Stay

10:45 p.m., Eglinton Station

My gig at a neighborhood pub has finished up early. It's Sunday night, on the August holiday long weekend. The Songwriter's Circle was a relatively quick one, with everybody playing five songs to a crowd made up mostly of "regulars".
A few friends had come to hear me--and had left after my last song--and all the musicians had cleared the place.

Saying goodbye to the few people left at the bar, I headed home, taking public transit. Eglinton Station was muggy and desolate. The Bagel Stop was closed up for the night and only a few sleepy people were straggling through.

I noticed the yellow dots (very clean ones, perhaps recently replaced) and walked on by, down the stairs and straight into a waiting train.

It kept waiting, doors open.

("But I don't have my amp! I already did my gig tonight!")

The doors stayed open.

Okay, fine. I get it.

I got up from my seat, hoisted up the guitar and exited the train. As I headed back up the stairs, I heard the three-note "doors closing" chime behind me.

I opened my guitar case, set my license up proudly inside it, and fished in my pockets for whatever spare change I could find. (We five songwriters had earned $7.00 each on "pass the hat" at the bar. I'd sold a couple of CDs too, to someone who already knew and liked my music, so I figured I'd done okay, relatively speaking.)

My guitar sounded quiet, and my voice sounded naked.

("What am I doing here?")

I played three songs, glad that I could make the music stay a little longer for myself tonight. In order to cut through the silence, and because I had no amp, I had to play with as much intensity as possible.

And sing with as much feeling.

I earned three "thumbs up".

And a dollar.

Then I could go home.