tune: cough syrup-young the giant
Every day, I pass her. Her frame shivers and twitches against the corrugated, concrete infrastructure of my streets subway station—and she's always singing. She has careful fingers. They strum resonances from a mahogany, acoustic guitar into the brisk, oceanic climate of our surroundings. Often, I can feel myself breathe them in. The vibration of the notes rumble in my throat along with my anxious heartbeat. It's a stark contrast—the ability in comparison to her overall presence. She plays—seemingly with ease—through the chill I can see crawling up her skin. Hands. Careful, powerful hands. A slow, melancholic tune. Her voice drips with emotion that pools at my feet. My sneakers are wet as I pass through and down into the platform, the thought of her tracking me. I can feel the profoundness of it all soak through the fabric.
I am constantly filled with angst. I have too many thoughts—too many feelings. What circumstance is she under? I wonder if she's hungry or tired. I wonder why she's there. I don't speak to her. I don't know her. But I think about her. I think too many things.
There are many desires that live inside of me. They are so severe they almost feel like beings. The things that I want have an existence, they want to manifest themselves. It tickles at the back of my mind like an itch in the flesh that won't go away.
She looks very young, couldn't be much older than me, but she also looks worn down.
I give spare change and dollars in appreciation for her performance, but also in pity—and a nagging of guilt. It's none of my concern why she's sat on the cold concrete floor in a tattered, drenched, moldy leather coat and ripped-up blue jeans. It's not my fault she has to pine and sing for money everyday. This has nothing to do with me, but I still feel obligated to her in some way.
So I throw pocket change into her guitar case, along with the small collection of other people's pocket change, every single day, and I still feel like shit.
I listen try to listen to her songs. The way she sings them. The way her face looks as she lilts the lyrics. I don't want her to fade into the background. I feel guilt in adding to her degradation. I can feel the way everyone around seems to ignore her. Even as they are providing her with money. It's a droning, frivolous reaction. Either apathy or facility. and I throw change and a smile. The change varying amounts depending on what's in my pocket, and how much money I need to get through the day. The size and sincerity of the smile also varies, depending on how devastating she looks that day, and how bright those green eyes shine.
I can never muster anything big because said green eyes are deep like space but have no stars to make them sparkle, and I feel like shit.
I always feel like absolute shit.
-
As time flies by, she's still there, leaning against the same yellow pole, playing the same guitar, singing the same song.
Eventually, I manage to earn a raise at work, and a recommendation from my linguistics professor to be a TA at the building where his daughter takes singing lessons.
At this point, I start to give her more and more spare cash, dollar bills and coins turning into tens and twenties, and it's insane, but I give them to her anyway.
I give her another twenty today, placing it carefully into her guitar case, the bill sticking out like a gem paired along with the nickels and dimes placed there previously.
"I can't take so much from you." She says, with her eyes glued to her lap, and thick, dark brown hair falling in her face.
"Sure you can, it's not very hard." I point, my ice cold hands shaking lightly.
