Tommy

I could tell he'd want to talk the minute he came up the stairs.

With dirty clothes and long unwashed hair, he was drunk but didn't look threatening. I returned his smile and continued to play and sing. He took up residence beside the garbage can next to the designated busking area.

"Heeey..." he sang, not out of tune, while pantomiming a guitar strum.

I kept singing: "That flavour's an acquired taste...a bitter taste, it's true..."

"Hey, she's really good!" he called out. People rushed past us, looking uncomfortable. A few made a point of giving me some change, as if to demonstrate that they'd rather donate to a busker than a bum.

"It's working," he said, figuring that he was helping business. "Keep singing!"

I tried, but forgot my words and stopped. "So, you must be a musician." It's always a safe bet.

"Yeah, yeah!" he said. "Here, lemme show you..." He reached for my guitar.

"Actually, I can't let you play here," I said. "It's against the rules. People would ask you to leave."

That wouldn't be such a bad thing, of course. But I knew that I was on my own. I'd have to manage this interaction myself, unless a TTC staffer or special duty policeman happened to come along. The shopkeeper at the Gateway stand was keeping a watchful eye, but he seemed more entertained than concerned.

"C'mon," he insisted. "One song. 'My Sweet Lord'". He reached for my guitar.

"No, I really can't let you." He tugged at it gently.

I saw then that even though he was drunk, he was stronger than I am. I had to make sure he didn't become angry.

"Well, okay. One song. Half a song."

Sure enough, he knew the chords, and sang out with a clear and strong voice...too loudly for the public corridor. I quickly bent down to turn down the volume on my amp.

"My Sweet Lord..."

I couldn't help it. I chimed in automatically with "Hallelujah..." even though people were filing past us with alarmed expressions now.

"My Sweet Lord..."

" Hallelujah..." I continued, then suddenly came to my senses. "Okay, thanks, that's great. Maybe you can teach me the song." I took the guitar back from him.

Without waiting for him to demonstrate the chords, I surprised myself by playing the right ones immediately--no doubt aided by the stress of the situation.

"Maybe I can sing one for you now," I suggested. And I started singing "Crossing My Mind" as well as I could, to keep him from interrupting again.

"Issat your song?" he asked as I sang. I nodded quickly, and noticed that the man at the Gateway stand was smiling openly at me with clear approval. Why, I wondered? Was he pleased that I'd avoided a confrontation, or was he just enjoying the song?

No-one donated as they walked past, but I'm sure I sang "Crossing My Mind" better than I ever have...glancing occasionally at the man, who kept urging people to listen to me.

When the song was over, he held out his hand and told me his name, which was Tommy*. He said he's had "more guitars than years". Forty-five, I'm guessing.

"So...Lynn," he repeated. "What was your last name again?"

"Harrison," I said. "Like George."

"She's gonna make it," he said to no-one in particular and the Gateway man. And by that, I thought he also meant, "Not like me". But he just shook his head and didn't say it.

He wove back down the corridor a couple of times to shake my hand again, before leaving. "Tommy Mitchell," he said. "Like Joni."



* I've changed the name.