Busking

I recognise the busker strumming away, standing outside the hairdresser, as I take my seat opposite him and wait for my coffee to arrive. He used to play the open mic night I went to every week. His usual slot was always towards the end of the evening, and it always coincided with me going to the toilet, taking my time, stopping at the bar on the way back, getting a round of drinks in and picking my way through the maze of smoke and occupied chairs, tray in hand, to return to my table. Of course, "coincided" is sleight of hand on my part; it was no coincidence that I left while he was playing, any more than it was a coincidence that he chose to take to the stage at a point in proceedings when the audience might have drunk enough to appreciate his efforts. 

It must be seven years since I last saw him play. I don't think he's spent them getting any better at it. The check shirt he's wearing could easily date from seven years ago, although I'm pleased to see that he's shaved off the ridiculous patch of hair that used to squat between his chin and his bottom lip. There's something desperate about his performance too, the way he says "thank you", mid-song, to the handful of people dropping a handful of coppers into the vast space inside the boundaries of his guitar case. 

Because he's playing for money the songs are all covers. I can't work out whether that makes things better or worse; from memory his original compositions were pretty awful but with covers you have a memory of what they ought to sound like. I inwardly tut, eating my salad, as he murders Maggie May but worse is to come. From that point onwards all his songs seem to have been chosen with the sole purpose of making mocking them far too easy - he plays That's Entertainment, which isn't, and Everybody's Talkin', which I suppose they are, though it isn't complimentary. A more appropriate title would have been Everybody's Left; I was lucky to get the last free table outside when I arrived, but since he started in earnest only a few people remain. 

I sometimes think the worst fate in the world must be to have a dream without having the ability to back it up. You see those people all the time in the early stages of talent shows. They are going to be the next big thing, they tell you, even if you wouldn't know it to look at them, because when they open their mouth and sing all your doubts will melt away. Except then they open their mouths and sing and it's definitely beyond doubt, but it's a painful mess, and they don't understand why everybody is laughing. I don't understand why people laugh at that either; it is the saddest thing of all, and it makes me feel ashamed of the world I live in where this is an acceptable spectacle. That's entertainment, indeed. 

A friend of the busker's walks past and they exchange enthusiastic greetings. Looking at him again, I think how patronising I am. He can play guitar and he can sing just fine, though he's not to my taste. Besides, who am I to judge what his dreams are. Maybe he just loves playing and singing, maybe this is exactly what he wants. Maybe the smiles and winks and thank yous to passers-by are all part of that too. I stop for a moment to think about all the creative people I know and like. Am I calling them all failures because they don't have a book deal or a record in the shops?

Perhaps I'm just jealous, the way I always am of people who have faith in their own ability. Because you can say whatever you like about the busker but at least he's out there doing it. And when he gets home at the end of the day and counts out all the coins, back at his house, will he think he's lucky? Will his guitar case be half empty or half full? Because if it was me, I would see every coin that wasn't in there, and I'd remember every person who walked past me without a look, their money hiding unclinking in their wallet. How long would the busker last if his attitude to rejection was anything like mine?

Next I try to imagine a world where I did what the busker is doing, standing on street corners reading out my work, or handing out fliers to disinterested strangers. But I can't picture it; even if it was the done thing I know I would never do it. Far easier to sit on the sidelines, watch somebody else and tell myself that I could do a much better job. Meanwhile, the busker has moved on to a rendition of Red Red Wine. It's not at all bad.

It's a few minutes before I register that it was his final song and when I look again he is crouched over his guitar case, folding up his setlist and putting his harmonica away. Much quicker than I intended I get out of my chair, walk across to him and throw in a couple of pound coins. I don't know if it's for the performance or the lesson, but I do know that they are the only pound coins in there. He looks up and his smile is genuine. "Thanks, sir." he says. 

I'm not sure if he recognises me, but that's okay. I'm not sure I recognise myself.