Only The Shadow Knows

• The Second Card Arrives
• Did Travis Steal The First One?
• 35 Dollar Sunday

So, I left the Uxi Duxi Sunday night, and made it back to the apartment, where I packed up my gear and went out to the trolley, just as it was coming along the track; for a change.
It was still 11:30 when I arrived at the Lilly Pad.

There was a prone figure, wearing frumpy camouflage type clothing, on the stoop that I play next to.
He was apparently unconscious, with a bottle of booze by his head, and a sign propped up in front of him, begging for more booze money, apparently.

"This guy is asleep on the job," I thought. Did he expect to wake up after a couple hours of alcohol induced sleep, to find his cup full of money?

I considered calling Lilly to see if she would come out, wake him up and run him away. But then I thought that, this being a Sunday night when expectations of making money are adjusted down; it might be a good time to perform the experiment of: "Can a busker make money with a guy passed out drunk right next to him?"

Then it crossed my mind to try to play so well that tourists would assume that the guy had been lulled to sleep by my melodies, and that, most importantly; I wasn't "with" him in any way; their tips weren't going towards poisoning him with alcohol or heroin, and I wasn't applying my tips towards the same end.

Another man approached, as I was putting my spotlight up into the vines and training its beam upon the tiposaurus. He tried to stir the first guy, telling him that he shouldn't have downed a half pint of whiskey, because, now he was a wreak and couldn't even stand up, etc.

He turned to me and asked: "How are you doing?"

I saw this as an opportunity to try to explain that I was doing alright, even though I had gotten out there pretty late, and that I had concerns about my ability to make money with this guy (whom I guess he knew) laying prone on the stoop.

"I don't want tourists to think that I'm playing for heroin money, or for whatever they might think this guy is passed out on..." I said, trying not to be too insulting to the guy, in case he was still conscious.

"Yeah, this is kind of counterproductive," the guy said, removing and tossing the sign begging for money as he did.

Now there was just a guy sleeping on the stoop with a large leather handbag near him, his baseball cap laying on the sidewalk a few feet from him, but no sign begging for money.

I tuned up and started to play, to see if he was going to be stirred by the sound of me, and if he would then complain that I was keeping him awake, and maybe state that he had been there first, and that I could find another spot to make noise at.

He never moved a muscle, not through "Imagine," by John Lennon, nor "Wild World," by Cat Stevens.

The second song attracted a 20 dollar tip, and then there was a guy leaning on the post, listening after it ended. He said something complementary. I might have said something about song selection or the experiment involving a guy passed out at the busking spot, etc.

He said: "Anything harmonica," after throwing a 5 dollar bill in the tiposaurus' basket.
I broke into "Dancing In The Moonlight," by King Harvest (1973) as a way of illustrating a point that he had made about his enjoyment of songs to which harmonica is added to, that didn't originally have that instrument in them; and because it is one of my best songs in the key of C harmonica.

I made 35 bucks in an hour and a half, during which the guy on the stoop never stirred. I figured that the spotlight on myself might have dimmed the sight of him, by contrast, and that it might have been evident that I wasn't on the same program as he, since if you can't stand up, you probably can't play guitar and harmonica at the same time.

At about 1:30 AM, the guy did stand up and walk very crookedly away, headed west on Bourbon Street, leaving his large leather handbag and baseball cap where they lay.

I heard the voice of, probably the guy who had removed the sign, coming from in front of Lafitt's Blacksmith Shop Tavern, telling someone else that "He just walked off."

Addition of photo, mine

I soon walked off myself, after about 15 more minutes of playing when I added not another penny to the 35 bucks that I had made in just about 2 hours, on a Sunday night, after having gotten there at 11:30 PM, and played without the aid of any weed or alcohol or heroin; just a double shot of kratom which I had consumed shortly before 8 PM.

Kratom really does make me want to go out and busk; and to not stress over the results.

Even now, as I sit here on this Monday night, and the clock has just struck 9:05 PM, I am kind of itching to go out and play; even though I had slept kind of fitfully, and had gone back to sleep after waking up at almost exactly 1:30 PM, as I tend to do without the aid of an alarm.

I had eaten a couple of (huge) pancakes the night before, made from "graham" flour, and flavored with butter and honey -so much honey that they tasted sweet and yummy, but enough to teach me that honey is just about as "bad" as sugar, when it comes to feeling dead tired and achy, upon waking up in the "morning" at 1:30 PM.

I'm not having the depressing dreams of the recent past, though -only one where I had my hands tied behind my back and Travis was pinching my nostrils shut. I couldn't speak in the dream and was trying to tell him "Please let me breath," with my eyes.

You Have Mail

I'm thinking that the letter that my mom sent on the first of October, which she told me had 25 bucks in it, and wasn't my official birthday card, but a herald of it's planned arrival a week later, having been sent out of pity as a response to her having read about my travails with Travis as a roommate, fell victim to either one of a few things...

Since the official birthday card (top) showed up in my mailbox today, stamped with "Boston, October 10th," I tend to think that the one sent on the first had also arrived, probably after around the same 6 days that it took this one to get here, and that it had not been addressed wrong.

There is a small chance that the mail lady, who seems to struggle with the alphabet (as it's been years and years since she "took it" in kindergarten) had put the thing in the wrong box.

This has happened before, with myself having gotten mail addressed to someone with the same apartment number but different building, or the same building and a similar number, such as 311.

If this had been the case, then I would have been at the mercy of whomever lived at that apartment, and subject to his/her level of honesty.

There are certain residents whom I imagine would immediately tear the thing open, hoping that there was anything of value in it.
Jackie in apartment A 108, comes to mind.

She would just see it as her having gotten something in the mail. She might notice that they had written her name kind of funny, but it wouldn't faze her; people do strange things, sometimes.

This explanation made some sense to my mother, who actually said: "Well, maybe whoever got it really needed money at the time and it was an answer to a prayer."

Wow.

..but, they're ill bred dysfunctional derelicts, mom...

I think my mom would actually like Jackie, feel sorry for her, and bring her a plate of "patetti" every so often...

I told mom that "time will probably tell," and that it wouldn't really surprise me if, sometime in the near future, I hear a loud, alcohol and drug fueled argument break out in the parking lot, during which some resident might blurt out to another: "And that 25 dollars that you got in your mailbox; I ain't seen nary one dime of that; not one dime!"

The Shadow Knows...

Another, equally dark scenario might involve my "friend" Travis.

There were times that I was out of the apartment, perhaps fetching Harold the Cat, when I left my key ring in plain sight. This had, along with the key to the apartment, the key to the laundry room and the one to my mailbox.

Is Travis a certain kind of kleptomaniac who would take pride in his ability to outfox his quarry, waiting for the opportunity to commit the perfect crime, saving items as mementos of his victims, in a secret box somewhere, so that he can re-live his crimes through them...??

"Daniel was a rather pleasant, somewhat reserved guy whom I stayed with for a couple days when I was in New Orleans.
I snagged this little item from him; and he was never any the wiser -quite clever how I pulled it off, if I do say so myself.
I like to take it out of the box and run my hands over it, every now and then...I wonder whatever became of Daniel; I kind of liked the guy..."