Busking at the Station

Yes, the station was the best stage. And in some ways the worst.  Best because of the money, of course.  I calculated that if we played there five or six times a week, we could have all quit our day jobs and lived on the tax free donations that were overflowing the guitar case in front of us.  My bandmates did not believe me, and we never were able to test this theory as we played the station only  twice or thrice a week during my time with the band.

Anyway, it was a popular spot for bands and solo street musicians, jugglers and mimes, and you had to compete for the space.  We chose to play the morning crowd, 7 to 9 or 10, when not many other guitar and mandolin wizards were willing to get up at 6 and drag their butts and gear downtown.  We played our gig, packed up, and headed for our day jobs. This was the time when flex time was starting to get popular, and you weren't expected to arrive at the office at a certain hour but only before a certain hour.   It fit us the working stiffs perfectly.

And the worst, as I said.  It seemed that everyone who lived in  the city and its suburbs passed through there at one time or another.  Not only the passengers of trains arriving every few minutes, but passers-by coming from god only know where crisscrossing  the sidewalk in all directions.  And tourists during the season.   I think I must have said "Hello!" while playing there to everyone I had ever known.   Well, the problem was that if you were avoiding the law, bill collectors, ex-wives or your enemies, sooner or later they'd run into you there.  And our bass player Bill's adventurous existence happened to include all of the categories I just mentioned.

Bill was a good sport and a clever man, who wasn't going to skip the train station busking because of the dangers he potentially faced there.  He appeared wearing a false red beard, wig covered by a hat to make it look  like natural hair (he was balding),  a jacket with padded shoulders, and shoes on one inch heels with another inch added inside by orthopedic inserts.   His new height changed his physical relationship to the bass fiddle, his posture and body movements, he was truly a new man.  And it worked.  People who knew us, knew his name (I don't know if they were his creditors or enemies), would approach the band between songs asking "Where is Bill?", and we'd make up some excuse saying that he had to babysit his kids, or something,  but he was still with the band, and when we felt like pulling his leg, because he was right there listening to us, we'd say that he had a court appearance to attend, or was arrested last night at a 4th Street whorehouse.

In any case, we had an understanding with him that in face of danger, he'd casually and quickly put down the bass, run for his life, while we finished the set and took care of returning  his instrument.

What is meant to happen will eventually happen, you can't cheat fate.   A man looking like an undercover cop, you learn to read the types after a year or two on the street,  stopped to see us one time in front of the station, and he started watching Bill, with just too much of interest for comfort.  We finished a song, Bill put down the bass, whispered a word in my ear and walked inside the station.  Through the glass door I saw that once inside he took off running.  The cop, if that's what he was, hesitated for a spell, turning around to walk after Bill, then turning back to the original position,  figuring I guessed that a musician wouldn't abandon his instrument.  We kept on playing, and after a couple of songs the man approached me and asked "What happened to the bass player?" "Oh, he had to pee pee, went to the bathroom, will be right back," I told him. But Bill never came back, and the man got tired of waiting and walked away shaking his head.

"He'll be back," I told Bill the next day. What to do?  It was Bill's idea.  We hired Chuck, another bass player, to sub for Bill, dressed him in Bill's getup, sans the platform shoes, he was taller than Bill, and we set out for the station.   Sure enough, the cop, or whoever he was, showed up.   He waited patiently for us to finish a set, and then approached Chuck saying, "You are Bill D. and I have a court summons to serve you!"

Startled, Chuck said loudly: "What? I'm no Bill D., get away from me!"

"You are Bill D., I recognize your bass!"

That was a lie or bluff as Chuck was playing his own instrument. For some reason the man hasn't yet pulled out his summons document.

"You're insane, go away!", demanded Chuck.

There was a uniformed cop standing nearby, there is always one in those places, and I waved him over, told him that "This gentleman is harassing our bass player."

The cop, as we were hoping, and as if he were an actor in on the act, asked both of them to produce identification, and of course Chuck pulled out his driver's license, which the policeman read out loud.  He told the summons server to get lost and warned him that if he sees him here again he'll have to arrest him.