Last Bandit: Book 1 in The Bandits Series

Immigrant Song

Chapter 2: Immigrant Song ~

1990 is less than two months away, so a lot of stores are having year end sales. Or holiday specials. I come across a thrift store just outside of Ohio who is offering discounts off of discounts. I walk in, even though I don't have money for some new clothes.

There's eyes on me, but I'm used to it. It doesn't bother me anymore. Besides, they either ask if I'm a drifter or a musician. And I always say both. Even when I had a steady home.

"Can I help you with anything?" a lady walks up to me and asks. She's rather young, younger than me perhaps, and more friendly than any other thrift store worker I have seen.

"No, I'm just looking. Thanks." Then I turn around and accidentally bump her with my long guitar case. "Sorry."

She gives a smile in return then goes back to her post at the counter. And she watches me, not in an admiring way, but just to watch me.

The store has a lot of nice things. A lot of things I want. But I also want to eat. And I've got a long way to go. Where am I even going? I guess I'll know when I get there.

I walk into a relatively big town just beyond the thrift store. Cars are everywhere, and I'm hoping one is headed west. Or wherever. It doesn't matter anymore.

I thumb for three hours with no luck. I've forgotten what day it is already. I've lost track of where I am. I could be in West Virginia, Kentucky, Indiana, Michigan. Maybe Pennsylvania too. I wasn't really keeping track of whether I was going west or not. I just know I saw one of those 'Come Visit Ohio Again' signs not too long ago.

In the middle of the city, wherever it is, I set down my guitar case, take a seat on top of it and pull out my harmonica. I start playing an old blues song I learned from my father years ago.

The people start to gather around. They like it, though it's nothing special. So I take off my hat and try to earn whatever money I can. And I continue to play. And they continue to stand before me and smile. I guess they never heard anything like this.

Two hours pass until I am approached by a homeless man. He looks at the harmonica at my lips, and then at the coin filled hat at my feet.

"Know where I can get one of those?"

They're relatively cheap, so I stand up and stick the thing in my back pocket. And then I count five dollars out of my day's earning and pour the change into his hands.

"Bless you, bless you," he repeats happily, nodding his head. He scurries off before I can suggest a place to purchase a harmonica.

Passerbys smile at me and throw more change into my hat, though they weren't here to listen to one of my tunes.

I still have enough money to go back and buy something at the thrift store. Maybe I will after I get something to eat.