Post by Michael "Bakqui" Thatcher on Jul 27, 2012 15:56:58 GMT -5
The subway trains whooshed by with a blast of warm, stale air. The late morning crowd consisted mostly of tourists and teens, spending their summer wandering the New York Metro system. Michael walked slowly, easily down the concrete steps toward the train platform. His guitar hung from his back by its case straps, the nylon fabric showing obvious wear. His feet slid with an almost careless and yet odd gait along the tiled landing, toes feeling out what he could only assume was there.
He paused, just about a foot from a support pillar in the center of the platform. Michael reached out and caressed the concrete with his fingertips, seeking out the almost inscrutable nicks and marks that would orient him. He pulled his guitar from his back and set it gently on the ground in front of him, pressing his back to the pillar and sliding to the filthy floor. He curled his long legs in under him and unclasped the guitar case lid, sliding the instrument out of it's worn coffin and into his lap. He tested the strings, listening closely to their pitch and tune and adjusting the pegs when necessary. Properly prepared, he removed his aviators and tucked them into his pocket then began to play.
He began with something well known, some pop song recently gracing the airwaves. It was just to draw some attention to himself. When he could hear the shuffling of feet coming closer he switched the song, picking up a Latin favorite of his. His sensitive fingers flew over the steel strings, occasionally flitting over the wooden body for a resounding, rhythmic smack. After a few minutes, he heard the quiet plink of quarters landing in the guitar case. He smiled. It wasn't quite a smirk and not a full grin, just the twitching up at the corner of his mouth. It wasn't the money that mattered, although the piggy bank would be pleased. He liked to know that people enjoyed the music, or that there were still people friendly enough to offer some change to a street musician. He cast his blind eyes up toward the trains and continued his song, wrist relaxed against his instrument, content in his work.
The note on the top of his guitar case addressed the masses of the subway station. Bold black letters, scribbled in poor lines proclaimed
He paused, just about a foot from a support pillar in the center of the platform. Michael reached out and caressed the concrete with his fingertips, seeking out the almost inscrutable nicks and marks that would orient him. He pulled his guitar from his back and set it gently on the ground in front of him, pressing his back to the pillar and sliding to the filthy floor. He curled his long legs in under him and unclasped the guitar case lid, sliding the instrument out of it's worn coffin and into his lap. He tested the strings, listening closely to their pitch and tune and adjusting the pegs when necessary. Properly prepared, he removed his aviators and tucked them into his pocket then began to play.
He began with something well known, some pop song recently gracing the airwaves. It was just to draw some attention to himself. When he could hear the shuffling of feet coming closer he switched the song, picking up a Latin favorite of his. His sensitive fingers flew over the steel strings, occasionally flitting over the wooden body for a resounding, rhythmic smack. After a few minutes, he heard the quiet plink of quarters landing in the guitar case. He smiled. It wasn't quite a smirk and not a full grin, just the twitching up at the corner of his mouth. It wasn't the money that mattered, although the piggy bank would be pleased. He liked to know that people enjoyed the music, or that there were still people friendly enough to offer some change to a street musician. He cast his blind eyes up toward the trains and continued his song, wrist relaxed against his instrument, content in his work.
The note on the top of his guitar case addressed the masses of the subway station. Bold black letters, scribbled in poor lines proclaimed
"SPARE A DIME FOR THE BLIND GUITARIST OF SUBWAY STOP 9. Requests and conversation welcome : )"
" A chuckle made its way past her full lips as she smirked. She awaited for the man to finish before speaking.