As the last note faded, and the guitar’s vibration seeped into him, Ethan opened his eyes. A small crowd of passers-by had stopped in front of him, staring. The market held its collective breath for one quick second, then the applause washed over him. He smiled and the crowd began to dissipate. The case held several handfuls of change and a few more bills. He didn’t look too closely, not wanting to jinx it. Three Navy guys in their dress whites walked up and dropped a couple of bills into the case.
“Not sure what you were singing about,” one of them said, “but it was damn fine.”
“Thanks,” Ethan said as they walked away.
The elderly Hispanic man from across the way stood in the back of the dissipating crowd, tears running down his weathered cheeks, a broken-toothed smile filling his face. The weariness had fallen away, leaving a mosaic of joy.
“Gracias,” the man said stepping forward and placing a bag of fat, red grapes into Ethan’s case.
Ethan answered without thinking. “De nada.”
He spent the rest of the morning covering well-known folk songs and popular ballads. Several times during his two-hour slot he paused when the crowd thinned and watched the people. He loved to imagine who they were, what their lives were like. He could play some songs without effort, the simple lyrics flowing from him, unhindered by the thought process. It allowed him time to absorb this world.
Susan, the young cellist who followed Ethan on Saturdays, dropped a dollar into his open case as he finished his last song. He winked at her as the last words swam among the shoppers. The a-cappella group from down by Starbucks finished their set to wild applause. Ethan gathered his bills and the grapes, then tipped his guitar case, pouring the loose change into the bottom of his pack. Then he gently placed the red guitar into its formed cushion and closed the latches. He stood, stretching his hands above his head as Susan began to run through her scales. He admired her bow work, and the way her fingers flew along the neck of the cello. She slipped into “Eine Kleine Nachtmusik” with her eyes closed, a hint of a smile touching her lips.
“You’ve got real magic there,” he said when she stopped.
“Thanks.” Her smile spread across her face like the sun rising.
He slung his pack over his left shoulder, picked up his guitar, then started walking toward the French bakery. “Have a good set,” he said.
She nodded and her bow began to dance.
He paused outside the bakery, nibbling his chocolate meringue and watched Susan perform. She was mousy and petite but she glowed with the passion of her music. He especially liked the way her face looked when she played — eyes closed and rapt with pleasure.
Ethan browsed his way along Pike Place, tipping each busker — sowing the wealth and harvesting the good karma.
He asked several of the regulars if they’d seen the young hippie girl who usually set up shop just north of the last covered stalls. She sold intricate twists and braids of crystal and silver. Ethan thought about getting his ear pierced, just so he could buy something from her.
No one had seen her.
He walked to the edge of Victor Steinbrueck Park, sat on the grass with his guitar to his left and his pack in his lap. He dug out his journal and wrote down the lyrics from that morning. Only after he finished did he notice the lyrics were in Spanish. Now that was a first. His grandfather had been a migrant worker, but Ethan knew very little Spanish. He didn’t question the muse and her work, just accepted her gifts for what they were. He took out his guitar and played the song again, softly, joyfully.
One of the other buskers, a middle-aged woman, with short-spiked hair and bangles covering her blouse and peasant skirt, walked up to him as he finished. “Mighty fine sound you’ve got there.”
“Thanks,” Ethan said.
She held out her hand. “Names Ellie Richardson, but my friends call me Skook.”
Ethan took her hand (firm grip) and smiled broadly. “Nice to meet you Skook. I’m Ethan.”
She appraised him for a minute, making up her mind about something. “Nice guitar you got there. Where’d you get it?”
Ethan held it up by the neck. The sun gleamed off the polished wood. “Used to be my grandfather’s.”
“Damn nice instrument,” she replied. “You ever wanna get rid of it, you look me up. I’m usually playing over by The Clock.”
Ethan chuckled. “I appreciate the offer, but I think I’ll hang onto it.”
Skook picked up her battered guitar case, slung it over her shoulder, and walked away waving. “Don’t you forget.”
He made a final pass down Pike Place before giving up on meeting the hippie girl this weekend. It was odd that her booth sat empty, forlorn. Even the tall Rasta-Punk who sold t-shirts at the next stall seemed worried when Ethan asked.
“Kari loves coming out here,” he said. “Not like her to give up this spot. Took her three years to work her way up the list.”
“Kari, huh?” Ethan said with a smile. “You know her well?”
“Not real well. She’s a cool chick,” Rasta said, scratching the side of his face. “Been having some trouble with her old man though.”
“Her father?” Ethan asked.
Rasta laughed. “No dude, her dickhead boyfriend.” His hair seemed to vibrate when he laughed. “Man, she split from home when she was just a kid. Some loser scene back in Kansas somewhere.” He paused to take the money from a couple in shorts and Hawaiian shirts. After they’d stuffed their new t-shirts into their backpack, he turned back to Ethan. “Nah, I’m talking about that college dude she’s been dating. Real pretty boy.” Rasta leaned in close enough for Ethan to smell the stale coffee and staler cigarettes. “Control freak, if you ask me.”
Ethan lowered his voice. “Rough guy?”
Rasta shrugged. “Big guy, got money.”
“Oh.”
“Hey, I heard you earlier. You got a good sound. You should do more original stuff.”
Ethan smiled. “Thanks. I did a new piece this morning.”
“Yeah,” A look of profound respect crossed Rasta’s face. “I talked to Alejandro earlier. That dude is about four days older than dirt. Worked his whole life picking crops. He told me your song made him cry like a baby.”
“The guy selling the garlic and peppers across from Stewart Street?”
Rasta nodded.
“Alejandro gave me a bag of grapes as a tip.”
Rasta raised his bushy eyebrows. “Awesome, bro. Alejandro has his first nickel. Dude can barely keep a roof over his head. You should be flattered.”
“Thanks,” Ethan said, thoughtfully.
“You just keep making music.”
Ethan nodded. The crowd swirled their way again. Lots of folks with money to burn.
“Listen,” Rasta said, moving back behind his booth. “I’ll tell Kari you’re looking for her.”
Ethan blushed. “Well, she doesn’t know me, really.”
Rasta laughed again. “You smitten, little dude?”
Ethan grinned and waved. “Thanks for the information.”
“Peace.” Rasta flashed him a two-fingered salute and returned to hustling the crowd.
Ethan strolled south, weaving in and out of the throng as he worked his way back to Pike Street, where he’d turn east and head toward the bus tunnel. He needed to get back to the university and do some research in the library. He’d come back tomorrow, he decided, and look for Kari again.
Rasta apparently didn’t work the t-shirt booth on Sundays. A small Asian woman sat behind the card table, compulsively straightening the shirts. Kari’s spot was empty again. Disappointed, Ethan walked down to Three Sisters Bakery and got a cup of coffee and a croissant. He stood and listened to one of the old-timers working his piano and singing ballads. He tipped the guy and headed back to his apartment.
The next weekend arrived gray and spitting rain. The crowds were sparse and the tips worse. The smell of the sea rolled over the market in warm bursts, overpowering the smells of bread and f
resh cut flowers. Ethan watched the few who braved the weather as he huddled back against the side of the building and played. They seemed subdued, almost melancholy. They walked the booths, but Ethan sensed they got no joy from it. He was nearing the end of his set when a long, low C chord rumbled up out of the earth and the itching suddenly overcame him.
He fumbled the last few notes of “Fire and Rain,” sounding like a first-year guitar groupie. He’d never had the calling start while he played, with his fingers on the strings. It got so bad, he had to put the guitar down and rub his fingers along the seams in his jeans. A shiver ran through him, all the way up and over his scalp. He turned slowly; the rain had stopped again, and the crowd inside were braving the street vendors.
A large guy, every bit of six foot and then some, stood across the way, black half-notes oozing out of him to settle on the ground in oily pools. His girlfriend, a thin, lanky girl with stringy black hair and a boyish body, fired back at him in tiny, orange sixteenth notes, each one bouncing off the boyfriend before dissipating into the muggy air.
Ethan crossed his arms and shoved his itching fingers into his armpits. The sound of their discord rifled through him, filling him with anger. The girl looked his way for a brief moment, and Ethan could feel the fear in her eyes, her anguish a palpable punch in his gut. Music crescendoed inside him. Without thinking, without intent, he found himself standing in the middle of Pike Place, his guitar in his hands. The notes ripped across the crowd as he shouted the lyrics. The words flew like javelins from his lips.
Words of anger and pain, abuse and humiliation. Of a young boy molested and beaten, and a young couple reliving the nightmare. Ethan cried as he sang, the tears streaming down his cheeks. The taste of salt and bitter bile filled him. The guitar roared with wrath, the words lancing the abscessed boil of their secrets.
The girl collapsed, fainted in the street. The man held his hand up, shielding his haunted eyes from the blinding light of the truth. He licked his lips, glanced from side to side, then fled through the crowd, wailing.
The last dissonant chord faded into the horrified crowd and Ethan’s mouth closed, clipping the final word like the closing of a casket. His head swam and he breathed in great, gulping gasps. He stumbled toward the girl, reaching for her, his hand trembling. One of the vendors looked at him in horror and waved him away. The crowd moved over the girl, swirled between her and Ethan. His vision narrowed and grew dark around the edges. He couldn’t breathe. He stumbled backwards, flailing for balance. A pair of strong hands caught him, steadied him. He turned to see Alejandro smile at him through the fog and he fainted.
Susan’s face swirled into view, haloed by a cloud of wispy brown hair.
“Hi,” he said.
She pushed her hair back with one hand. It showered around her face again almost immediately. Her other hand cradled his head in her lap. “Hi yourself,” she said with a crooked smile.
He lay on the cold concrete next to the coffee house. His guitar and pack were stacked at his side. Susan’s cello remained in its case against the wall. Alejandro walked across the street with a wet rag, a bunch of grapes, and a bottle of water. He handed the rag to Susan, who held it against Ethan’s forehead and unscrewed the cap on the water. Susan helped Ethan sit up, steadied him as he drank the entire bottle in one long draught. He felt a little more stable afterwards.
Alejandro patted him on the shoulder and smiled. “He must eat,” he said placing a bag of grapes in Ethan’s lap
“I’ll make sure he eats them,” Susan said. “Thank you.”
“Usted lo mira cerca,” Alejandro said, his face stern and earnest. “Él es mago.”
“I’ll watch him,” Susan said. “But magician?”
Alejandro nodded.
“I’ll see that he gets home,” she said. “He lives near me on campus.”
The old man made the sign of the cross, kissed his crucifix and touched it to Ethan’s forehead. Then he tousled Ethan’s hair and went back to his booth.
Ethan watched Susan pull the cello case onto her back, the covered neck sticking above her head like a periscope. She held out a hand to him. Her grip was firm and soft. He smiled at her as she helped pull him to his feet. The world swam for a moment, but she held tight to his right hand and placed her left hand on his shoulder.
“I got you,” she said.
“No doubt in my mind.”
Saturdays came and went. Ethan played for the crowds and kept up with his studies but sightings of Kari remained only in his dreams. Susan began showing up early to watch Ethan’s sets and he found himself lingering in the market, journaling, writing music and drinking coffee while listening to Susan perform. During the week his waking mind filled with studying and reading the classics, but his dreams succumbed to music. At first he and Susan were just friends, brothers-in-arms so to speak, but lately Susan sang in his dreams as often as Kari. How could he have ever considered Susan mousy?
Finally, in early October, Ethan looked up from unpacking his guitar to see Alejandro standing in front of him.
“She’s back,” he said, then went to his work.
Ethan looked around. It had been so long since he’d thought of Kari that the sight of her shocked him with a flood of emotion and longing. She stood at the t-shirt booth talking to Rasta. Her booth had long since gone over to an elderly woman who sold ceramic cats.
Susan looked up from the cross-stitch she was working on, following Ethan’s gaze.
“She’s pretty,” Susan said.
“She’s beautiful,” he breathed.
Ethan watched Kari talking with a group of vendors.
“So, about next weekend?” Susan asked from somewhere far away. “Are you still interested in coming out to meet my parents?”
“Huh?”
“Next weekend. My dad’s birthday. Remember?”
“We’ll see,” he mumbled as he slipped into a sappy love song. “If you like Piña Coladas . . .”
Susan’s voice tickled the edges of his hearing. “Ethan?”
It wasn’t until Kari waved at Rasta from the passenger side of a red Audi that Ethan realized Susan had gone.
After his set, Ethan spoke briefly with Rasta. Kari and college boy were getting married. Ethan had never spoken to her.
Susan didn’t show up for her slot and didn’t answer when Ethan called her that afternoon. He walked from the bus to her place, but if she was there, she didn’t answer the door.
Winter fell onto Seattle with cold, gray rain. Ethan found himself lost and alone. Susan refused to see him, for reasons he could not fathom. He attended classes and wandered the city, but like Susan, the guitar became an anathema. He forgot songs while playing them. It got so bad that during one set a group of high schoolers booed him. Finally he stopped going to Pike Place Market. He just put the guitar in its case and slid it behind his futon, abandoned.
He mourned the loss of the music, could no longer feel the harmonies that normally filled his world. He lay awake some nights, yearning for that maddening sensation, feeling for the music like an amputee’s phantom itches, only finding sleep in the darkest hours of the morning.
He saw Susan once from the back of the Brechemin Auditorium where she was performing with her chamber quartet, but she faded out the back before the crowd allowed him a chance to move.
Finally, over Christmas break, Ethan pulled the guitar case out from behind his futon and resolved to get on with his life. He walked through the U-District, the guitar case an alien object in his hand. He eschewed the bus and walked the entire way to Second and Pike. He thought back to the day his grandmother gave him his grandfather’s guitar. How he first felt the gift at fifteen when the music took him. Tears rolled down his face as the shame burned in him hot and vile.
The Guns & Sundries pawnshop gave him $125 for the guitar, which he distributed among the buskers at Pike Place; a final gesture to something he’d loved and lost. Then he trudged home alone, the wintry rain leaching the remaining war
mth from him, washing away the final bits of joy.
*
One day in late March, Ethan sat in an off-campus coffee shop, drinking a mocha and eating a meatloaf sandwich, when something out of the corner of his eye caught his attention. He glanced up to see Susan standing at the crosswalk. She stood not three feet from him, on the other side of the window, her cello on her back. He watched her as she laughed with the girl beside her and they both crossed at the light — her cello periscope weaving up the hill toward campus. He grabbed his jacket, ran out of the coffee shop, and dashed across the street. The crowd thickened as it moved through the construction area near William H. Gates Hall, but he kept sight of her cello. He hopped over the railing, ran through the construction area and squeezed between the fence and a dumpster to get ahead of the crowd. Susan walked slowly toward Red Square. Her friend had disappeared. Ethan screwed up his courage.
“Susan,” he called as he ran to her.
She turned.
“Hello, Ethan,” Susan said. Her eyes held that haunted look of overwhelming sadness.
Was he the cause of her pain? Ethan struggled into his coat. “Could I talk to you for one minute? Please?”
Susan looked at him and sighed. “What do you want, Ethan?”
“Where have you been?” he began. “I’ve looked for you for a couple of months. Why did you leave that day?” He feared the answer, but had to ask.
“When did you finally notice I’d gone?” she asked, a sad smile flitting across her face. Ethan’s chest collapsed inward as his heart seemed to constrict.
“I don’t know.” Ethan watched her, remembered when she’d been happy, radiant.
“Why aren’t you with Kari?”
Ethan struggled with his answer. “She’s getting married, or something,” he finally managed to mumble.
“Ah,” was all Susan said.
“What? I don’t understand.”
“Silly, me,” said Susan. “I thought you might not be with Kari because you wanted to be with me.”
The Best of Talebones Page 39
