Just Steve, no last name. I didn’t ask.

He was playing the drums on the corner of 7th and Congress. A large plastic paint can turned upside down, a tin can, and a pair of sticks. A paper cup for tips: empty. No jacket, impressive beard. When I shook his hand, I could feel the coarseness of the skin on his palms.

Good rhythm, but a voice that probably wouldn’t have impressed me were it not for his lyrics. He made them up on the fly, practically writing a song about the lady who walked past with a fluffy pink hat. He complained about the cops who wrote him tickets for sitting on the sidewalk, and shared with me a song defending his freedom to sit.

Five kids. One went on to become a prestigious veterinarian, another was a crook who was serving a 60-year sentence in prison for stealing video cameras. One of his daughters went to Nigeria and, after a period of prostitution, became a Catholic nun. He didn’t talk about the remaining two.

He shook hands with Ringo Starr, or so he was told. He didn’t recognize the man who approached him that day back in the 60’s on the California beach when he was playing on a $10,000 set. The woman who was watching walked up to him later and informed him.

Steve also met Willie Nelson. He asked Willie if it was okay to sing one of his songs; he didn’t want to get sued for copyright infringement. Willie asked his limo driver for 50 bucks, gave it to Steve, and told him that he’d just been paid to sing one of Willie’s songs.

I gave him a prepaid credit card with 70 bucks on it that I’d been saving for some time, and walked on.

reeby:

Hiram King. 65. Hitchhiked from Norman to Austin in search of his supposedly dead father. He told me he was searching for inner relief, a separation from his guilt. He was quick to admit the biggest blunder of life, abandoning his dad during high school. His eyes trembled in regret and soon enough he became uncomfortable, got up and walked away. I didn’t know what to take from meeting him, but it reminded me that regret is something that will conquer a man for life. 

So there’s this girl. She’s been in love with this guy for about four years. He knows she likes him, probably doesn’t know she actually loves him. It’s nearing the end of his senior year and the juniors of the band are organizing a senior gift for their favorite seniors. She remembers the time she tried to get her band section to come over to her house for a Miyazaki movie marathon, and everybody bailed. He came, even when he knew nobody else would. So she draws him a picture of his favorite Miyazaki movies, remembering to put his favorite airship in it. This girl is an artist, so it’s a pretty bitchin’ picture. And when she sees him after he opens the gift, she sees the sappiest, happiest smile on his face she has seen since she’s known this kid.
Then he goes to college, and takes the picture with him. She sees him once when he comes back to visit, she chats with him a few times. But the chats get more and more infrequent. He sends her a message once, but stops responding to it. And then he comes home for a weekend and doesn’t tell her. This girl isn’t totally stupid. She thought something like this might happen, but that didn’t stop her from hoping he’d prove her wrong. Well, she gives up. She doesn’t try to talk to him anymore. And she starts working on college applications instead of waiting for texts or messages that never come, like a good little senior.
the end.