Page 4 of Playing By Ear
“Meeeeeeeee!” the two littler ones shouted together. The boy pumped both fists, his tumble forgotten.
As Jamie slipped a capo onto the first fret, he scanned the street in a fruitless search for the HBG—or Perry, rather. By this point, the man could’ve been anywhere.
He did a single strum to check the tuning, then launched into the opening chords. His right thumb was getting sore, but he used it anyway to add percussion on the backbeat, making the song more danceable.
It worked. By the first chorus, everyone in the semi-circle around him was swaying and clapping, sending joy vibes at the family in mourning.
“Happyyyyyyyy,” the children belted out, off-key but with enough fervor to make up for their tin ears. The younger lass bounced off her parents’ legs again and again in a frantic slam-dance, while the older girl held her brother’s hands, letting him hop and bop with no fear of falling.
Only the parents remained still, the woman weeping in her husband’s arms for the father she’d lost. Jamie looked away, because he needed breath to sing.
He finished with a dramatic upstroke, then smiled at the crowd’s applause and hoots.
The older girl in the bereaved family spun on her toes to face her parents. “May I give him some money?”
Her younger siblings raised their hands, jumping up and down, shouting, “Me! Money! Money! Me!”
The parents were either short of coins or completely minted, because each child got a fiver to put in Jamie’s guitar case. He thanked them with fist bumps, offering a grateful nod to the mum and dad.
Leaving his guitar case open so others could contribute, he quickly decoupled his amp from the inverter that powered it, then set both items on his trolley. Every movement was automatic, repeated three or four times a day for nearly ten years. Sometimes he counted off seconds to see if he could pack up in under five minutes.
103, 104…
As he struggled to collapse his microphone stand—which had got dented when it fell off the trolley last December and now needed a strategic shimmy to slide it back into itself—Jamie felt the first hints of drizzle.
No no no. If it rained hard, Perry might take shelter in a shop or even go home. The nearby subway station would make a convenient escape route.
121, 122…
With a shove, Jamie forced the mic stand to cooperate. He placed it and the microphone on the trolley, then used both hands to scoop the contents of the guitar case into a purple velvet drawstring bag.
146, 147…
Along with the coins and five-pound notes—ooh, even a tenner—there was the usual smattering of miscellaneous gifts from people who didn’t carry cash:
plastic pink flower
polished rock
packet of hand warmers
action figure of a superhero he didn’t recognize
If he didn’t need money for luxuries like food and heating, Jamie would have preferred more of these random tokens of appreciation.
204, 205…
He packed up his guitar, strapped it onto the trolley, and drew an elasticated tarp over everything.
240. Four minutes. Victory.
Jamie pushed the trolley down the center of Buchanan Street, the wheels making a muted rattle against the flat, rectangular flagstones. He scanned both sides of the street, peering through shop windows, angling his head to avoid the glare of the pale-gray sky reflected in the wide glass panes.
He came upon Emmett the yo-yo master, who was performing near the subway entrance for a handful of spectators.
“All right, Jamie?” Emmett called out as he performed simultaneous round-the-worlds with two separate yo-yos, switching hands with each pass in a blur of movement Jamie had never quite deciphered.
“Looking good there,” Jamie replied.
