Installment Two: Kin Domains support creativity

This is Part Two of a short story I wrote, The Musician in Me, published on March 7, 2009

On a good day I’d play for about forty-five minutes. On a not so good day, I’d play for about an hour. It was on one of the not so good days that something miraculous happened.

The location was a beautiful dock where water-taxi’s let off tourists ready to dine and shop. A gentle summer breeze blew salty air over the tops of decorative trees and benches lined a heavily trafficked boardwalk. Occasionally, horn blasts from private boats rent the air. Perfect was my first thought.

As usual, I fumbled a bit getting started not sure what the audience wanted to hear. You could always tell the mood after a few pieces. If people stopped and threw in money after a particular song, I’d play another of similar style.

I played for about fifteen minutes and folks just kept walking past ignoring my open case and me. For the first time, I was ready to give up before I really had finished my warm up. From the corner of my eye, I scanned the environment. My gaze settled on a vagrant shuffling down the walkway. He took a seat on a bench about five feet in front of me.

His hair was a kinky gray. His clothing exploded with every design and color sequence imaginable. His cocoa brown face was etched with deep age lines. The kind of lines that spoke of a happy person—you know the ones that indent upward from a perpetual smile. My mom had always called vagrants ancestor spirits sent to us from God to give us timely messages.

Our gazes locked, I smiled. He smiled back several teeth missing from the grin. His eyes twinkled with merriment. I finished the piece I was playing and he clapped. When I resumed again, he reached for a brown paper bag. After careful scrutiny, he pulled out a handkerchief laid it on his lap then emptied the contents of the bag onto it. A sandwich, an apple, some raw vegetables and a cookie. Since it was five p.m., I imagine this was his dinner.

He arranged all the items purposefully on the handkerchief as I well imagined someone arranging a place setting at a fine restaurant. He then proceeded to eat. No matter how long—or short my piece, he managed to set down his food and clap. While he ate I watched his feet. His toes tapped to the music, even my classical selections. I couldn’t help but note his shoes. They appeared to be the only new item on his person. Highly polished brown leather, thick sole. Very sturdy. Every time I made contact with his gaze his eyes told me that he knew I played just for him. It was as though we were in our own private outdoor amphitheater.

(End of part two)

(Watch for part three--the final installment)