“Mommy, tell me again how you met Dad?”
When I saw him on the street that night with his termite infested guitar, I just had to stay and linger. So I sat and stared and listened to him strumming on the guitar a tune that somewhat resembled Johnny Cash’s “Walk the Line.” Johnny Cash would not be happy about this rendition. Did he actually make money doing this? His collection cup was only filled with a torn and tattered dollar, two quarters, one dime, and a piece of Juicy Fruit.
He wasn’t like other street performers. He was young and attractive with a Robert Redford scruffiness that appealed to me. What are you thinking? I was actually attracted to a street performer and a bad performer too. Maybe he had lice. Maybe he had AIDS. Maybe he was a schizophrenic. I liked him.
I wonder what his name is. I wonder why he is here. I wonder why I’m still standing here. I can’t seem to leave. I need to give him some money. How much do you give a street performer?
“You rock dude!” a Bob Marley look-alike stated as he plunked a quarter in the cup.
“God bless you my child,” an angelic lady spoke as she gently placed a dollar in the cup so I guess I was safe with a donation of two quarters.
“You’re really talented!” I tried to lie as a placed my fifty cents into the mostly empty cup.
“Thanks. What are you doing with your little notebook and pen?” the Redford look-alike questioned.
“Oh, I was at the library reading and writing. I just love to write,” I couldn’t believe I said that. I sounded like such a nerd. This was an awkward silence. I thought that I heard the final Jeopardy tune in the background, “Do, do, do, do….”
“Well, do you want to a cup of coffee at Starbucks?” Redford slowly stammered.
I looked down at my feet and moved them a little. I had to study for a Young Adult Literature test, feed and walk Rusty, and wash clothes for tomorrow. I looked at my hands again and again and finally looked up at him. My mother’s voice was rolling around in my head, “Don’t judge a book by the cover.”
“Sure, why not,” I slowly stated.
The two-minute walk to Starbucks on 81st Street was too short.
We chatted about songs, school (he was actually a grad. student), and pets. So we decided to keep walking until we found the next Starbucks. Well, after we passed Starbucks number 23 during our trek, we decided to get some joe.
Brad was his name and he only had the slight sum from his cup so we shared a Cappuccino.
“Is that okay? To share?” Brad questioned while readjusting his guitar.
“Sure. We’re both in college and broke so I am always willing to share.” Okay, now I thought back to the AIDS and lice. Sharing a cup of coffee was a big step for me, but I wanted to conceal this from him. I was enamored and in awe of his attitude.
“Being a street performer makes me humble and a little desperate. I’ll do just about anything for money, and I love to sing and play the guitar so it seemed a natural fit. Hopefully, I’ll get a gig somewhere and get off the streets. My parents would die if they knew I was doing street performances,” Brad explained. My parents would also die if they knew that I was sharing cup of coffee with a street performer.
After coffee and walking and talking three more miles, he offered me the piece of Juicy Fruit from his cup. He was like a diamond in a sea of cubic zirconia. Everyone in New York City was fake and pretentious and unstable. Brad sparkled and dazzled. He was the one.
“So that’s how I met your daddy and the love of my life.”
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