Page 2 of Playing By Ear

“Yes, please. One adventure per day is enough.”

“Got it.” Liquid poured into a paper cup, a sound that made Perry’s pulse leap as though the caffeine was already streaming through him. “One large French roast .” She placed the cup on a dark mat atop the counter so he could see the contrast with the white lid. It was little considerate touches like this that made her his favorite barista.

Perry paid for his coffee, receiving the tenth hole-punch on his loyalty card, making his next drink free. It seemed an auspicious sign.

“Receipt?” Ruby asked.

“Just this once, as a memento.”

He stuffed the slip into his wallet, then headed for the door, holding the cane like a pencil to make small sweeps in the café’s tight space.

Outside, he smiled into the rising breeze. He’d done it, and without smacking anyone. Achievement unlocked!

The nearby guitarist was now playing Prince’s “When Doves Cry,” showing off a vocal range that could span the Grampian Mountains. It was a mystery why a record label hadn’t snatched up this musician. Perhaps he was secretly famous and busking in disguise? That would make a brilliant story for Perry to pitch to an editor.

He paused as he neared the singer. It wasn’t unusual for a handful of shoppers to stop and listen. Buskers were part of the Buchanan Street experience, after all. But based on the shapes in front of Perry and the way the notes were absorbed rather than bouncing off the street and buildings, this singer had drawn a large crowd. To pass by on the pavement, Perry would need to tread the narrow path between the busker and his audience, possibly whacking feet or audio equipment with his cane.

No one ever said this would be easy.

Perry changed course, angling left onto the pedestrian street. Blurry humans shifted out of his way—another advantage of the white cane—and soon he was skirting the back of the crowd.

The song ended to a round of applause. “Cheers, you’re so kind,” the musician said into his microphone. “Now I’m gonnae play one of my own tunes. It’s got nae lyrics, so if youse have got any good ideas, shout ’em out. Don’t be shy.”

Perry maneuvered around a street lamp—the sort of object he used to collide with, then apologize to. Pride warmed his chest. He was absolutely smashing this foray.

The guitarist began with a series of gently plucked notes.

Perry stopped. Had he heard this song before? It was an original, Jimmy/James had said, but perhaps it was a riff on an existing tune.

In any case, it begged further listening. Perry made his way across the pedestrian street to the granite steps of the Buchanan Galleries, finding a spot on the far end to sit.

The chorus—assuming it was the chorus—fueled his feeling of familiarity, but in a time-loopy way, like a memory from the future. This reverse déjà vu made the hairs rise on the back of Perry’s neck.

Even without words, it felt like a love song. Who was it about? Someone the singer had just met, or someone he’d known a lifetime? It spoke of the sort of longing that could split a soul in two.

The song ended to applause half the strength of the previous round. The crowd had thinned in the last few minutes, as it often did when buskers performed original work.

“Thanks for your patience,” the guitarist said when he was finished. “Now back to the hit parade.” He strummed rapid chords and slapped his fingers against the instrument’s body, then sang the opening line to “Uptown Funk.”

Perry checked his pockets for cash he knew he didn’t have, then opened his wallet. It contained only credit cards, identification, and an assortment of loyalty cards, plus the coffee shop receipt.

He turned to the person sitting nearest him on the steps. “May I borrow a pen if you’ve got one?”

“Erm…for what?” asked a female voice.

“For writing a note,” he replied, trying not to snap.

“Oh. Of course.” She placed a pen in his open palm. “Sorry for hesitating. I assumed you were totally blind.”

“Not totally.” He scribbled on the back of the receipt, holding it a few inches from his face. Then he returned the woman’s pen and stood up.

“Don’t forget your coffee,” she said.

He displayed his full hands. “I’ll be back for it.”

Perry walked around the left side of the crowd, guided by that divine voice. The guitar case was a dark shadow against the pavement. He located the edge of the case with his cane, then leaned over and dropped his note, wrapped around the one thing of value he could let go.

“Thanks very much,” the singer said to him, speaking away from the microphone and between lines of the song without breaking stride.