Vacation's Over

I have been talking to the man in the wheelchair outside the Beer Store.

It started yesterday, when I was on my way to a place called The Grasshopper. It's a cozy little three-steps-underground bar that has an "open mic" on Wednesday nights. Unlike Fat Albert's (which is on vacation for the summer) and other open stages, there's no long sign-up list of artists at The Grasshopper. There is, however, an open mic, a really open one, sitting invitingly in the middle of a stage, waiting for someone to come up and seize it. It's a good place for my songwriting friends and me. Yesterday night I was headed there by streetcar and I was feeling especially happy because I'd just finished a new song. It's called "Giant Slide". I wrote it on Tuesday at the end of a family vacation, when we were sitting on the sand at Wasaga Beach, a frozen-in-time summer tourist town.

When I'm excited about a new song, I feel like a new person. I'm more energetic and confident and likely to connect with anyone I see. Songwriting takes me to a new place entirely. It's a holiday in a notepad (add an instrument and, heck, you're all expenses paid at a luxury resort) No wonder I find myself climbing into that vehicle (and revving up the pen) even when I'm riding in actual cars, and especially when I'm hanging around beaches on family vacations.

The vacation's over. Or it's just starting. More likely it never ended.

So back to the guy in the wheelchair.

I had always avoided him. For me, he personified the cause too lost to help. My children had noticed him--he does not wear shoes or socks, his feet are patchy and swollen with sores, as is one of his hands. The kids could not understand why he did not wear shoes even in the winter and I had no answer for them. I fear and avoid this person normally; I have no response, no generosity that could make a dent. Yesterday though, humming and buoyant, I met his eyes--which were clear and bright blue and lively--and smiled and went over to talk.

He could barely speak, but he gestured toward my guitar with his good hand, then pointed at himself and grinned.

His meaning was unmistakable. "You play?!" I asked, giving him a dollar.

He nodded enthusiastically but indicated his crippled hand, which prevented him from playing anymore. Continuing the conversation without words, he started moving his other hand as if on a fretboard...and SANG a blues guitar lick for me.

Today I returned to Pape Station. The woman at the Gateway Newstand seemed less friendly than usual today, which rattled me at first, as did a man who seemed to make fun of my hat. I played for couple of hours, selling a pair of CDs to a wonderful man who had just seen The Rolling Stones at The Phoenix last night, meeting a teacher from my daughter's school, watching several daycamp groups file by. In honour of The Stones, I played "You Can't Always Get What You Want". And I played "Giant Slide" of course, confirming my suspicions that I haven't yet memorized the words. As I was packing up to leave, one woman donated a dollar and wished me good luck at the auditions.

As is my custom now, I bought something at the Gateway store, and said hello to the woman there. She told me business is very slow. It's true, I said. Other people have told me that, everywhere, not just on the subways.

As I came home, the man in the wheelchair was outside the Beer Store, for the second day in a row. I wasn't sure whether to stop today (this is always the question...do you stop? Do you stop again? Do you never stop stopping? How is this done?) and was walking past him when I realized he could see my reflection in the Beer Store window.

"HELLO!" he shouted out at the window because he couldn't turn around. I stopped.

I saw that today he wasn't doing as well as he was yesterday, even though his eyes were still penetrating. Placing some change into the paper bag he held (small change, not the kind needed) I asked him if anyone was looking after him...whether he just looked after himself...?

I knew the answer...and there was nothing I could do but hold his (good) hand for a few seconds, knowing that at one time, he was playing and singing too.