns to face me, but I glare at his ripped pant leg instead of his eyes.

“You ruined my equipment,” I cried, dragging my hands down to my face.

“I didn’t force you to join,” the guitarist stated as he studied the snapped string on my instrument.

“Do you know how long it took me to get that speaker? Or how much it will set me back to repair my guitar and get new cords?” I snap.

“I’ve got a bagpipe you can borrow.”

“Wha- Why do you have that?” I fumble, finally looking at his face.

“Why not?” He quipped while looking completely unfazed by tonight’s events. I simply gave him a deadpan stare as my brain ran itself in circles.

“I don’t care. I’m getting outta here,” I declare, dropping down to put my guitar back in its case, desperate to escape this situation.

“Woah wait!” the guitarist exclaimed, “I never introduced myself!”

“Me neither,” I said as I clasped the case closed and stood up. “Bye.”

“Hey! My name’s Jett, what’s yours?” Jett introduced while doing a surprised stutter step when I started to walk away. He struggles to keep up with my brisk walking pace but still notices when I give my speaker a final longing glance. “I can fix that!”

“Yeah?”

“It wasn’t my fault,” He began. I walked faster. “Fine, it was a bit my fault, but not totally.” He recovered, “Never mind, what I’m saying is that I’ll get you a new one. Actually, you can have mine!” Jett persuades while analyzing my expression. He latches on to the moment my face reflects my thought process.

Seeing the opportunity, Jett went even further, “You’re such a great musician so you need a way to share your talent! I’ve got a studio downtown with a few guys. It’s full of raw talent so you’d thrive there! What do ya say?”

“Wait, you start a music battle over this dank subway station and you’re telling me you have a whole studio?” I ask incredulously.

“I’ve been seeing you around. I wanted to see if you really had what it takes,”

“What it takes? To be in your crappy band?”

“Hey, we’re not just some band! My drummer has been through music school, my bassist has been playing since he was six, and I’m the best singer around. We’re the next upcoming sensation, and with you, I know we’ll be unstoppable.”

“Yeah, and I’m going to Hollywood,” I remark sarcastically.

“Not playing in this station you’re not, but imagine performing like that on an actual stage! The lights shining down on you, and your band riffing off every killer solo you do,” Jett argued while throwing his arm onto my chest, forcing me to stop walking.

The offer was enticing but I wasn’t sold. My dream wasn’t to be in a cheap YouTube band. Music school has whispered in my ear since childhood and no shady subway guitarist will lead me astray. Looking at Jett, I can see that future melting like nacho cheese down a drain.

The man in question is currently staring me down like he’s offered the world, but I’m not convinced. It seems like he’s finally realized this too because he starts jabbering about all the accomplishments of his band.

I tune him out and look up the stairs at the dark sky. I imagine my apartment and what dinner I’ll have while l mull over the disastrous day I had. I don’t think anyone would fault me for getting pizza tonight. Just as I’m about to take the stairs out of the station Jett says something interesting.

“We’ve got a gig next month. It’s at that big building, New York University. I think it’s just a bunch of music nerds getting together, but I’m not about to complain about a chance to perform.” He rambles.

“I’ll do it,” I declare.

“What? I mean yeah! Yeah!” Jett cheers caught off guard. When his brain catches up to him, he says, “I’ll give you my number we can meet up tomorrow at my place. It’s great to have you, um,”

“Dylan.”

“It’s great to have you, Dylan.”