The Russian Roulette Syndrome.
Russian roulette...a plane circling but losing altitude; the feeling of having dodged a bullet but escaped with some booty; money and cigarettes and kratom...
I have put my finger on something that had been eluding me, which was being able to trace the origin of a certain stress that I am under much of the time; and determine why I feel that way.
It is basically the feeling that, as a busker at the Lilly Pad, I am playing Russian roulette.
I go out, just about every night.
If I arrive at the Lilly Pad to find it unoccupied by any other musician, I utter a silent prayer of gratitude, first bullet dodged...
I then set up and play, and, if I am not drowned out by a brass band that marches up and then parks in front of the bar, another prayer, another errant round...
If I'm not attacked by a drunken guy who wants to smash my guitar in the street because I asked him, as nicely as I could, if he would please not occupy a stoop that I am hoping will then become inviting to tourists with money to, then this is good.
I walk 9 blocks to get to Canal Street, after moving the money that I have made that night to a front pocket.
I follow the exact route prescribed by Lilly -the way she chaperones her daughters home in the reverse direction every night.
Stationed every so often along the way, no further apart than the distance that a scream from Lilly would carry, are security professionals, most of them armed, working in different capacities -hotel security, doormen, bouncers, the cop at Rouses Market, the midget who stands in front of the men's clothing boutique....and the entire route is on camera, from one angle of another.
OK, not the midget. That was an exaggeration...
There is a method to Lilly's madness, I have learned, and my wonderings about why she had insisted -wouldn't take "no" for an answer- one particular night, that I walk with them back to the house, all the way from Mr. B's Bistro, about 8 blocks, makes sense in light of her probably having been pointing me out to these agents, in a sense, by associating me with them.
There has to be a reason why the cop at Rouses Market, for example, a black guy in his late 20's, will hold the door open for me and greet me as: "Mr. Daniel," and had started to, rather abruptly, one night. Just a bit after I had walked with Lilly and the girls and we had stopped in there, as a matter of fact...
After arriving at Canal Street, at the end of the Lilly Route, without having been jumped and beaten by a group of young African Americans, another silent prayer is in order.
I may still, at that point, be threatened by a skeezer who might see the guitar on my back and demand a cigarette from me, citing the guitar as evidence that I am making money and that I "must" have an extra one to give to someone who is less fortunate than me, because he hasn't devoted a good deal of his life trying to master a musical instrument. He must resort to walking up to people and begging them -his only recourse in a world that has marginalized him. He could always grab my guitar and destroy it so that I would be brought down to his level, and would have to learn what it's like to have to walk up to people and beg them, which would give me a fresh perspective of those unfortunate souls, such as him.
And then, on the trolley ride home, I will stand up and walk towards the front of the thing one stop before mine; to see if anyone follows suit, but doesn't get off after I haven't, and if this is the case, will take it one stop further, so that I can get off in front of the Holy Ground Irish pub and find safety in the numbers of people usually hanging around out front.
The Russian Roulette Syndrome; the nagging feeling that I am pushing my luck each night.
A possible solution would be, of course, to try to get a gig playing inside a little pub or coffeehouse.
The added sense of security in that arrangement would come, perhaps, at the expense of "art."
Complacency would be just hanging around, waiting for a chance to set in. That type of gig might even lead to me starting to drink alcohol again.
One of the things keeping me sober is that I enjoy the advantage that it gives me over "the impaired ones." The last guy that I had to fight about 3 months ago, now, I held off pretty well and even managed to smack once in the face. He was so drunk that he was almost ready to fall down without my help, but I definitely felt like I was quicker and more coordinated than him. I saw him a few nights later and was amazed at just how big and intimidating he looked, with upper arms almost as big around as my thighs, albeit mostly fat. I wouldn't want to have to fight him when he was sober. Fortunately, it was as though he didn't remember me. He remembers well enough so that he just walks past me now, instead of trying to sit and listen for free and then smash my guitar after I ask him to leave...
The symptoms were in full bloom the time a lady had tipped me what turned out to be 145 dollars, when she and her male companion had been snorting coke on Lilly's stoop. The coke kicked in; my Eric Clapton song became wonderful; she showed her appreciation with the huge tip; and then, a half hour later, I was sneaking out the back entrance of Lafitt's, trying to hide from the guy, because the coke was wearing off, and I was afraid he was going to want the money back.
That kind of encapsulates it -a feeling of wanting to take the money and run; quit while you're ahead; feeling like you have caught a break; but knowing that you are going to have to roll the dice again the next night, and the next, etc.
I am at the Uxi Duxi, it is 6:37 PM on a Wednesday after having had a 36 dollar Tuesday night in about 2 hours of playing.
The money was enough to make me opt to forego a trip to the plasma lab to get 25 dollars for 690 milliliters of my stuff (one more day of replenishing my supply).
I had gone to sleep at 5:30 Am, remembering hearing "In The Ghetto," by Elvis Presley, followed by "Te Recuerdo" by Ricky Martin, "She's A Lady," by Tom Jones, "What's Going On?", by Marvin Gaye, "Ohio," by Crosby Stills, Nash and Young, and then "One," by U2, and then, I guess, falling asleep in the middle of "Out Of Nowhere," an album by guitarist Vinnie Moore (who most recently played with the band Deep Purple, as probably around the 17th guitarist that they have had since 1969).
I was up right around 1:30 PM, with enough time to have made it to the plasma place; there was no letter from my mom with money in it in my mailbox, but I still had 22 bucks left from the 36 dollar night, after a cup of coffee, a can of cat food, a jar of all fruit spread, a Rock Star energy drink, a cigar and lottery ticket and an all day bus pass had knocked me down to that amount.
It had been Halloween, and thus, not a "regular" Tuesday night.
Tonight, I can expect to be a "regular" Wednesday night, and probably not make 36 bucks in 2 hours again; but you never know; I guess it's kind of like a crap shoot; or Russian Roulette.
The songs that I had chosen at random, from the 8,000 hours of music on my hard drive, to fall asleep to, I revisited this morning, to find that they would make an excellent set list. Especially given current events.
You've just read: 1,399 words
Russian roulette...a plane circling but losing altitude; the feeling of having dodged a bullet but escaped with some booty; money and cigarettes and kratom...
I have put my finger on something that had been eluding me, which was being able to trace the origin of a certain stress that I am under much of the time; and determine why I feel that way.
It is basically the feeling that, as a busker at the Lilly Pad, I am playing Russian roulette.
I go out, just about every night.
If I arrive at the Lilly Pad to find it unoccupied by any other musician, I utter a silent prayer of gratitude, first bullet dodged...
I then set up and play, and, if I am not drowned out by a brass band that marches up and then parks in front of the bar, another prayer, another errant round...
If I'm not attacked by a drunken guy who wants to smash my guitar in the street because I asked him, as nicely as I could, if he would please not occupy a stoop that I am hoping will then become inviting to tourists with money to, then this is good.
I walk 9 blocks to get to Canal Street, after moving the money that I have made that night to a front pocket.
I follow the exact route prescribed by Lilly -the way she chaperones her daughters home in the reverse direction every night.
Stationed every so often along the way, no further apart than the distance that a scream from Lilly would carry, are security professionals, most of them armed, working in different capacities -hotel security, doormen, bouncers, the cop at Rouses Market, the midget who stands in front of the men's clothing boutique....and the entire route is on camera, from one angle of another.
OK, not the midget. That was an exaggeration...
 |
| Mr. B's Bistro -fit for Lilly's daughters to work at.. |
There is a method to Lilly's madness, I have learned, and my wonderings about why she had insisted -wouldn't take "no" for an answer- one particular night, that I walk with them back to the house, all the way from Mr. B's Bistro, about 8 blocks, makes sense in light of her probably having been pointing me out to these agents, in a sense, by associating me with them.
There has to be a reason why the cop at Rouses Market, for example, a black guy in his late 20's, will hold the door open for me and greet me as: "Mr. Daniel," and had started to, rather abruptly, one night. Just a bit after I had walked with Lilly and the girls and we had stopped in there, as a matter of fact...
After arriving at Canal Street, at the end of the Lilly Route, without having been jumped and beaten by a group of young African Americans, another silent prayer is in order.
I may still, at that point, be threatened by a skeezer who might see the guitar on my back and demand a cigarette from me, citing the guitar as evidence that I am making money and that I "must" have an extra one to give to someone who is less fortunate than me, because he hasn't devoted a good deal of his life trying to master a musical instrument. He must resort to walking up to people and begging them -his only recourse in a world that has marginalized him. He could always grab my guitar and destroy it so that I would be brought down to his level, and would have to learn what it's like to have to walk up to people and beg them, which would give me a fresh perspective of those unfortunate souls, such as him.
And then, on the trolley ride home, I will stand up and walk towards the front of the thing one stop before mine; to see if anyone follows suit, but doesn't get off after I haven't, and if this is the case, will take it one stop further, so that I can get off in front of the Holy Ground Irish pub and find safety in the numbers of people usually hanging around out front.
The Russian Roulette Syndrome; the nagging feeling that I am pushing my luck each night.
A possible solution would be, of course, to try to get a gig playing inside a little pub or coffeehouse.
The added sense of security in that arrangement would come, perhaps, at the expense of "art."
Complacency would be just hanging around, waiting for a chance to set in. That type of gig might even lead to me starting to drink alcohol again.
One of the things keeping me sober is that I enjoy the advantage that it gives me over "the impaired ones." The last guy that I had to fight about 3 months ago, now, I held off pretty well and even managed to smack once in the face. He was so drunk that he was almost ready to fall down without my help, but I definitely felt like I was quicker and more coordinated than him. I saw him a few nights later and was amazed at just how big and intimidating he looked, with upper arms almost as big around as my thighs, albeit mostly fat. I wouldn't want to have to fight him when he was sober. Fortunately, it was as though he didn't remember me. He remembers well enough so that he just walks past me now, instead of trying to sit and listen for free and then smash my guitar after I ask him to leave...
The symptoms were in full bloom the time a lady had tipped me what turned out to be 145 dollars, when she and her male companion had been snorting coke on Lilly's stoop. The coke kicked in; my Eric Clapton song became wonderful; she showed her appreciation with the huge tip; and then, a half hour later, I was sneaking out the back entrance of Lafitt's, trying to hide from the guy, because the coke was wearing off, and I was afraid he was going to want the money back.
That kind of encapsulates it -a feeling of wanting to take the money and run; quit while you're ahead; feeling like you have caught a break; but knowing that you are going to have to roll the dice again the next night, and the next, etc.
I am at the Uxi Duxi, it is 6:37 PM on a Wednesday after having had a 36 dollar Tuesday night in about 2 hours of playing.
The money was enough to make me opt to forego a trip to the plasma lab to get 25 dollars for 690 milliliters of my stuff (one more day of replenishing my supply).
I had gone to sleep at 5:30 Am, remembering hearing "In The Ghetto," by Elvis Presley, followed by "Te Recuerdo" by Ricky Martin, "She's A Lady," by Tom Jones, "What's Going On?", by Marvin Gaye, "Ohio," by Crosby Stills, Nash and Young, and then "One," by U2, and then, I guess, falling asleep in the middle of "Out Of Nowhere," an album by guitarist Vinnie Moore (who most recently played with the band Deep Purple, as probably around the 17th guitarist that they have had since 1969).
I was up right around 1:30 PM, with enough time to have made it to the plasma place; there was no letter from my mom with money in it in my mailbox, but I still had 22 bucks left from the 36 dollar night, after a cup of coffee, a can of cat food, a jar of all fruit spread, a Rock Star energy drink, a cigar and lottery ticket and an all day bus pass had knocked me down to that amount.
It had been Halloween, and thus, not a "regular" Tuesday night.
Tonight, I can expect to be a "regular" Wednesday night, and probably not make 36 bucks in 2 hours again; but you never know; I guess it's kind of like a crap shoot; or Russian Roulette.
The songs that I had chosen at random, from the 8,000 hours of music on my hard drive, to fall asleep to, I revisited this morning, to find that they would make an excellent set list. Especially given current events.
You've just read: 1,399 words
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