Belle slung the battered guitar case over her shoulder, the cord she'd used to replace the original strap cutting into her neck. She ducked out the back door and skipped down the steps to the tiny backyard. Stepping around a busted tricycle she lifted the gate's latch and pushed it out into the alley just enough to squeeze though without ripping the case from her back. Once clear of the gate she took off down the alley at a trot, the guitar bouncing against her spine.
Weaving an intricate route through the neighborhood, she bypassed the turf of one gang or another until she reached North 6th Street then turned south passing under the Lincoln Highway. There she slowed, alert for any sign she had drawn attention from the night's collection of homeless that sheltered under the flyover. Once clear she veered into Franklin Square and continued south to Race Street. Crossing Race, then North 6th, she continued south past the National Constitution Center to Independence Mall State Park.
When she reached the south end of the mall she stopped and swung the guitar case from her shoulder. Propping the duct taped lid open against the wall; she pulled out her guitar and began tuning it, oblivious to the growing light and traffic. It was a Saturday morning and the summer's heat was mostly gone, winter's cold had yet to arrive. No hint of cloud touched the sky and she had a feeling it was going to be a lucrative day.
She started with the stuff her grand had taught her, patriotic crap like America the Beautiful. It wasn't what she wanted to play but it was what the tourists expected as they began to gather prior to the opening of the Liberty Bell exhibit. By the time the line began to filter into the building there was a fair collection of coins and dollar bills in her case.
Once the initial crowd dissipated she moved on to her own music, what she really came to play for. The guitar became a drum, the strings began to screech under her finger nails and the music changed to hip hop. As she allowed her attention to become absorbed in the sound she failed to notice an accompaniment sounds with no origin. Only when coins began to drop into her case in almost a flood did she break free from the music and pause to take in the crowd that had grown up around her.
As the last note fainted applause broke out and she found her self the center of attention. To her amazement, even the white tourists were grinning and clapping. More money dropped into her case as she reviewed her last song in her head. It was one she'd written a couple of months ago and it had never gotten that type of reception in the past. Realizing she had an opportunity she struck up another of her works.
The music in her head, the way she heard all her work, surrounded her, flowing out into the crowd and across the street. It drew an ever expanding crowd until one of Philly's finest decided the mob was blocking the entrance into the Bell's museum. She finished the song just as he reached her.
"Let me see you license," he demanded.
She swallowed hard. She'd never bothered with a street performers license and she could see the cop knew it. The man scowled down at her, his dark face looking thunder. As he opened his mouth to start yelling at her a white guy in a suit stepped up.
"What's the problem, office?" he asked. From a vest pocket he extracted a gold business card case and offered one of the gold embossed cream rectangles to the cop. "I represent this young lady so anything you have to say, you may say it to me."
The cop read the card then handed it back.
"Just see she gets a license next time," he said, then turned and pushed into the crowd.
The girl eyed the man in the suit skeptically. He offered the card the cop had returned and she took it. The name and list of names that told her the firm meant nothing to her.
