Another story worthy of mention is when I was briskly walking down Sutter Street to the conference at 7:45am Sunday morning. I was able to walk at my usual boyish pace where I could arrive at each corner as the light was about to change in my favor. I had done this hundreds of times while on TI, and the knack was with me.
When I stepped across Powell street, the sound of the ringing cable line beneath the street brought back memories of weekend Liberty getting underway.
I slowed to “smell the roses” so to speak. My pace altered. Soon, I stood at a corner next to a pan-handler.
“Cold day to start your job,” I said.
“I gotta do it so’s I can go to McDonald’s for breakfast.”
My partner had stuffed my pockets with bite-sized portions of some energy bar and a length of jerky. I pulled them all out and gave them to him. He thanked me. Then, as I turned to catch the changing light, he added:
“My doctor wants me to get rid of my accordion.”
I was hooked (as only an author can be). I turned away from the corner to re-join him. We were the only people on those cold streets’ intersection.
“How’s that?” I asked.
“I
had hip surgery, and he doesn’t want me hauling a 50 pound accordion
around. I busk on this corner. That accordion is Italian made with
silver and precious woods.” He then did an impression of lugging it
along the sidewalk with a distinct strain on his hip.
I took every bill out of my pocket ($20-$50) and placed it in his hand.
We were both struggling artists, even if our situations were different.
