--- 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. >
Beautifully written ..... and she will ;) JohnY
