A Bitter Bah Humbug Stew.

Standing on the steps of the L train at Union Square, she scanned over the heads looking for a spot where she might go within the throngs of tired commuters. Further up the platform, she could hear music. There are often musicians busking on the platforms, and for the most part, they become part of the colorful background noise of the New York City subway. A ting of a triangle in a sea of beating drums. But they are brave, and she admires them for their hustle, often dropping a dollar if she likes their music or avoiding all eye contact if not. Rarely does she stop on her journey to listen to them. She found a place and stood waiting for the train, all set to read her book and ignore the music. But it kept finding her; she couldn’t shake it, the notes like an insistent child demanding her attention. She moved again, excusing herself as she pushed through a tightly packed platform, only to turn around to it tapping her on her shoulder, reminding her it was there. Irritated, she finally decided to follow it.Like a floating dog in a cartoon who smells a fresh pie cooling on a windowsill, she wound her way around the people searching for the source, waiting for a mistake, hoping for a wrong note so she could finally say, “Ha! I told you so,” and stop. But each note grew more lovelier, the melody going exactly where she hoped it would. So many songs have wrapped around her in their beginnings only to disappoint her with their choice of direction. Finally arriving at the end of the rainbow, she promptly ignored the musician and walked past them, side- eyeing to get a glimpse of this probable angel. Hiding behind a nearby post, she wondered what her next move should be. The singing had stopped; she could easily ignore them now, act like it never happened, but she wanted to be able to hear that music again and empty her wallet of all material wealth into the busker's bucket. Walking back around to where the musician was, she saw that they were packing up. They were as small as a child, with long, badly dyed blonde hair, brown speckled crooked teeth, and wearing a mask of make up two tones too light. But when they spoke, their voice was raspy and sexy, almost intoxicating. She asked the girl what their name was, and they smiled and said, “ I don’t tell people my name!” Confused, she said, “ok so where can I hear your music, where can I buy it?” To which the girl replied, “Oh, you can’t! I just sing for fun.” At that moment, the train arrived,

she handed her some money said a quick goodbye. Dazed, she looked around the carriage, wondering what had just happened! With a brain hard wired to finding the hustle in any given situation, she was having a difficult time processing the idea of using a talent just for fun. Her knee jerk reaction was to think this was a sad waste, followed quickly by thanking the universe that her husband had not heard this girl singing, imagining a past where she lost her spot in his band to them and with it the life, marriage, and children that had come after! Life devastation passed quickly, though, and

was replaced with admiration as the bigger thoughts began to trickle in. By not succumbing to the catcalls of capitalism, the young woman was securing herself in history as a modern-day bra burner, a rebel who did not seek money, success, or the approval of others. There was no album to buy, no name to Google, and no social media clamoring for engagement. The only thing they asked for, outside of being listened to, was spare change, making her wonder if they literally just sang for their dinner. Realizing she was filling in the gaps with fairy tales did nothing to quench the awe she felt. Whether the girl made her money elsewhere or came from a lineage of billionaires, the fact remained that they could have climbed mountains with that voice but chose to sit and feel the breeze instead. When she woke up the next morning, she told her husband about it.

“Is this a dream?” he asked after she started telling him how otherworldly the singing sounded.
“No, this actually happened,” she said, “this young woman, with the most beautiful voice, was singing just for fun.”

“ I don’t buy it!” he said as he pulled on his pants, “ that’s just her schtick, it is for effect.”
Again, the idea that anybody would do something like that for nothing more than enjoyment was something too difficult to get on board with. She vaguely wondered if they were growing cynical in their middle age.

“Well, I’m glad you didn’t hear her voice 13 years ago because you might have asked her to join your band instead of me! ” she said.
“No. I was looking for a Nico,” he smiled, putting an end to the conversation and her worry that her past's future was on the line.

The thought stayed with her, though, long after the memory of the music faded. How much of her life did she try to wrap up in some form of a hustle? Social media, of course, was one big firestorm of currency, every post a grab for attention in some shape or form. Even her love for nature, flowers, the natural world, light, and energy wasn’t able to escape the intrusion of these thoughts. If she is not able to take a walk without bringing her camera with her, isn’t that at the core of it just a hustle wrapped up in the pretty package of an artists passion? Which brought her back to the girl on the platform. If she really just wanted to sing for fun, then she could have done that in her bedroom or a big empty field, but she chose a busy subway platform instead, suggesting that she wanted to be heard, needed the attention, which ultimately and annoyingly meant her husband was right. It was a schtick, albeit a beautiful schtick that wove its way into a stranger's heart, that had made her shove and push her way through a crowded platform just to find it. And while there was no album to buy, it was still transactional, the girls' music for her attention (and loose change.)

And here she paused.

She was definitely beginning to sound very old and jaded, a bitter bah-humbug stew pouring all over artists, the girl on the platform blasted to pieces in collateral damage. She hadn’t decided to become an artist because she loved to hustle; it became a necessary evil along the way. She became an

artist because she had no choice! She saw the world in a certain way and needed to communicate back what was there. The young girl on the platform, her version of this was music. Art is a conversation, a way to express and connect, an explanation or a question, a chat that confirms we are not alone. So while the young woman could have sung in her room all by herself, the invitation to a conversation would have bounced off the walls into a quiet eternity, instead of igniting a connection with someone who found her on a crowded subway. In fact, her own marriage was born from singing. Had she and her husband not spent a summer meeting up in a cramped, windowless studio for band practice, their love story might never have taken off. His music, their voices building a nest together from which their whole lives grew.
This latter idea sat better with her; it glowed instead of glowered, accepted rather than judged. With art, she realized there is no one way that is right or wrong; it is a conversation.
Later that night, while she was preparing their dinner, she turned on the music. As she knelt down to get a saucepan from the cupboard, the first single that she and her husband recorded 13 years ago, A Pear of Trees, started playing. He had written it for her when they first met, and they became the band Love Taps. It was about the daughters that they would one day have, in a future that was not yet made, and a love that was, “dancing out of the darkness, dancing into the blue bliss.” She paused and smiled, settling into listening and remembering where their conversation first began.