Perspective
The world passed by the old man on the sidewalk. The sea of humanity, representing at any given time the good and bad of the human race, poured along the avenue between South and 57th. The frazzled mother slapping her child, whining about some bauble he had seen in the window. The businessmen, busy and self important, absorbed in some new device or screen, doing so much and yet so little.
Yes, the world moves fast, too fast, the man decided. Humanity moves in certain, determined steps towards its own doom, not stopping to notice the crumpled ghost of a man left, forgotten, by the road side, with only a neatly lettered sign proclaiming his need, and a small cup. His cup held nothing, the shiny bottom stared up at him, and the old man knew it there would be no food tonight. Again, he wondered if he should dispose of the one item of value he had. And again he shook the idea off in disgust.
“Mister, what happened to your arm?” The old man turned to see a little girl, eyes wide, pointing at the ragged hole in his shirt, which revealed the smooth scar of his shoulder, and lack of a right arm.
“Kara, don’t be so rude.” A scarlet faced mother hurried her child along, saying a quick sorry but not meeting the eyes of the decrepit beggar. The man sat up, and rearranged the blankets around his stump. At least she was honest. These people cannot be honest, something truthful has been repressed inside them. They cannot say that they won’t give money, they just hurry by, not meeting my eyes, and hoping that I won’t talk to them.
The man reached unwrapped the blanket and solemnly pulled out his treasure. A violin, the wood red and shining, in perfect condition, but that hadn’t been played for ten years. Its strings, once lively and full of tunes, were dead and lifeless. Just like me. A one-armed man cannot play the instrument, but the old gentleman still clung onto it, as some sort of vestige, a dreg, of his old life, with people to play for and places to go, family to love, life to live. Everything had gone silent now, reduced to the quiet of a forgotten road, and people too busy to notice a shattered life crouched between two stairways.
Slowly, the old man picked himself off the ground. The shining violin was clasped in his hand. He placed the instrument between his knees, grabbed the bow with his free hand, and drew it across the strings. Music floated out, released from the wooden cage, still somehow in tune after ten years of deathly silence. The man sighed, feeling the pressure of the world lift off his shoulders with that one note. Two people, a father and son, stopped and turned for the source of the noise. The bow drew across the strings again, this time releasing two chirping notes, lithe and merry, into the sky.
More notes poured out as the man, not sure how he still retained this skill, played his heart out. The haunting melody stretched and poured into the hearts of the people walking by, who stopped and cocked their heads, pulling out earphones and gathering around the man, mouths open and questioning. They had believed this man to just be another part of the grey and white landscape, just another piece of grime in the big city.
As the last note, coaxed from the man’s ragged fingers, faded out across the dim landscape, the crowd erupted into applause. Dollars and cents showered like rain into the man’s cup. When all the hubbub died down, a little girl noticed it first, and gently whispered it to her mother. The crowd realized it as well, and slowly began to wander away, tears streaming from their eyes, talking, laughing, phones and briefcases ignored.
Behind them, the old man clasped the violin between his rugged hands, a small smile on his face. As the last note had played, his heart had stopped. Was it a coincidence? Who can tell? Nobody knew that man’s story, and he had no family. Soon he might be forgotten again, no one noticing that the spot he had filled was now empty.
But I hope that someone remembered.
