There are More Things

Dressed in his white suit, Wally Fitzhugh sat alone at a table in the bar car of the train. He liked his space. The immense scenery rolled slowly by. How many had ridden by the ancient hills and taken them for granted?

Adapting to the rocking motion, other passengers strode back and forth. Three teenagers played cards at another table. Their laughter filled the car.

‘Don’t they know gambling’s illegal? A Conductor should stop them.’

Though about their age, Wally preferred watching the scenery to socializing with strangers.

It was a given. Whether he’d fit in or not, Wally felt the outsider. Why fight it? Wally never mastered social skills. Always treated like the odd kid, he saw himself as the sole adult surrounded by hyper-hormonal idiots. Why wade in the runoff?

He’d never ridden a train or been anywhere. He’d barely left the campus where he grew up, the foster child of the Psych Department Dean.

This trip had an urgent purpose. He could have flown, but he needed time to sit alone and think. And he’d never been on a train.

Wally didn’t know anything of his real family until a letter arrived from Houston Busker claiming to be his brother. He lived a few hundred miles away.

The letter read…

Dear Wallace, let me introduce myself. I’m your (long lost) brother, Houston Busker. I hope this finds you well. Sorry for contacting you so late, but our father has died. I thought you should know. It took time to find you. Please come here ASAP so we can meet and address certain legalities.

Look forward to meeting you,

Houston Busker

p.s. You’re mentioned in the will.

Houston included his contact information and address.

Their father had died, and Wally was named in the will of the man he’d never known. He has a brother? All new information.

He always figured he’d had parents but knew nothing more. Having a brother was a wild card. Older? Younger? Twins? Who is Houston? What’s he like? So many questions. His foster father was no help.

Why leave his comfortable existence in a dorm room protected by a wall of books…? Nothing could prepare him for this mysterious adventure.

Approaching the station, the rhythm of wheels over rails slowed. Anticipating what would happen, Wally felt a quickening.

His foster father suggested he travel light, ‘but plan for contingencies.’

When the train halted, everyone retrieved their luggage. Careful about his white suit, Wally joined the throng pressing to exit. Once on the platform, the crowd moved as one toward the main building. The PA echoed. It was chaos.

‘How will I know him? And once found, what then?’

What had he undertaken? And why? Leaving his safe seclusion in pursuit of what? This could be a scam. Houston was the least of his problems. Alone in a strange city, he could fall prey to any number of predators and thieves.

Walking with the crowd, Wally became aware of a disheveled young man in desperate need of a haircut. His beard seemed infinite. Wearing a garish, half-tucked shirt, and baggy pants held up with suspenders, he approached and matched his stride.  

Wally realized it could be himself had life sent him down a different path.

The stranger said, “Wally, right?”

“Do I know you?”

Grinning, he said, “Houston Busker, bro. At your service.” Contrary to his appearance, Houston bowed.

Wally nodded, aware that people were streaming around them.

“Uh, hi. What now?” He offered his hand but feeling silly, retracted it.

Houston grabbed the rollaway. “Follow me.”

Wally ran to keep up.

The whole world awaited outside the station. Horns honked. Brakes squealed. Engines revved by. Sirens soared. Music thumped from car speakers. A helicopter hovered.

Keeping Houston in sight kept Wally from seeking refuge.

He shouted. “Where are we going?”

“My place. A few blocks down.”

“Walking?”

“You got a car?”

Houston deftly navigated the sidewalk populated by panhandlers, dog walkers and tourists. They entered a street market filled with banners and food booths. Buskers entertained at every corner. An army of entrepreneurs hawked souvenirs.

‘Where’d he go?’

Houston had disappeared. Adrenaline fueled his frantic scanning of the crowd.

He flinched from a hand slapping his shoulder. Houston leaned close.

“This way, buddy…”

Houston pulled him toward a stairway leading upward. They ran up. Houston opened the door and let Wally into the cramped apartment.

A bird fluttered about. Houston snapped a kitchen towel at it until it flew out the window overlooking the street.

“Damn bird…”

“Could always close the window…”

“You kidding? In this heat?”

Making space, he moved a pile of laundry from the couch and directed Wally to sit.

“Don’t mind the clutter. Make yourself at home. Coffee?”

Looking about in amazement, Wally nodded. At least it was quiet. He brushed off the cushion before sitting.

He’d heard of clutter, but Houston’s apartment defied description. Overflowing the sink, unwashed dishes lay everywhere. A tall stack of pizza boxes supported a table lamp. Covered with guitar picks, a pitch pipe, and an ash tray filled with short cigar butts, a cable spool served as a makeshift table. Several piles of sheet music rested on the stained carpet. The walls were papered with unframed photos and posters for musical acts from a local jazz club.

Wally spent his life in an austere, white dorm room. A clock and calendar adorned one wall. He couldn’t sleep if a pencil lay askew on his desk.

Houston’s living room was dominated by a variety of musical instruments, some in cases. Most leaned randomly against a weathered upright piano. Its varnish had bubbled and peeled from years spent outdoors. One of its pedals was absent. The keyboard looked like an ad for teeth implants. A violin bow lay across it.

He realized the piano’s tilt came from the floor’s sloping into the corner.

There were no books.

Sensing movement, he turned to see a cockroach perched atop an empty take-out container.

Carrying coffee, Houston said, “Don’t mind him. They don’t bite.”

He sat and handed Wally a cup. Wally hesitated. ‘Is it clean?’ But he didn’t want to be rude.

Sitting face to face with Houston, his situation stood in stark relief.

‘What have I done?’

Houston asked, “Cigar?”

“Naw. Don’t smoke.”

They looked on in silence. Neither knew where to start. Each bought time by sipping coffee.

“Good coffee…”

Houston smiled. “Wow! So much to say.” He gestured to the room. “My home. My life. Grew up here. You’re sitting where I slept most of my life.”

Wally wanted to leave.

“Now I sleep in what was Pop’s room.”

“Tell me about our father… Our mother?”

“Yeah, she died young. Never knew her… But…”

Houston laughed as memories surged into his mind.

“He was… great. The best.” He gestured to the room. “One of the great musicians. Legendary. Taught me everything. Everything… We’re buskers… Street musicians, you know… But he played on so many records. Sat in with everyone. Could play any instrument, any style. He was a national treasure.”

“Wish I’d known him. He played the violin?”

Houston grabbed the bow. “Yeah. Mainly… Countless hours fiddling… You play?”

He passed the bow to Wally, who examined it.

“A little… I didn’t bring…”

Houston pulled a violin case from the collection. “Check it out.”

Wally opened the case to reveal his father’s violin, used, but well loved. Plucking the strings, he found it in tune. He held it up to his shoulder with reverence.

Drawing the bow slowly, he played a pure note. Though precise, it had no more heart than a file drawer squeaking open. It had been a while. He’d missed it.

Houston nodded. “What do you play?”

“I’m not good. Love Mozart. He was wild.”

Houston nodded. “Go for it.”

Wally played a few phrases from Sonata 24, his favorite. Out of practice, he felt stiff. He set it down.

“I’m rusty.”

“That’s cool. If you don’t play every day… Yours if you want it.”

Wally shook his head.

“Might as well… Part of your inheritance…”

Wally stared at the instrument in awe. The weight of things began to settle on him.

Houston said, “Pops was the fiddler. Our full-time gig. Every day. When he played a combination, you’d grin while tears rolled down your cheeks.” He paused at the memory. “And funny! We were always laughing. And playing music. Once we got going, we’d forget to eat. I’m a guitar guy. Some mandolin… the uke.”

“I can’t imagine. Spend my time studying.”

“You in school?”

“Yeah, prepping for my bar exam.”

“You’re kidding. You’re what? Eighteen, like me? We must be twins.”

Wally nodded. “My foster parents saw potential. Encouraged me. I want to be a prosecutor.”

“That’s incredible. I barely graduated high school, and you already got a degree?”

“Basically, only know my foster parents from attending seminars and campus workshops. Being busy with careers and stuff, they left me to my own devices.”

Houston shook his head. “Don’t get it. Why would they…?”

Wally shrugged. “The timing of your letter was… I’m between semesters. Wouldn’t have been free to come…”

“You must be rich.” He looked around. “We were never rich but did alright.”

“Hardly… I live in a room on campus. Keep to myself. Own a bunch of books.”

“I have a book. By the bed. Read it every morning.”

“Oh, that one? I read it. Any lawyer needs it to know the law.”

Houston nodded. “But college… Lots of girls though. You’re young, smart…”

“I’m the odd ball. Don’t fit in, so…”

“Yeah, but…”

“I’m ‘the kid…’ When I was fourteen, some frat rats pranked me. Snuck a girl into my room when I was asleep. She must have been twenty!”

“Wow, man!”

“I was clueless.” ‘Still am…’ “The resident went nuts when he found out. Don’t think she got pregnant though.”

“Was she naked?”

“Don’t think so.”

“Think you’d know. Probably don’t have to worry then.”

“Shoulda’ heard the nicknames they gave me… Thought they’d never give it up. Never touched a girl before that.”

Wally thought, ‘Or since…’

He said, “Guess I’m a loner. Getting here today was crazy. So many people jostling each other... Don’t like hallways crammed with students. The street was nuts.”

Houston laughed. “That’s where it happens, man. You’ll get used to it.”

Wally looked at him, uncomprehending.

Houston said, “We should get going. Go play. Get some tips. Eat…”

“No, I can’t play. I’ve got money. We can buy something…”

“No you don’t. You’re Pop’s kid. Can’t refuse to busker. That’s our name, man. Live the life, if only for a minute.”

He hadn’t signed on for this. Wally stood and brushed off his pants.

“I’m not a fiddler.”

“It’ll be great. Follow my lead.”

“Should I change?”

“No. You’re stylin’… Come on…”

With foreboding, Wally took Pop’s violin and followed Houston down to the street.

They found an unclaimed corner. After pulling his guitar from the case, Houston threw a few dollar bills and some change into it.

“Gotta prime the pump…”

Wally pulled a twenty out, but Houston stopped him.

“No, man. I said prime it. Don’t scare people off.”

Wally nodded.

Houston slung his guitar over his shoulder and strummed. He tweaked the tuning for a moment and said, “No pressure. Join in as the spirit moves you.”

He played a chord and then stopped. “You sing?”

Wally laughed. “Don’t bet on it.”

Houston played his intro and began to sing. His voice was good. It drew people.

Though completely out of his comfort zone, Wally tapped his foot. After the first verse, he got a sense of the song and set his bow to harmonize with Houston.

Hearing the violin, his brother nodded. People gathered, swayed and clapped along.

Wally relaxed.

Down the way, two kids grabbed some pastries and ran helter-skelter through the crowd.

Yelling, the vendor pursued them. “Stop! Thieves!”

One kid tripped and fell into Wally. The stolen pastry burst onto his white jacket. The other kept running.

The vendor came up. “Thieves! They stole my pies.”

Desperate and in tears, the boy clung to Wally.

“I’m sorry. I ruined your jacket. I’m sorry.”

Houston took the violin from him.

Shocked, Wally looked around. ‘The kid’s desperate. He stole. He ruined my suit. Is this for real?’

“I didn’t mean it. We were just playing. What can I do?”

Restrained by the crowd, the vendor screamed at them. Wally held up his hands to quiet him.

He patted the boy’s head. Strangely moved, Wally felt something new. No one ever held him. Or needed him. No one ever apologized. Nothing he’d done had ever mattered.

He spoke to the vendor. “What do they owe?”

The vendor saw an opportunity. “Ten dollar. Two for five. They stole three…”

Wally pulled out his wallet and handed him a twenty.

“How many pies do you have? Back at your booth?”

“Oh… a couple dozen…”

“Leave the kid alone. I’ll buy them all.”

Everyone cheered. The vendor laughed and ran back to his display doing a fist pump.

The kid couldn’t believe what happened. “I’m sorry, man. Thanks…”

Wally examined his suit jacket. A big purple smear stained the left front panel.  

Houston said, “That’ll never come out. It’s done.”

Wally reached down for a chunk of the ruined pie. He daubed the right side of his jacket with the blueberry filling leaving countless purple spots.

No one could believe it.

He grinned. “It needed balance… Like my new busker jacket?”

The vendor came back with two boxes of pastries. Wally gave him five twenties and passed the boxes to the kid.

“Make sure everyone gets one.” Laughing, the kid started distributing pastries.

Everyone applauded. Houston strummed the intro to another song.

The brothers grinned at each other. Wally realized the world wouldn’t end if he broke some rules he’d always gripped tightly.

He picked up the fiddle. No longer striving for perfection he let loose. Going wild, he made outrageous attacks on the strings. It wasn’t perfect, but it was great.

The crowd loved it.

Houston stopped playing and watched with a broad grin.

“You’re playing like Pops!” He yelled, “Ladies and gentlemen… The Busker Brothers!”

The crowd grew. The guitar case filled with tips.

In celebration, they played into the night.