The Boy on the Shuttle

As I entered, I didn’t see him. It wasn’t until the train began moving that I heard him. He was singing, faintly, a song I couldn’t identify and picking a stringed instrument I couldn’t recognize. It didn’t sound like anything I’d ever heard before. I can’t ever swear it was a musical instrument but in hindsight (hindhearing?) it sounded like a cheap guitar was being plucked.

Evening rush hour and he was that day’s entertainment on one of the cars of the Shuttle from Times Square to Grand Central. Every car seems to have some kind of entertainment. Sometimes it’s the lone musician with his instrument, other times it’s a duo or group with some smooth jive. And every once in a while, one of them leaves you smiling. 

Not this one.

His voice wasn’t so much soft as it was weak; whether that was his natural voice or he was just too insecure to sing out, I don’t know. And he wasn’t a musician. Whatever he was playing, he was far from being a virtuoso. Well, so what. New York’s subway system is a testing ground for some of the world’s most prodigious talent. Walking from one train to the next, especially at Times Square, you can hear a cacophony of bands and singers and more than once I’ve found myself singing along. Dropping a buck in someone’s guitar case is not unusual.

But not this guy.

The trip from beginning to end can’t be more than two minutes and he finished his act shortly before the train pulled into Grand Central and began what I realized was his spiel. I can’t hear very well anyway so I couldn’t tell you what he said, but I could hear a plea for money. Its a couple days before Christmas so I guess I should have been feeling charitable, but when the door opened, I bolted along with everyone else in a hurry to get home or finish their holiday shopping. I didn’t look back as I left the car.

Blame it on politics, but that’s a cop out. Nevertheless, as I walked down the platform, climbed the stairs and followed the crowd rushing into Grand Central, I couldn’t help think about that voice. In thinning-of-the-herd lingo, this one would be the first to go. I had the feeling that he wouldn’t last much longer, especially not in this city. And then, as I passed a couple soldiers in flak vests with ‘45’s strapped to their hips I had a much more chilling thought.

I imagined someone coming up to him, befriending him and buying him dinner and telling him about God (he calls him Allah) and how long ago they were attacked by infidels and the war continues, and how now it’s the Americans who are responsible for his misery. It is the Americans who have defiled the Koran and now they must be punished. Happy news for the poor guy who buys the shtick on the hope he’s finally gonna get laid, by lots of virgins no less. So what if it’s in heaven. Anything’s better than this.

Can you find him, Mr. Trump? Will you throw all the entertainers out of Times Square because you’re afraid of him? No? Don’t fear the boy on the train. Help him. What this country needs, what this world needs, is something no politician can solve the problem. The problem is buried deep in the soul of men everywhere. It is part of our human-ness; our primal fears, our inability to overcome our primitive communications. And some of it is just pure meanness. It is this meanness that we can change. Sometimes a little at a time, sometimes in a Bernie Saunder’s-like quantum leap. It happens. Maybe it’s about to happen now. Anything’s better than this.

I don’t live in the city anymore, and I won’t be going back in for awhile, so I’m sure I’ll never see that guy again, but I’ll give him this, my memory in writing. And maybe if you’re on the shuttle and you hear a weak voice begging for loose change, please throw him a quarter or a buck for me.