I don't know his name. I'd love to sit down and talk with him, buy him a beer, listen to his life history. Instead I watch over him from my usual third floor corner table, chai tea in hand, debating on the appropriateness of an introduction. If this is his living, I wouldn't want to intrude on his business hours...
He adjusts his capo, takes a long drag from his cigarette, and re-tunes. I can't even hear him today. Inside, any of his words are drowned by this smooth rock/easy listening mix, the soundtrack as I think about his story, which I am certain is a good one. His is one of the great literary classics: a few savory memories slightly bitter, seasoned by hardship, a dash or two of irony, all flavored with humor...or courage...I'll have to see how he tells it. I know his tale well, except for the details.
As he starts a new song the questions pick and play at my curiosity. Is he from here, or is this the latest stop in his many travels? Did he lose everything, or is he the one that's lost? What is he still looking for? I fill in the blanks to choose my own adventure and notice the plant at his feet. Where did he get that from? And is it the symbol of hope I imagine it to be? A bit of green splashed into my charcoal world of his?
I'd love to see how my copy compares to the original, to spend the afternoon in the corner of some bar venturing with him down the byways of his journey. Hopeless romantic that I am, I can already imagine the intimate conversation bound to follow my open invitation but my reason keeps me seated. Besides, I don't even know if he likes beer.
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