Another Gift Unwrapped

Wednesday (last) night,
I was at the Decatur spot in the evening, where I thought I played pretty well for all 10 people who walked past. I think one of them threw a dollar, and another, some change.
I drifted down to Royal Street, where I entertained a notion of playing by Rouse's Market. On such a slow night, I would have been surprised to have seen any of the "major" acts performing there, like Tonya and Dorise, or Doreen the clarinetist. I only half expected one of the "second tier" performers to be there, like Ben, the cello player, but if he had been there, I think we would have played at least one Grateful Dead song together.
Ben and I have jammed once before, perhaps documented in a previous post. Running into him, playing cello in a tie-dyed shirt with an array of Grateful Dead related trinkets on display, which were being sold by his girlfriend, I couldn't help but think that I might have stumbled upon a "Godsend."
I envisioned myself on guitar, and Ben on cello, ripping up Grateful Dead and other cool songs, like a psychedelic version of Tonya and Dorise (who probably clear close to one thousand dollars each on a busy day). I would only be one small battery operated amp away from being able to step into that role.
His cello playing was not bad at all, and it sounded like we were either at the same level musically, or that one of us would "push" the other gently, only having to suggest small "tweaks" in order to compete with Tonya and Dorise.
Our jam exposed the minor weakness that Ben favors the keys which are easily facilitated by the cello, which is understandable. It wasn't until after we had done a fair version of "Eyes Of The World," by the Grateful Dead that he said "You know, E major is like THE hardest key to play a cello in!"
The cello is also a fret less instrument and he probably could have found the key somewhere up the neck, but, he may favor his open strings, the lowest of which is tuned to "F," a slippery note to work into the key of E major.
There were about 6 bucks more in his case after we completed our "rendition," though.
Too Cold, Man!
Ben was not there, at Rouse's Market, but "the moody, brooding black guy with the acoustic guitar" was.
He was sitting across the street with his guitar, but not playing it.
More often than not, when I see him, he is not playing his guitar but rather, sitting next to it brooding over some insult or injury which he had suffered and which had stolen all the joy and love out of his heart.
"I'm supposed to be out here, spreading love and joy, but; after what that guy said to me, I can't even play; can't even play, man!" was what he told me on one such occasion.
I asked him if he was going to play more.
"No, too cold," he said.
Just then up rode, on her bicycle with her little amp in her basket, none other than Butterfly. She was looking good, and looking for a spot to play; the very spot that "the moody, brooding black guy with the acoustic guitar" said that he was relinquishing because of the cold (it was about 65 degrees out).
I told Butterfly to go ahead and take the spot, as I was going to head towards Canal Street to perhaps try to play by the casino.
I started to walk towards that street and was soon overtaken by Butterfly, who said that the brooding guitarist had NOT relinquished the spot to her. She pedalled on, in search of somewhere.
By the time I got to The Unique Market, she was returning from a fruitless search for a place to play. I suggested one of my favorite spots, by the casino. I wouldn't indiscriminately tell other musicians about a spot where I seem to always be able to knock out 15 bucks or so, in a pinch, but, I told Butterfly about it, and gave her directions. Then I started to walk towards it, to make sure that she found the place that I was referring to.
I got down there, and she was close, only a half block away, under the lights of a store.
I pointed to the actual spot where I liked to play, and said "That's where I actually play sometimes."
"I'm in the light," she said, which was true. She was under a dazzling array of neon lights, on display as if in a jewelry case.
I instantly understood her logic. A pretty female musician must optimise the "visual" aspect of her presentation. Plus, a dark corner in New Orleans is what it is: a dark corner in New Orleans; not always pretty-female-friendly.
She was all set up and ready to start.
I backed off about twenty feet and stood by a newspaper stand, and listened to her play one of my favorites of hers: a song which has a chorus of "Woman, shut your mouth; don't advertise your lover; don't be a fool," which is probably a well known (except by me) song from the 1920's, like most of her repertoire, and by someone like Robert Johnson. I guess it takes records a while to reach Japan.
I then went to fortify myself with a funny cigarette, after which treatment I had the sudden epiphany that playing along with Butterfly (if she would allow me) might be the highlight of my day. 
I went back to where she had been. She was there then in the company of a man who was wearing cover-alls and who shook my hand, introduced himself, and offered me a shot of his vodka -a nice guy (shaking hands, and all).
I started to take my guitar out, but paused to ask Butterfly "Do you mind if I see if I'm in tune with you?," noting as I did that there were only a couple bucks in her case.
"No, please pray!," she squealed with enthusiasm.
I was soon in tune with her, then I got down on my knees and played. She repositioned her mic stand in front of me and I did one of my humorous songs, while she supplied backup vocals, and the guy in cover-alls burst into laughter at the punchline to each verse. It felt liberating to know that Butterfly probably didn't understand much of the song, due to the "language barrier," so she wouldnt' be bogged down with questions like: "What's that verse supposed to mean?"
Withing minutes there were 8 bucks in my case, which I'm not obtuse enough to doubt that tourists viewed as "our" case. (Butterfly keeps hers almost hidden, as if trying to downplay the commercial aspect of what she is doing. It's probably a Buddhist thing...)
Then, the nice guy in the coveralls turned into a figure out of every street musician's nightmares, by becoming "the nice guy in cover-alls who wants to play your guitar."
"Mind if I play one?"
His "Gulps Worth"
Butterfly handed him her guitar. He played.
He played for about a half hour, during which time the 8 bucks in my case was in danger of dying of loneliness.
I thought it would be best if Butterfly and I resumed what we had been doing, or a reasonable facsimile thereof. I asked her if she wanted to play. She said that she did. This produced no visible change in the cover-all guy.
He kept playing, with an air of possessiveness and entitlement which prompted me to ask Butterfly if he was her boyfriend (or does he own the guitar...).
"No, I just met him tonight."
This presented me with a quandary. I felt like saying: "Look, sir. Butterfly has a dog to feed. She has a beautiful voice, one of the best acoustic lead guitarists on the streets of New Orleans by consensus, and she's out here trying to make money. Would you mind giving her her guitar back, so she can take her fluttery flight and join me up in the sky?" but I didn't know if it was my "place," to say that. ...plus, you're running her batteries down...I think you've gotten your gulp-of-vodka's worth...
I think Butterfly defers to males, based upon some centuries-old tradition of walking 20 feet behind them, or something. I don't know if she was hoping that I would run the guy off. It's still a mystery.
I was watching for a sign from Butterfly, -a yawn, a glance at her watch, a sigh, a pleading look at me, a glance at her guitar case, a frown, a tantrum where she goes "kung foo" on the guy; something...