Eve Of Departure?

The guy who probably owns the condo across the street,
holding his $2,000 Dean guitar, after bringing me a 6-pack
of Harpoon IPA, which I wasn't too impressed with but drank anyways,
so as to not look a gift horse in the mouth...
My harp looks like it is mangled and laying on the concrete, but
it is actually in good standing (note its shadow). I was using my
"Street Musician Stimulus Package" sign on that night
and made about 55 bucks, to include a 2 dollar bill that someone threw.

• 25 dollar night could have been better
• Howards Headache delays exodus

Yesterday, Sunday, was not a typical one, as
There were a bunch of Kentucky and Vanderbuilt University people in town for the SEC Tournament.
It was with some anxiety that I woke up this morning.
It had started raining sometime in the middle of the night, and I made a run for the Simon Bolivar statue spot, as claps of thunder seemed to be saying "you'd better!"
Waking up this morning under Simon, I thought: This was supposed to be the day of our departure from New Orleans.
I also felt a little bit of guilt over the way I had treated a certain oil painter the night before...
I was at the Bourbon Street spot at around sundown Sunday (last) night, where I was immediately greeted by one of the guys from the condo across the street, the one who is an oil painter and a guitarist.
He is a pretty decent guitarist and can play some J.S. Bach pieces that I would have to study and practice for a few hours, in order to duplicate.
We had jammed once in the back room of their condo, about a month ago, with "mixed" results. He had a tendency to play softer, the louder I played, that time.
He seems to do pretty well selling his paintings (I think he gets hundreds of dollars for them); at least enough to be able to rent a condo on Bourbon Street.
He acted as if he had been waiting for my arrival.
"Hey, do you want to jam?," he asked. "I need to make some money, I haven't sold anything all week."
I agreed, without having tried to come to an agreement about how that "money" would be distributed between us. Normally, I would argue that, since I have two voices (harp and guitar) to his one voice (guitar), that the money should be split at 60/40 ratio (to make the math simpler) but I didn't mention that; thinking in the back of my mind of the times that they had supplied the the gin, cigarettes and other things while I played. "If I can sell my painting, I'll break you off something," he said.
"Cool," I said.
His roommate, who owns a very expensive Dean guitar (partially shown in photo) that he has only begun to learn on, and who probably owns the condo, was sitting on the front steps with the door open behind him.
He is the one who came out Saturday night and told me that, for the past week he had been sitting in the front room of the condo with the window open, playing along with me, and had finally "found the courage" to approach me to ask if we could play something together.

He's even left handed....

He gives the impression that he would trade all his wealth for a little tallent, and it is funny how deferential he is to me -I'm the one that should be kissing his ass, in order to be able to sit in front of his condo and (the past three nights) make about 11 bucks per hour- but he almost treats me like a celebrity "There were a couple kids playing earlier, but I ran them off; they weren't up to your standards at all," he told me one night, for example.
I sat down next to the oil painter, whose guitar was a bit sharp to mine, and since mine was fine-tuned to the harmonica, it became incumbent upon him to tune to me. I offered him my electronic tuner, which he used to at least get him in the same pitch as me.
I started jamming away, just doing what I normally do, while he tried to follow along. I was soon in "the void" and was hardly aware of his presence, hoping he wasn't feeling ignored.
He had leaned one of his paintings against the wall between us "If I sell my painting, I'll break you off something..." It was a bright-orange-dominated acryllic, which I later felt rude about not having appraised, beyond the cursory glance that I took at it.
With him being further removed from me by the extra distance of the width of the painting, it became hard for me to even hear what he was playing, without decreasing my own volume.
I finally just did what I have been doing the past month; played in certain keys and wailed on the harp, learning and earning.

Shortly after "My Favorite Mule," came the straw
that broke the camels back...

During "My Favorite Mule," which I wrote when I was missing the "g" string and which I had no idea at that time that it was going to become "my favorite harp" song; three guys sat down on the green steps on "my" side and listened.
I thought I did a compelling harp solo (if I can say so, myself) and when I finished the song, they threw a balled up bill, which landed in between my backpack and my leg, where I let it rest, while I thanked them for it by jamming hard for a few seconds on a flurry of riffs.
It is a common practice of buskers to play close to 100% throughout the course of the evening, saving their "105%" for the rewarding of people who tip. It's kind of like having an "after-burner" in your trunk. Ricky the Clarinetist, for example, will execute a flashy turbo charged, "jazz from hell" riff at double speed, as soon as the money lands in his case. He can't really say "thank you" with the horn in his mouth, otherwise.
A Jamacuum?
During the jam, I couldn't even really hear the oil painter guy. He had gotten softer in volume and was holding his head down next to the strings of his guitar, as if trying to make sure that he was in the right key before increasing his volume. He may have just stopped playing and sat there listening to me.
After the three guys had walked off towards Lafitt's Tavern, I took a break.
The oil painter guy jumped off of the steps to my right and bounded over to where the bill lay against my leg. "Look, we've made 20 bucks, already!" he said, before unfolding what indeed was a 20, and tossing it in my case. He sat back down with renewed vigor, as if thinking "This might be a pretty good night, afterall..."
I thought that he showed a lot of nerve in staking claim to half of the money, based upon what he contributed musically. I was able to control my ire by reasoning that the three guys may have been accounting for his presence by throwing 20 bucks, instead of 10 -but I couldn't help wonder why they seemed to be aiming it at my pocket when they threw it; putting it in the case would have been a clearer indication that it was for both of us. And, maybe they had been here for the whole SEC Championship Tournament and had walked past me each of the past four nights and on this, the last day of it, were "tightening me up," so to speak...I couldn't help wonder.
I played some more and the oil painter guy picked what I couldn't hear some more, and the next few groups of tourists all threw at least a buck. When I could hear him, he was gingerly playing up and down scales, as if looking for one that "fit."
After the third or fourth group of them (tourists) -the group which was like the proverbial blade of hay which injured the proverbial camel- I said "Do you want to just split this 20 now? I need to use the restroom and then go to Sidney's for another beer; but I'll be back..."
"I have a ten," he said, producing one.
As I walked off in the direction of Sydney's the owner guy, who had been sitting on his front steps and listening asked the oil painter if he/we were "quitting already."
I couldn't hear what the oil painter said, but I heard the owner guy reply "OK."
I returned about a half hour later and they were nowhere to be seen. I played another hour and made about another 15 bucks.
I almost feel like I owe the guy (painter) an appology for the way I took off, my main motive being to carve some fat off of my "operation," and go solo. We hadn't worked out any songs together, and the sum of the parts was almost indistinguishable from my part alone, in my opinion. I need to come up with a "snigglet" for a guy who benefits from anothers playing while barely adding anything. (a "jamacuum?")
I hope that tonight they don't show up and say "We've bent over backwards to accomodate you playing here. Did you know that the lady in 2504 was ready to call the police but we convinced her not to. We've given you expensive gin-based drinks etc...the least you can do is help our little buddy here out" or words like that.
They could just as easily say "My buddy didn't mean to ruin your hustle; we felt like crap afterwards."

Looks like New Orleans is the only place getting f****d,
right now...Texas looks fine...

Howard's Headache
The reason I even mention seeing them tonight, rather than seeing mile after mile of scenery roll past, is that our trip has been postponed one day due to Howard feeling that it wasn't a good day for travelling, due to the overcast conditions, and the fact that he has had a headache for a couple days and thinks that he might have to see a doctor tomorrow. I still have 9 days to be out of here, or give the judge a very good reason why I need to stay here. Having found a spot where I can make 50 bucks a night is not a very good reason.
I need to remember that I can make the 50 bucks (or more) per night in other places; places where you don't typically get punched in the eye for not giving some punks girlfriend a cigarette.