growin up
The flag of piracy flew from my mast, my sails were set wing to wing. I had a jukebox graduate for first mate, she couldn’t sail but she sure could sing.
Billy sang like an angel and played guitar like Eric Clapton. He sat on a stool in the back of the Starbucks as I lost myself in his blues. I was wondering if he recognized me, until we made eye contact during a song about going home. He winked. I melted.
A few weeks ago, his music was crawling through the labrynth of Downtown Crossing as I switched trains on my morning commute. He sang about loss and heartbreak to the flocks of suited, earbudded businessmen rushing by his open guitar case. I was entranced, but the train doors shut between us.
He was there the next day too, and the day after. I found myself hoping that the trains were few and far between, so I could maybe manage to catch a whole song while waiting on the platform. After three days, he stopped showing up. I guessed he had found a better station to play in. And then, just yesterday, I was standing with a half-dozen people as the train approached and he was waiting right next to me.
“I’ve seen you here before,” I said. “You’re fantastic.”
It took him a second to realize I was talking to him. “Oh, thank you,” he smiled. He had an accent. British?
“Do you have a website or anything?”
“Yeah, actually. I’ll see if I have my card on me…” Australian. At this point the passengers were funnelling onto the train, and he was fumbling with his guitar case and other bags as we stepped inside. “I’m actually getting off at State, so it’s just one stop… ” He pulled a pen out of his pocket and grabbed my hand. “Here’s my email.” The train rolled to a stop at State. The doors opened and a crowd of people surged him off the train.
And here I was, swooning in Starbucks. After his set, a pink-haired girl walked up to chat with him. I sat in my seat with my latte, not sure what to do. She took the stool and he sat on the floor next to her, playing his guitar. She had a pretty voice, but not as soulful as his. They only did one song together, and the next act went on.
They approached my table, and he introduced us. Her name was Willa, and she was only about five feet tall and very skinny, with a wild mess of faded pink dreadlocks. He invited me back to their friend’s party. I told them I was sorry, but I had a lot of homework. I pictured myself sitting on a shag carpet in a smoke-filled apartment with a dozen hip musicians, in my business casual clothing that I was still wearing from my internship. I gathered my things.
“You sure? It’ll just be a few of us,” Willa said. “It’ll be chill.”
Her friendliness surprised me, and Billy took advantage of my hesitation. “Just for a little while,” he said. “She lives right near here.”
“Well,” I said, “Okay.” I tossed my half-finished latte, and I followed them out the door.
