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hangedkayThe sound of the coins falling into the open guitar case was muffled by the heavy felt lining. To be fair, it shouldn't have been audible at all over the sound of the 10-string guitar, but the amplifier's power had been abruptly cut off, leaving the Harvard Square air nearly silent for the first time in almost an hour.
"Thanks, mate!" Zachary called after the passerby. He muted the strings and looked down into the case. Mostly nickels and pennies, but a few quarters and even a pair of dollar bills. Not a bad haul though not enough to pack up yet. The current lack of sound was a more pressing concern. Following the cable from his axe to his amp to the wall, he found the problem. A bearded man of about 50 was holding the power cable in his hands, his eyes staring with something less than compassion at Zachary and his approach to begging.
"What is this? It's bad enough i have to put up with the loss of customers to your terrible music. The law may protect you there, for now. But stealing my money by using my power? Get away from here or I will have you locked up so long you'll have to sell that thing to your cellmate to keep your scrawny ass in one piece."
Zachary grabbed the cable and stuffed it into the back of the amp, slammed the guitar case shut, and took off down the road, both hands full and guitar slung over his shoulder. He didn't slow down until he reached Pinocchio's. There, the smell of fresh Sicilian slices brought his run to a halt, and fresh saliva to his mouth. Spotting an open bench nearby, he dashed over to review the day's take.
Three dollars and seventeen cents. Apparently, it was going to take a but longer than he had hoped to save up to make his first album. At this point, even a slice of pizza was out of the question.
Too many people with credit cards instead of cash these days. Or Venmo. Or whatever.
Zachary sighed audibly, then looked around for another space to set up his gear. The Square was a surprisingly amenable place to musicians, and often became overcrowded with competing sounds. Today was a good day though, and he was able to find another corner with an outside outlet only a couple blocks away. He set up quickly, not wanting to waste the foot traffic, and started back in.
"My name is Zachary, and thank you for listening." And then off he went, the treble-bass in his hands sending his own musical compositions to be broadcast to the world. Or at least a few people in the area. The instrument was one of his own creation, containing a single neck with both bass and guitar strings on it. His left hand hammered out the bass lines while his right tapped out the melody and harmonies. The style created havoc on his fingernails, and he had bitten them down to the quick to avoid catching them awkwardly on the strings. As he fell into the heavy rhythm of the piece, his hair fell forward and threatened to catch up in the tuning pegs, requiring him to look upward to move it away. It didn't matter, he didn't need to see the strings. He had been playing these songs for so long that he could have played them in the dark or even blinded by stage lights.
And hopefully he would one day.
It was a long-term goal, and perhaps a pointless dream. To go from homeless to arena stages? From being pushed around by cops to being escorted on stage by security? From scrounging in the trash bins for food to having buffets laid out after a show? It wasn't realistic, but surely it could happen. Why not for him?
As his hands continued to play their intricate dance on the fretboard, Zachary allowed his mind to drift away from the streets. One day it wouldn't be like this. No longer unknown, no longer wearing Goodwill clothing, no longer relying on others to be kind. Instead, he would have control, he would make decisions, he would be a rock and roll god. And he would be adored by millions of fans.
His hands continued to fly along the fretboard, finishing the song with an emphatic, powerful sound that echoed into the alleyways around him. He could hear the future crowds now, calling out his name.
"Zachary! Zachary! Zachary!"
--
"Zachary! Time to get going! You don't want to be late for the Academy. Jane has already made breakfast and your ride will be here soon!"
Zachary opened his eyes, and stared at himself in the mirror. The image contained a stark contrast to his internal visions - a plump young man in a perfectly ironed suit and tie, a baby-smooth face, and immaculately manicured hands holding a cricket bat like a guitar. His close-cropped brown hair was just barely visible under a black cowboy hat with a white skull and crossbones emblazoned across the front.
The initial bassline of "Bad Man's Grave" by Rain Like the Sound of Trains, a song set on infinite loop, began to play through his bedroom's 5.1 DTS system.
"Alexa, stop." He sighed audibly, then closed his eyes again, trying to relive the dream for just another moment.
"Zachary?"
"Okay mom, I'm on my way."
After replacing the cricket bat on the wall with the rest of his collection, Zachary straightened his tie and headed downstairs. The maid was in and tidying his room before he made it to the dining room.
"Oh son, take off that hat. It makes you look like a cattle rustler."
"Yes, ma'am," Zachary sighed, the hat and his dreams set aside for another day.
"Thanks, mate!" Zachary called after the passerby. He muted the strings and looked down into the case. Mostly nickels and pennies, but a few quarters and even a pair of dollar bills. Not a bad haul though not enough to pack up yet. The current lack of sound was a more pressing concern. Following the cable from his axe to his amp to the wall, he found the problem. A bearded man of about 50 was holding the power cable in his hands, his eyes staring with something less than compassion at Zachary and his approach to begging.
"What is this? It's bad enough i have to put up with the loss of customers to your terrible music. The law may protect you there, for now. But stealing my money by using my power? Get away from here or I will have you locked up so long you'll have to sell that thing to your cellmate to keep your scrawny ass in one piece."
Zachary grabbed the cable and stuffed it into the back of the amp, slammed the guitar case shut, and took off down the road, both hands full and guitar slung over his shoulder. He didn't slow down until he reached Pinocchio's. There, the smell of fresh Sicilian slices brought his run to a halt, and fresh saliva to his mouth. Spotting an open bench nearby, he dashed over to review the day's take.
Three dollars and seventeen cents. Apparently, it was going to take a but longer than he had hoped to save up to make his first album. At this point, even a slice of pizza was out of the question.
Too many people with credit cards instead of cash these days. Or Venmo. Or whatever.
Zachary sighed audibly, then looked around for another space to set up his gear. The Square was a surprisingly amenable place to musicians, and often became overcrowded with competing sounds. Today was a good day though, and he was able to find another corner with an outside outlet only a couple blocks away. He set up quickly, not wanting to waste the foot traffic, and started back in.
"My name is Zachary, and thank you for listening." And then off he went, the treble-bass in his hands sending his own musical compositions to be broadcast to the world. Or at least a few people in the area. The instrument was one of his own creation, containing a single neck with both bass and guitar strings on it. His left hand hammered out the bass lines while his right tapped out the melody and harmonies. The style created havoc on his fingernails, and he had bitten them down to the quick to avoid catching them awkwardly on the strings. As he fell into the heavy rhythm of the piece, his hair fell forward and threatened to catch up in the tuning pegs, requiring him to look upward to move it away. It didn't matter, he didn't need to see the strings. He had been playing these songs for so long that he could have played them in the dark or even blinded by stage lights.
And hopefully he would one day.
It was a long-term goal, and perhaps a pointless dream. To go from homeless to arena stages? From being pushed around by cops to being escorted on stage by security? From scrounging in the trash bins for food to having buffets laid out after a show? It wasn't realistic, but surely it could happen. Why not for him?
As his hands continued to play their intricate dance on the fretboard, Zachary allowed his mind to drift away from the streets. One day it wouldn't be like this. No longer unknown, no longer wearing Goodwill clothing, no longer relying on others to be kind. Instead, he would have control, he would make decisions, he would be a rock and roll god. And he would be adored by millions of fans.
His hands continued to fly along the fretboard, finishing the song with an emphatic, powerful sound that echoed into the alleyways around him. He could hear the future crowds now, calling out his name.
"Zachary! Zachary! Zachary!"
--
"Zachary! Time to get going! You don't want to be late for the Academy. Jane has already made breakfast and your ride will be here soon!"
Zachary opened his eyes, and stared at himself in the mirror. The image contained a stark contrast to his internal visions - a plump young man in a perfectly ironed suit and tie, a baby-smooth face, and immaculately manicured hands holding a cricket bat like a guitar. His close-cropped brown hair was just barely visible under a black cowboy hat with a white skull and crossbones emblazoned across the front.
The initial bassline of "Bad Man's Grave" by Rain Like the Sound of Trains, a song set on infinite loop, began to play through his bedroom's 5.1 DTS system.
"Alexa, stop." He sighed audibly, then closed his eyes again, trying to relive the dream for just another moment.
"Zachary?"
"Okay mom, I'm on my way."
After replacing the cricket bat on the wall with the rest of his collection, Zachary straightened his tie and headed downstairs. The maid was in and tidying his room before he made it to the dining room.
"Oh son, take off that hat. It makes you look like a cattle rustler."
"Yes, ma'am," Zachary sighed, the hat and his dreams set aside for another day.
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Date: 2022-06-04 03:04 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2022-06-07 11:53 am (UTC)That song by RLTSOT is an example of what I find most interesting about the music industry. So many artists have that one song that is so impressive in some way (in this case the bass line for me, but it can be a particular instrument, vocal line, lyric, hook, etc.) yet the rest of their musical catalog is just lacking. Those little sparks of unfulfilled potential just grab my attention.
The imagined version of the musician in my story is actually based on a real street musician named "R.O.B. - Rob on Bass" who played a 10-string treble guitar in Harvard Square - was amazing, so much so that I bought his home-made "album". It contained 2 great songs of him with a drummer, and then a dozen electro-synth keyboard wastes of space. I still regret what he could have been.
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Date: 2022-06-04 10:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2022-06-07 11:56 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2022-06-05 05:54 pm (UTC)- Erulisse (one L)
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Date: 2022-06-07 11:59 am (UTC)Thanks for the comment and for reading.
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Date: 2022-06-06 07:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2022-06-07 11:57 am (UTC)Thanks for the kind words.
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Date: 2022-06-08 03:38 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2022-06-08 09:56 pm (UTC)― Neil Gaiman
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Date: 2022-06-09 09:18 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2022-06-09 11:20 pm (UTC)I'm sure Zachary hears from others "You couldn't afford that if you dad wasn't..." etc.
I always am amazed how the young feel by wearing a hat or other clothes, you can "become" someone else. Real change happens inside then flows out. My now 15 year old used to wear a beret everywhere, didn't want to go out in public without it. Said it was "her signature."
I think most people, include Zachary, who dream of being homeless, have no idea of the reality of homeless during the rain, homeless after getting beaten up, homeless with no where to clean up. I wish all politicians had to live as homeless for weeks just to understand, but, honestly, the worst part is KNOWING it might NEVER change and that feeling cannot be replicated.
Great take on the prompt!