July/August 2023

A musician works to build community, and a life, on the streets I lean back against the black stone pillar behind me, inhaling the smell of hot street food. My stomach growls loudly. A smoker then saunters past, leaving the suffocating smell of a cigarette behind, and I’m no longer hungry. As I see more tourists heading down the station platform, towards where a train is roaring to a stop, I pick up my guitar and begin to play a little melody. Strumming, plucking, picking, chucking. Someone drops a five in my open case, and I smile, nodding gratefully. Well, there’s dinner. This is how I spend my days. I have my little routine: Wake up, fold my scrappy blanket, pull out my guitar, put the case in front of me, and play. If I make enough for food, I’ll have lunch or give some to Red, then play some more. I try to spend any money I make so it won’t be stolen. I think that most pity me, but I really don’t mind my lifestyle. I get along. Music is really what keeps me entertained, and sane. The beat-up guitar I found in a dumpster, case and all (lucky, I know), is by far my favorite possession (and, other than clothes, my only possession). I’ve been playing guitar for as long as I can remember. Red, another street musician and my best friend, taught me how to play when I was eight or so, when my mom left. I don’t mean to brag or anything, but I’m pretty good. Or maybe it’s just the BART station acoustics. But one day, my little routine changed. I came up with a tune I liked, and built on that throughout the chilly morning. It turned out that I wasn’t the only one that liked it, considering the mounds of green piling up in my guitar case. I was getting ready to go get myself a hot dog at the stand outside when I got the funny feeling something bad was about to happen. When you live on the street, you experience this feeling often, but know better than to ignore it. I looked around and saw a black-hooded figure behind me. However, he wasn’t middle-aged, buff, and intimidating like I would have thought. Instead, he looked like a lanky teenager who hadn’t yet grown into his legs, wrapped in a Goodwill coat three sizes too big. I knew what he was going to do, so I turned around and kept playing, acting oblivious. Before I could make a plan, though, he crept in front of me, snatched two handfuls of my money, and sprinted down the platform. He was fast, but I was faster. On my feet in a flash, I bolted, my arms pumping, and tackled the undersized thief. Because of the momentum, we rolled over a few times. He unsuccessfully tried to escape from my grip. I had him pinned. Most would have judged him for stealing, but most also haven’t gone about their day not knowing when they would be able to eat next. When I finally got a look at his face, the sick, sinking guilt I felt made me wish I had just let him go. He looked just a year or so younger than me, maybe fourteen or fifteen. His rugged face was encrusted with dirt, blue lips cracked, and his brown eyes were wide and scared. Keeping my grip on him, just in case, I stood both of us upright. “What’s your name, man?” I asked, trying to sound sure of myself. “Chase. Please don’t hurt me!” he answered, trembling. The poor guy looked terrified. “Nice to meet you, Chase. My name is Pick, and I’m not gonna hurt you. As long as you don’t try to run, okay?” I loosened my hold on his arm slightly. His face softened. “So, how about you give me back that money, and we can go get some hot dogs?” I suggested. He nodded quickly, so we headed up the stairs. Chase ate as if he’d forgotten what food tasted like. “How long has it been since you’ve eaten?” I questioned. “Three days, I think,” he responded quickly in between bites. I gave him a bit to finish eating, then I began again. “I’m assuming that’s why you wanted my money—for food.” I gave him an inquisitive look. I could see the hesitation on his face, so I gave him a friendly nudge. “It’s okay. I know,” I gestured at my few worn belongings. Most would have judged him for stealing, but most also haven’t gone about their day not knowing when they would be able to eat next. “Yeah, I was hungry,” he finally answered. “I thought so.” We both stared at the floor for a while after that. The marble that was once pristine white is now filthy, the edges of the tiles stained yellow. An idea came into my mind. “Do you play guitar? Sing?” I asked. Chase gave me a puzzled look, then shook his head. “You wanna stick around, learn how?” I continued. He stared at me blankly. After a moment, though, he nodded slowly. The Window or the Mirror Over the next few weeks, my routine changed yet again. I taught Chase something new every day on guitar. He was a fast learner, and he loved to play. I introduced Chase and Red too, and they got along great. Both of them love the Warriors and old rock music. And, soon enough, he was playing some pretty complicated stuff on my old guitar. We would take turns playing and singing. Although neither of us were very good at singing, we were having so much fun that we did anyway, as loudly as we could. Sometimes we would even get creative, using the guitar case like a drum. This new little duet was as much to the tourist’s enjoyment as to ours. The cash piled in. For the first time in