Frustration and aggression incrementally increased during the week. My general mood has been terribly sullen. Trying to use that energy in a productive yet exhausting way, I just played hockey. My team, the Manhattan Moose, had the midnight ice time. Coming back after the win, I am standing on the platform stinking of hockey and leaning on my hockey bag to prop me up.
Typically I keep my eyes darting around, watching the people and being cautious of my environment. I only refuse eye contact if someone is playing music, begging or appearing clinically insane. In the corner of my eye, I saw a shadowy dark figure bouncing from group to group and wielding a guitar. He approached. I'm too tired to act tough; I'm too worn down.
The beggar stands in front of me and asks if I would listen to him play a song on the guitar. I lift my eyes and look at his face. He suddenly became human. An ageless, older black man with a shaved head and face wearing the costume of a stage performer: exaggerated leather jacket, rock star jeans and biker boots. His frail frame and face brought the attention to his big expressive eyes and mouth. His smile dominated the lower half of his face, and his eyes were clear, white and deep.
With a nod of my head, he started to strum on his battered guitar. The strings were new but not yet cut down. He started to provide background on the song and introduced "The Ballad of John and Yoko" by the Beatles. In a quick moment words became a song. He covered the song for me, but performed as though the words were his own. His face became an emotional metronome, swinging from one side to the other, from the sweetness of some lyrics to the pain of others. He sang on:
"Standing in the dock at Southampton,
Trying to get to Holland or France.
The man in the mack said, 'You've got to go back',
You know they didn't even give us a chance
Christ you know it ain't easy,
You know how hard it can be.
The way things are going
They're gonna crucify me.
Finally made the plane into Paris,
Honeymooning down by the Seine.
Peter Brown called to say,
'You can make it O.K., You can get married in Gibraltar, near Spain'.
Christ you know it ain't easy,
You know how hard it can be.
The way things are going
They're gonna crucify me."
He kept playing through more refrains. The chorus rang clear:
"Christ! You know it ain't easy. You know how hard it can be. The way things are going, they're going to crucify me."
As the announcement came overhead that the next Manhattan train was approaching, I didn't want the train to arrive. I reached for my wallet. I grabbed a few singles and listened to the song come to an end. He titled his guitar face up so the money could go into the guitar body opening.
"Thank you so much sir," he said.
"My pleasure, buddy. I know a lot of people watch you play but don't give you the respect to make applaud, tip you or even make eye-contact."
"Thank you."
"No, Thank you," I said as I shook his hand.
"No sir, thank you."
"No! Really -- man -- I enjoyed it. You play with your heart. You can tell you put your soul into it.""No sir, thank you."
He stopped and began to cry. Humbly he looked down almost shuffling his feet and glanced up back to me. Reaching out his hand again, the thanked me for the complement. Shaking hands with this stranger on the subway platform, I returned back to a state I haven't been in years.
"We all have our pain. Your song speaks to that. You know that; I get it. Thank you."
His sobbing stopped and with pride he opened his arms and embraced me. Now hugging a stranger on the subway platform in Brooklyn, I momentarily became cautious of the situation and how I may be getting conned. His hug, though, was genuine. As we stepped, back he asked me my name and thanked me again. I got on the train and watched him there standing on the platform.
We all have choices in life to connect, to engage and to make things better -- or we can simply exist.
Be well. Do good.
BG