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| What Was He Trying To Say?? |
Saturday night, I sat at the acoustically superior spot and thought I played pretty well. I didn't make a dime, even though about 25 people walked by during the hour and a half that I was there. They were all lost in their conversations and oblivious. I was totally broke, so I couldn't even seed my case. I want to get another fake dollar, like the kind that Christians leave on the sidewalk, which look real enough to cause people to bend over and pick them up, whereupon they realise that it is a bible "tract," and not legal tender. They make good seeding "money."
I then went up to the spot by the hot dog cart guy and, at a few minutes past midnight, a young black lady put five bucks in my empty case. I ran down to the store and got two beers, drinking them as I walked back. A beggar asked me for one of them. I almost hit him.
On the way back to my spot, I ran into a guy named Jacob, who was from across the bay and who had left his ID across the bay, and so was stuck outside while his friends were inside a club. He asked me where I was going to play and if he could come and sit with me. "I play some. I've been playing for six years," he added. He told me that, to pass the time, while waiting on his friends, he was just sitting in the car "drinking a 12-pack of beer." Perfect.
We got to the spot around 1 am. He had stuffed a few cans of beer in his cargo pants pockets (those things hold more than it appears that they would) and we cracked them open, hiding them behind us in between sips.
I did a few songs and added a couple bucks to the three, which were left after buying the beer.
Jacob asked if he could play the guitar. I told him that he could, but asked him to change places with me, so he would be sitting by the case. "We can split any tips that might materialise."
He played pretty decently, for a sixth-year student. One good thing was that, given his age of 20 years (which made it impossible for him to get in the club without his ID) he knew the "next generation" of songs, one's which were from the 2000's, as opposed to the late 70's, early 80's stuff that I play. In this way, he cast a net for snaring the tip money of those his age, which turned into a five, a few ones and another five, within a brief amount of time.
I switched from backup vocals to guitar and played, while he ran to get more beer from his car. I was happy to have made at least something, though 17 bucks looks like more than it is, when it is composed of two five dollar bills, and the rest ones. I had gathered from our conversation that he probably wouldn't want half of the tip money, since "across the bay" is where the wealthy folk live, he kept running to the forty thousand dollar car for more beer, and was periodically using his 500 dollar "i"-phone to check with his friends in the club. I was right on that account.
When 3:30 a.m.came, and his friends emerged from the club, he left me with two beers, got this blog address (ooh, must be careful what I write) and then told me that the money in the guitar case was "all you."
By four in the morning, I was back at my sleeping spot with about 17 bucks and change, and my alarm set to go to church at the Central Presbyterian Church in a mere three and a half hours.
Normally, there would be no way in hell (excuse the pun) that I would jump up hung over and on three hours of sleep and walk almost two miles to a church service but, at 8:30, the sun was already beaming down upon me, making it too hot to sleep. It would reach 100 degrees that day.
Sleepers Awake
I am also sleeping at the Christ Church spot, where it is not a good idea on a Sunday morning to sleep in too late. That is kind of their busy day. I marvel at the enormity of that edifice and at the fact that it basically exists all for a couple of hours every Sunday, and maybe some kind of small gathering on Wednesday nights. So much brick and mortar and lush appointments inside, all for two hours on Sunday!
They also run the air conditioning 24/7, probably to keep the humidity level down so as to protect the lush appointments inside.
I have never been inside the Christ Church. I might some time.
From what I have seen of the "flock" that once had to step over me as I was laying in front of the main entrance, they seem very nice; at least from that angle.
I was sleeping there because it was probably a rainy night, and that entrance is covered. I was in front of the door probably because the cool air from inside leaks out the crack between the doors and the marble floor. So, it must have been a hot rainy night.
They were very well dressed older people and were considerate enough to step very lightly and push the door gently open, as if not wanting to wake myself and whomever else might have been there. Of course, the surest way to wake someone is to tip-toe around, trying to be quiet, as if up to something clandestine. I remember that we got up and packed up and left, before the lions share of the flock of sheep arrived.
Central Presbyterian Awakening
I had about 20 minutes to walk the two miles to the church. I set out, wondering every step of the way why I was going there. I wasn't really too hungry and probably wouldn't want to eat much of the free breakfast, which is offered to all but served to mostly the homeless, from 8:30 to 9:20, every Sunday morning.
The service was already in progress. I had arrived at 9:23, missing the free meal by three minutes. Somebody later faulted them for not at least making me a sandwich but, I think they were diverted by the guitar on my back. They told me that I could join the group which was playing on the altar.
I thought about that, and came to some realizations which I might not have come to, had I not walked two miles through the heat, hung over and on three hours of sleep.
The first one was, that I was in no musical mood at all.
Three hours earlier, I was drinking and playing and singing and enjoying it. What goes up, must come down, and my mood was proof of this. I just wasn't "feeling" it. I couldn't see how me going up on the altar to join the group in playing songs like "How Great Thou Art" was going to help anything.
There were a couple of guitarists and a bass player. I knew that I could make them sound better by adding lead guitar but the pews were full of fellow street people, and I was sure that some of them would be expecting me to try to show off, and I knew that that wasn't what the service was supposed to be "all about."
It certainly is what playing street music is all about; getting people to think that you are good enough that you might be "famous " one day, and they could tell all their friends that they saw you when you were (just) playing on the street, (and now look at him...).
This was ironic, since, one of my complaints against other churches is that their musical programs are pre-arranged and asking someone who walks in carrying a guitar to immediately get up and play is something they would never do. They would lose control over the proceedings by introducing an unknown commodity; a musician who may or may not be truly "saved."
So, I sat through the service. Afterwards, I was told again by one of the elders that if I ever want to play, I could. I should have told them that I don't expect to be in Mobile by next weekend.
I fell asleep under an overhang, and woke up feeling very depressed. It was almost nightfall. I walked down to the Exxon and had two more beers and then went to the Christ Church spot, read a lot more of The Di Vinci Code and then got a good nights rest.
Anyone who thinks that there aren't at least a couple "plausibilities" contained in Dan Brown's book is fooling themselves, or being fooled. I asked the Lord and he concurred. That's all I am saying.
The Road To Hell
The train whistles were constant reminders that I plan to hop one of them for New Orleans, either tonight, or tomorrow night. I had been hoping to make some travelling money this past weekend but, as if Mobile has a consciousness of its own and is trying to keep me mired here, I hardly made any. I am going to have to be strong willed enough to make the trip flat broke, and prepared to go a few days without money, if necessary. This will be my price to pay for passage out of Mobile, the city which is replete with well intentioned people, but where things just don't seem to work out, somewhere along the road to hell.
I've got my peanut butter and a gallon of water for the trip. Anything else will be a bonus.
If history repeats, I will be there for approximately one year, though, I am going to try to get on the fast track towards finding Karrie, up in Georgia, before something terrible happens to her; as if me finding her won't be terrible enough!
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