Second Day

DAY TWO

I’m trying not to think too much about the fact that somebody stole a five dollar bill out of my guitar case.

Today is Saturday. I thought that perhaps people would be in a more generous mood on the weekend but it seemed to be just the opposite. Change had been collecting more slowly than yesterday, so I thought I’d sweeten the pot by tucking in a five dollar bill that I’d kept at the ready just in case. I added it to the take about midway through my two-hour shift.

Fifteen or twenty minutes later, when I looked into the case, the bill was gone. Who had taken it? How had they taken it without me noticing? At first I figured it must have been somebody actually putting change in the case, but later I decided that might be pretty hard to do. Considering how much time I spent actually facing away from the case and toward the direction of the two stairways, it wouldn’t have been hard for someone to filch it when I wasn’t looking.

All the same, it made me mistrust the general public and second-guess virtually everyone who had come into contact with me. That guy who caught my eye and smiled: was he trying to distract me? The fellow who was listening over by the garbage can, was he just waiting for the right moment to make his move?

But hold on a second…what about Hurricane Pape, the gigantic whooshing wind? I hadn’t been thinking about it as much today, because I had worn a hat to keep my hair in place. But couldn’t it be the real culprit? In one furious gust, it must have whisked away my hopeful little five dollars onto the floor of the corridor where some lucky TTC passenger picked it up. That must be what happened!

Even if it didn’t, it was probably better to blame the wind and hang on to my faith in humankind.

Going into Day Two at Pape Subway Station, I was prepared to meet the challenges that I had faced the day before. My favourite hat neatly dealt with the windswept hair problem—and gave me a bit of style, I hoped, even though I had bought it in 1993. It also occurred to me that I could learn that old Dusty Springfield song, "Windy", and pull it out at particularly blustery moments.

Even more important, I determined to not lose my voice for the second day in a row. Before leaving the house, I took the homeopathic remedy my chiropractor had prescribed and reminded myself not to over-sing.

You can’t out-sing a train. Yesterday I was focusing on my performance and trying to get everyone’s attention. Today, I was much more aware of the subway trains themselves and the actual noise they were making. When I realized that I’d been trying to out-run the train with my voice, it struck me as ridiculous and even a bit, well, arrogant. These trains are really, really loud! They are trains: big, hurtling machines of metal that run right over my voice no matter how loud I sing. You can’t compete with them, so it’s better to simply step gracefully aside and just sing quietly or hum or play a little instrumental when the train is going by. There’s no shame in this.

Nor is there any shame in not attempting to meet people’s eyes and smile encouragingly at them, because you can’t compete with a train of disinterested people either. When they walk by in the hundreds, all ignoring you, there is really nothing you can do. So you have a choice: either pack up and go home or keep singing.

This morning, I sang for longer than I did yesterday, and I saw more people, even though yesterday I sang during rush hour. When I started, I thought I’d actually be able to count the number of people passing by. Not a chance. I also thought I’d remember every person who made eye contact and threw some money toward me—but even now, after only two days, the individuals are starting to blur.

Today, several people stood out. There was an older gentleman who stopped and listened to a whole song (thought I’d remember which particular song it was, but I don’t) and came over to praise me for my music, saying "It’s my kind of music! And everyone would like it, even children!" Well, yes, I thought as I thanked him, and that was the idea when I auditioned for the TTC: Everyone would like it! And maybe they do, but I don’t really know that for a fact unless they toss me a quarter.

Then there was the grim-looking musician who I saw early in the morning. I caught his eye and said hello, hoping for camaraderie, and was met with only a gruff "Do you have a license?" Dropping my friendliness, I said "Yes I do" and he moved on without a word. After that I took the badge off from around my neck and put it in the case where everyone would see it. He came by an hour later and coolly checked out my take. (I wished the five dollar bill was still there.)

But the best customers of the day were three young teenage girls who stopped to listen, apparently in awe. I was playing "Where Do You Call Home?" and they were thrilled to tell me how wonderful it sounded, even though I was still playing and singing. (This seems to be a trend. People think they can come up to you and hold a conversation even though you’re singing a song.) I finished the song, even though it seemed a bit weird to do so, and gave them all business cards, which I autographed for them personally and added inspiring messages: "follow your heart and your dream". One of them said she’d keep it forever in her wallet. Another asked what record label I was on. And a third, when she said goodbye, said "I love you."

I started singing at 9:50 a.m. and stopped at 11:40. Not counting the five dollars that disappeared, I collected $20.20.