The Squeaky Escalator

I heard the noise before I started to descend the escalator at Queen's Park station. At first I wondered if a violinist was in the spot, tuning her instrument or (perhaps) playing something bravely avant-garde.

Instead, it was the escalator itself making the noise: an agitated "squeak-SQUAWK!' that rang through the echoey vestibule every few seconds. It was an intermittent sound that didn't seem to be related to any particular event in the escalator. It was just a persistent protest, like the Tin Man's cry of "oil-can!" at the beginning of the Wizard of Oz.

Oh well, at least no other musician was in the spot. I set up my stuff, chalking up the noise to the dampness, or wondering if it was the ghost of commuters past, come visiting for Hallowe'en.

It'd been more than a week since I've been out singing on the subways, so I found myself a bit out-of-practice. Although my guitar and voice filled up the space thanks to the natural reverb in the busking corner, I found myself tending to over-sing to attract people's attention. Also, after an hour of playing guitar, I noticed a strange prickling numbness in my left hand. Repetitive strain injury? I took a break, stretched my hand and took a drink of water. The escalator squeaked.

Over the last few weeks, I've been digging out from under a higher-than-usual workload, and tending to ignore my need for food, rest, exercise and personal space. I've had that "soldiering on" kind of attitude that I sometimes get when there's too much to do in my life. When I've picked up the guitar, I've sometimes played with an energy that's close to violence, as if music itself could knock down the walls of responsibility and over-commitedness that so often rise up around me. The intensity in my performance worked at Queen's Park subway, attracting many enthusiastic donations (including a $10 bill). I took few breaks as I played, often running one song into another, and pushed aside the sound of the squeaking escalator each time I briefly paused.

But eventually, after 2 1/2 hours, my voice and my hands were telling me I needed to stop. As I packed up, I saw that the squeaky escalator had out-lasted me. There it was, sounding off as loudly as it had at the beginning, saying "You want me to take you somewhere? Then look after me!" Today, I'm thinking of that message, as I take a break from the computer to go to exercise class and to eat lunch.