Who Was That Guy?

Playing the black guitar on the Sixth Avenue L platform at nine o'clock on Saturday night?

Up to that moment I was feeling fussy and resentful, because I was spanked by the MTA so many times that day that my ass had handprints. All I wanted was to come home, and when the F train I was on suddenly went express, and I missed the announcement, and bypassed 14th Street and sped on to 34th Street, I nearly cried.

I think I might be winding myself up a little bit, for I will be entertaining a gentleman caller who arrives tomorrow. I have *things* I need to do and I wanted to be doing them Right Now.

Black guy in a black t-shirt, medium length afro, sloe-eyed and soulful and sad looking, until he smiled, and his face became the sun. Sitting low to the ground, slouched against the wall as if he was waiting for the next L train and had decided to simply plop down, take out his guitar and start playing, there on the platform.

Just your basic singer-songwriter major chord stuff. Bada bing bada boom. No big, right?

Then he started to sing. I spun around as if I had been poked, and just stood there, openmouthed, and suddenly every cell of my being felt, I don't know, replenished. It was a tenor voice, so raspy and scratchy, but so honest and real. My throat filled, and my vision got swimmy.

Beauty does that to me sometimes. (Remember "The White Roses.")

I didn't even wait for the train to come along or for him to finish his song. Eight bars in and I had thrown money into his bag. He looked me in the eye, smiled that smile, and nodded his thank you. I wanted to ask him what's your name and where are you playing out next and that girl you're singing about? She doesn't know what she lost. She's a fool.

The train came while he was playing, so I never did find out his name. But my spirits had done one of those minor shifts, and the night was different.

I sat down and pulled out my blackberry to write this, and was so intent on what I was doing that I didn't surface until I heard the automated train lady voice say, "The next stop is Montrose Avenue," and I looked up as we glided out of my station.

I had to backtrack to get home, but I didn't mind one bit.