All of this writing just *has* to be a book, Curtis. The world really needs it.
--- In FairfieldLife@yahoogroups.com, "curtisdeltablues" <curtisdeltablues@...> wrote: > > Crowds of people are like schools of fish. They swim by an outside performer with the mentality of a single entity. The trick for a busker is to break them out of the trance so they will pay attention to me. "Pay" is the key word here. I need them to stop their internal dialog long enough to extract something green and crisp from their wallets and purses. > > Bring on the children! They are perfect for this agenda. Easily distracted by novel things in the environment (me and my instruments), and lacking the intense internal dialog of having mortgage payments and making it to their car before the meter maid, they are ideal co-conspirators. I invite them up with maracas so they can join the show. Parents get it right away, artistic enrichment for the center of their universe. Now that the stage is set, I have something hidden to show you. > > She was one of those little girls with something extra, the sparkle of magnetic charisma. I see plenty of them coming out of the good homes in Northern Virginia. The right schools, plenty of vitamin D enriched milk, and tons of confidence to project a beamer of a smile full of orthodontist approved, well-flossed teeth. She was around eleven. Her brown hair was pulled into a loose pony tail by some fluorescent pink scrunchy fabric. The only thing out of the ordinary was that she crowded me a bit after she got her maraca. Younger kids will do this, and as the Mayor of Munchkin Land, it is up to me to get them to back off and give me some performance space. Decking one of the kids with my heavy steel resonator guitar in one of my tip inspiring flourishes, leaving them cold cocked on the boardwalk, would definitely cut into profits. But a girl this age usually keeps her distance, so it got my attention that she was standing very close to me with one side of her body. > > I swiveled my head and my eyes caught something that instantly put me on red alert. The arm she was crowding me with was cut off right below the elbow and she was using me to shield it from the audience. Her arm was not this way from birth. Something sinister and terrible had done this, and it left a fiery red zipper of violated flesh. Our eyes met and I gave her a nod. We were thick as thieves in an instant and she relaxed into a nervous giggle. Like a Sicilian made-man, I was bonded to her through omerta. It was a matter of trust, and I felt it in my chest. > > We began to play close like Sonny and a miniature Cher. People probably thought she was my niece or something, who else would play together with this familiarity? Her father was all smiles. She was a brave kid, this is not easy performing in front of strangers. A crowd formed supporting the cute little girl and the bluesman. They had no clue to the fierceness of her jagged asymmetry. She kept herself sideways, showing the world who she wanted to be, and they bought it. At the song's end she shot me a conspiratorial look. I sensed something gritty in those eyes. A steeliness forged by the fires of pediatric ward hell. I wondered about her mom and dad, who had spent the hours in the hospital making the painful decisions that lead to this. Oh bullshit, I have no idea. She ran off back to her dad. His look combined sincere thanks with "you have no idea". Or maybe I just read all that in myself, it is so hard to tell sometimes. When our eyes met I forgot to breath for a moment. I saw people moving in with tips in slow motion. > > Someday I hope she finds a real stand up guy. A guy who will always take her left side, and wrapping his arm around her far shoulder, will press her close, feeling her arm halfway across his own back, and she will feel safe and brave, facing the world. >
