4:00-ish: Tin Can Alley

Pape Station - 4:00 to 5:10 p.m. approx.

Okay, so I don't really know when I arrived at Pape, or Woodbine for that matter. Also, I'm unsure of my exact earnings on those shifts, because by the third busking appearance of the day, I was losing track of time and how much seed money I put in my case.

I was starting to fade.

Maintaining a pleasant expression and positive performance energy isn't easy after playing for hours. How do the full-time buskers do it? When do they quit? Do they head home when they start to feel tired and bitter, or when the magic number of toonies finally lands in their case?

The answer is probably both. If it's important to make enough money to pay the rent, you probably keep going no matter what. I feel grateful that so far I'm not in that situation...although the money I earn in the subway is very important to our family. Right now, I have the luxury of choosing when to sing and why: I can turn it into a "job" if I choose to...or keep singing only for joy. That choice is a difficult one for me...but I recognize that I'm fortunate to have the choice at all.

As rush hour started at Pape Station, the wind was picking up. (It would be interesting to know why, from an engineering perspective, the wind tunnel effect is so strong at this particular subway station. I suspect it has something to do with the trains coming through at the same time as the buses above ground, but I'm being completely unscientific.)

The garbage can to my right was overflowing and a couple of tin cans had gotten loose. The first one clanged across the tile floor to the stairway in front of me and bounced halfway down. The second one remained still for some time (a subway rider tried to secure it to the rest of the garbage but failed) until it, too, was picked up by the wind and went skittering across the floor. Both times, the cans were too far away for me to reach without putting down my guitar, so I let them dance with the wind. It was entertaining.

The cans were empty, of course, which is why they were so vulnerable to the random airstream. By this time in the long day, I was feeling hollow too, despite the encouraging smiles of people passing by, steady donations and another CD sale. I had given too much and I knew it. With each new song, I stood as firm as I could and tried to sing with conviction, but it sounded false.

If I kept at it, viewing this experience as a job primarily to make money, I might have earned another ten bucks or so.

(Whoosh! The tin can bumps up against my open guitar case.)

But if I went home now, I might reserve enough energy to come back tomorrow...or to plan a series of songwriting workshops or book a few paying gigs.

(Clangety-clang! The can bounces its way toward the exit.)

($36.47)