Striking A Chord

Downtown. City sounds abound. A cacophony. I find a spot catty-corner from the McD's-. Boy, wouldn't a hot coffee be great," I say as i pull out my Hohner. Under my armpit, it warms up enough for me to go through a few scales. My sleep was restless, but dreamy melodies gave me some peace. I sit and play City of New Orleans with its "Good Morning, America" refrain. A few coins drop my way. Perhaps this day will be OK.

As the morning moves ever so slowly toward noontime, strident discords become supportive drone to the higher harmony. A harmony now reflected first by her smile-and then, the welcoming twinkle of her blue eyes. I nod "thanks" for the coins and the sawbuck she placed, rather than flung, into the hat open at my feet.

A bit of a chill shivered away. From out of a strange memory, a few bars of Bolero melodically flowed; Bo Derek's image did come to mind as I played. Then, a smooth move into Hey Jude. My benefactor and audience of one was still there.

"Thanks for the song," she said, as she moved on. Then she returned. "Can you take a break for lunch? I'll treat at the McD's across the way. I'll bet with your harmonica you can make it a Dutch treat afterwards--do you know Bridge Over Troubled Water?"

I gathered my stuff, struggled to my feet, woke up my tingling leg. "Sure. Thanks. Sounds like a plan to me."

McRibs were back. I sheepishly asked if I might have a double order. Promised two numbers upon my return. Softly she laughed. "Yes, sure. Sounds to me like a better than even exchange."

We were able to cross the intersection without having to resort to Ratso and Buck maneuvers fresh out of Midnight Cowboy. There was one impatient Checkered cabby who had to wait for us before making his squealing right turn. I was tempted to hurl expletives louder than his horn-but my need to be a gentleman ruled the day.

We found a table out of the way of the regulars who seemed put off by even sharing space with a panhandling musician. Not a few heads turned with many a double take at the two of us. "What's a gal like her doing with a guy like him," seemed to be the unspoken question of the day. I smiled. "How many of these unwilling lunchmates," I mused, "were just a recession away from being out on the streets, as I was?"

She surreptitiously had handed me two twenties to pay the bill. She took the empty cups to get our drinks. I was able to add a coffee to the tab, as well. After hearing "Number 47" called, I took the trays to our table. With bowed head, the blessing she softly spoke before we ate flowed effortlessly. Neither self-righteously nor perfunctorily. I was down and out, but not discounted. Dipping the last fry in the ketchup, I resolved to add a third melody to the thank you concert.

She stayed for Old Friends after the requested Bridge. When I began Eleanor Rigby, she bent over to say good-bye. "I've been where you are," she whispered, "keep the music in your heart." A few of the McD folks wandered over, maybe out of guilt, and placed some coins in the till. I nodded, "Thanks," then played Yellow Submarine.

The afternoon crowds were mostly too busy to stop by to listen, but even some of the passers-by did dig into their pockets for dimes or quarters to share. When I reached back into my pious youth playing Schubert's Ave Maria, some elderly lady even dropped a rosary into the mix.

The chill of the evening came early. My fingers were a bit stiff, but my lips and breathing remained steady. I decided on a slow and mournful Taps as I noticed some flags picking up a slight breeze. Before I could close shop, however, a waif of a gal, dressed more shabbily than I was, plucked herself down next to me.

From out of nowhere, she lifted a flute to her lips. "Play along wth me," her soulful eyes said. With the last of the downtowners scurrying to get home before dark, Pachelbel's Canon in D gave them pause and lightened their weary footfalls. Our winsome melodies melded rather than clashed-who woudda thought! And, then, Bach's Jesu Joy of Man's Desiring transitioned into Cohen's Alleluia for a wonderful five minutes. That evening chill evaporated.

A few more coins, a wadded paper buck or two-then, only we were left. Dusk signaled with an eerie and chilling grayness, the demise of the sunlight. The streetlights flickered, then steadied. My young friend sighed as she snapped her flute case shut. We both got to our feet, hesitating glances at each other accompanied ambiguous smiles. She was here to stay, it appeared. I shook my head slightly, bending over. I gathered the day's take: the passers=by, the mystery lady's gift along with the McD's change, made for a whopping $54.75.

"Ya hungry? I guess that's a pretty dumb question. Come with me to McD's-I'm almost a regular by now. We can figure out what's what after we eat."

Of course, the afternoon gawkers were well on their way home. At a few tables, it seemed there were cleaning crew folks waiting for the high-rise offices to clear out before they got to work. We fit into the picture a bit more naturally than I did a few hours ago.

"Thanks," she almost tearfully replied. "I'm kinda lost, just got here. Heard your playing, figured I could trust you. It's not just music I heard. I sensed there was a "you" connected to what was coming out of that tin sandwich of yours." A slight blush shown through her somewhat drawn cheeks. "I don't mean to be uppity," she continued, "since I play this highflutin flute." She smiled, saying again: "I figured I could trust you."

Trust me," I mused, "trust me? Yes, she surely could, if she only would."

We left, taking two coffees to go, after more McRibs and fries were not quite gobbled down. We headed for the park. My home, as it were. The two of us could squeeze in somewhat comfortably. Nestled in some underbrush, boulders on three sides, my refuge was well hidden. Joggers, hand-holding strollers, even the patrolling police on horseback, didn't notice as they circled on the park's trail.

Like a long lost daughter, she fell asleep cradled in my embrace. In my head and heart, Brahms' Lullaby accompanied my tears.