Only in NY

So I had a true only in NY moment tonight...He is the short story I wrote to transcribe the details. Now the actual even is not quite as romanticized and involved a little more caution and fear on the young girls part (holding tight to her purse, taking in her surroundings to ensure she was never truely alone, etc.) but that fear and caution makes the story a little too clunky so here you go....

It's early autumn in New York City. The air outside is energetic, cool, and crisp but the air down in the subway is still humid and muggy - the underground world hasn't learned that summer is over yet. A young woman descends the steep escalator down into the deep veins of the pulsing city. She walks to a pillar in the center of subway platform and leans against the cool cement. She feels grounded here. She comes to this spot every week and waits for her train home. It's routine. Though never truly alone she feels comfortable enough to delve deep into her own thoughts of sadness and betrayal. As she leans against the heavy cement a sad familiar songs begins to play. " Well, I've been afraid of changin'/Cause I've built my life around you/But time makes bolder/Children get older/And I'm getting older too" She listens to the song and reflects upon her melancholy thoughts. She chuckles to herself a little when she realizes how truly "out of a movie" this all seems. Sad girl, sad song, trains and people passing by oblivious to the young woman's broken dreams.

She looks up to see the source of the music. A middle aged musician is squatting against a trash can about five feet away. His silver gray hair tied back, his clothes unremarkable except for his red converse sneakers, his black cloth guitar case sits in front of him open for donations. Several people stop by and drop a dollar into his case. He stares ahead of him singing his song seemingly lost in the melody. One buoyant southern woman runs up and drops a dollar in his case softly exclaiming to him that its her favorite song. The musician nods and smiles a little. The southern woman goes back to her husband who looks a little ashamed that his wife gave a street musician money but she is so excited over the song her happiness quells his pride. A few young tourists come down from the ever moving escalator and seemed lost - The musician briefly steps out of his musical reverie and walks over to the girls and gives them directions on how to get to the train they so nervously seek. He then returns to the same sad song in his slightly raspy folk inspired voice and ends with a nice acoustic riff.

The young woman still against the pillar watched him for a minute or two trying to decide if she should drop a dollar in his open case - he was a very good player and the song had moved her in a way she had not expected. But as the song had ended she no longer felt comfortable boldly walking to the musician and dropping a tip. A train arrives across the platform and all but one or two people quickly hop on and disappear into the dark bowels of the city. The girl still waits for her train. Slightly uncomfortable now by the lack of people surrounding her - she eyes the musician carefully. As his song finishes the musician walks to the girl and stands next to her perhaps a bit closer than she would like. He then says in a typical New York accent, "For you, ten dollars." Puzzled, she looks at him. "Ten Dollars? Why?" He shrugs his shoulders and laughs a little - she can tell that he must have noticed her reaction to his song. She feels vulnerable that he had seen through to the depth of her sadness. The musician then says, "Well, you know it could be worse." She responds "Could be worse?" How did he know how she was feeling? The musician then grabs her hand - fear and exhilaration jolt through her body. In a joking voice he whispers, "Yeah, you could be ugly." She laughs. Amused and Startled. She nervously steps to side and pulls her hand away not forcefully enough to be outwardly mean or rude but enough to show the advance is definitely unwelcome. At her nervous smile and chuckle the guitar play grins and grabs her chin, "Ah, this face!" he exclaims. "You are so beautiful." He lets go and starts to walk away. As he saunters to his place by the trash can (a much safer distance or so the girl feels) he says to her, "A face that beautiful. you deserve someone good." He takes a few steps. "I would be so good to you." The woman laughs a little at the amazing forwardness and yet sincerity of his remark. Feeling out of her own body this confident young woman replies, "That would be a nice change." The musician stops at his dollar bill filled guitar case and settles back into his position his expression amused at the young girls response. From his spot five feet away he calls out, "hey, what's your name?" a little hesitant the girl responds, "My name? Sharon. What's Yours?" He replies with a grin, "James." "Well, It's been nice to meet you James" The girl says politely. He goes back into a musical reverie playing an unfamiliar tune. The air between them is clear, uncomplicated, neither nervous or scared. The girl breathes out a little as she sees her train approaches. She knows she just had a bizarre one of a kind New York moment. As she steps onto the train James call out, "It was very nice to meet you Sharon. I hope to see you sometime again." She pokes her head back out the train doors, looks at the somewhat withered musician and says with a sheepish grin, "perhaps."

As the train doors close she takes a seat, catches one last glance at the musician and smiles a little. The back of her neck tingles and her stomach clenches and unclenches a little. She doesn't know if it's fear, adrenaline, or maybe that weird thing called happiness that pulses through her right now. All she knows is she just had a moment, a moment she wouldn't forget. A moment in which from the depths of her current depression and anxiety one stranger was able to make her feel special and important. She knew at that moment things would get better. It was time for her to embrace the change that was around her and let go of her fear.