Trip to Islington

The last time I visited Islington subway station, I was a first-year university student visiting a friend. That was 22 years ago. Nothing about the station looked familiar when I arrived at 2:05 this afternoon. I consulted the guidebook that the TTC provided for musicians. It said that the yellow dotted performance area was "on the Mezzanine Level, against the back wall of centre set of stairs and escalator, opposite the bus transfer area". "Mezzanine Level"? How about "Parking-Lot Sized Expanse of Grey Concrete Floor"? I wandered onto it, guitar in hand, scanning the floor for yellow dots.

Sure enough, I looked down and there they were, right under my feet. The performance area was overlooking the escalator and stairwell that led down to the trains, positioned in such a way that (if you wanted to) you could play over the railing to the people heading downstairs. (For that matter, you could throw yourself over the railing and plunge to your death in a dramatic act of singer-songwriter suicide.)

The performance area seemed to be precisely in the middle of the subway station. If you looked south, you saw the people going down. If you looked west, you saw people walking away from you toward the buses. If you looked north, you saw people coming up the opposite stairs (and immediately veering away from you to get to the bus). And if you looked east, you saw people headed for the lottery kiosk. But most of the time, you’d look out onto two-hundred square feet of empty tile floor which looked like an empty roller rink.

Okay, I thought, I can deal with this. The acoustics are probably great, right? Might as well give it a shot. So I unpacked my guitar, set myself up and started to sing. Right away I discovered a new challenge. With no wall behind me, only the balcony-like railing, I didn’t feel comfortable turning my back to the people going downstairs. Nor did I want to ignore the people coming up the stairs in front of me. (Why was I worried, though, about ignoring anybody? After all, everyone was clearly ignoring ME.)

As I played, I caught people’s eyes and smiled, but to no avail. I was suddenly reminded of Harry Potter’s Invisibility Cloak.

But wait! Some of the people heading downstairs were obviously enjoying my performance. They were smiling up at me as the escalator transported them down…down… But what were they going to do: lob quarters at me up and over the rail?

Meanwhile, other people at Islington Station who wanted to support me had to cross the concrete floor in a dramatic and purposeful way—as though they were crossing an empty high school dance floor or crossing the floor in Parliament. Nobody was having any of it.

At one point, an intense looking dark-skinned man about my age and height came over and very deliberately caught my eye as he threw in a few coins. As I said "thanks" I suddenly realized something. That guy looked like Prince. Yeah, THE Prince. I’m singing away and thinking, he did move to Toronto didn’t he? Which rich neighborhood did he and his new wife move into? Was it anywhere near Islington? As he walked toward the downstairs escalator I tried to play more brilliantly. As he walked away, I wondered if I had just missed the Chance of a Lifetime.

But it couldn’t really be Prince.

Prince couldn’t wander around on the subways, he’d be mobbed.

Besides he looked a little on the heavy side. For Prince.

Maybe this is what happens when you’re desperate for attention: you turn passers-by into celebrities.

I stayed at Islington for almost an hour and made about $5.50, one dollar of which I spent at the Gateway Newstand. (I noticed today that it’s spelled incorrectly; shouldn’t it be Newsstand?) The proprietor had listened to my whole performance and had smiled encouragingly at me, and I figured I should reward myself with something, so I picked up a roll of Werther’s butterscotch candies. As I paid for it, the owner pointed to the space just beside the garbage can, directly opposite from his counter.

"There, that would be a good place for you," he said.

"Thanks," I said, "But we’re supposed to stay inside the yellow dots."

"Oh," he said, looking a little mystified.