12.03.2001
After five years of playing guitar in the subway, I was left with a beaten up six-string, a regular group of people who knew me and paid me for the same five or six songs, and the distinct feeling that Astor Place was mine, if not in title then at least in spirit. The first shot of the Guitar War was fired on what was otherwise an ordinary Tuesday morning in the East Village.
I had stopped in at Alt.Coffee, a couch laden coffee house on Avenue A on my way to work for a cup of Joe, donut, and quick chat with a few of the other morning regulars, then strolled down St. Marks place to the Uptown Astor Place number six train station. I paid three bucks to my man Tyrone behind the booth for two tokens and then waited for the rush through the turnstiles to thin before making my way to the platform. I saluted Ahmed, the Egyptian Mathematician who operated the newsstand, and tossed him a quarter for my copy of The Post to read while I finished my pastry.
Before I read, I propped up my handwritten Sharpie-on-cardboard sign that read:
Music Makes the World Go 'Round
Money Helps Me Make Music
And set out my grandfather's old hat to collect money from those who were just feeling generous that morning – something I learned to do completely by accident and which usually added a few dollars to the day's take. When I was done with my donut and had a satisfying caffeine buzz going, I popped open my guitar case and produced my sticker-laden instrument purchased years before at a second hand shop for fifty bucks. In all honesty, it sounded like shit, but, in the subway, those who heard never cared. Finally ready to get things going, I started to strum the opening chords to Tom Petty's Freefalling and then later joined in with vocals. It was my first song of the day and my voice was raw but no one seemed bothered. When the train came and went, I added up what I saw in the hat and was pleasantly surprised to discover that I'd made ten bucks for five minutes work. Such was not always the case, but it was nice when it happened.
The morning rush was nice because the trains came at such a frequency that I needed to only sing a few songs until the crowd was entirely new and I could repeat and get paid again for exactly the same thing. Ready to do some justice to the tune, I started up Freefalling again and had to admit that the second time was certainly better.
The clock was moving up on ten o'clock, I was on my fifteenth rendition of Petty's classic, and the crowd was thinning noticeably when the Russia to my America, the Germany to my France decided to descend upon my world. She was pretty, but it probably had more to do with the interval between the last time I'd been laid and her young age than anything else. Her long hair was done up in a tight braid that belied a certain amount of cleanliness behind her dirty hippy exterior. Her Grateful Dead shirt was almost undoubtedly a hand-me-down or second-hand store relic but her filthy corduroys looked almost new beneath all the dirt.
I wouldn't have noticed her at all had she not been carrying a guitar case. Every time I saw one my curiosity was piqued about what may have been inside. Usually I never find out because the owners never take them out, but in her case I did. The case held a beautiful Gibson Dreadnaught with a perfect natural finish and rosewood fretboard. It was so picturesque that I couldn't believe it had ever been played.
I looked at my piece of trash six-string and, for the shortest of moments, felt inadequate when seen near what she held. The more cowardly part of my psyche thought flight was the answer but it was quickly vetoed by the part that wanted to fight.
At first it wasn't clear what she was going to do with her instrument, she simply gazed at it with the same lust as I had, but I knew what was happening when she produced her own sign, the message almost lost in all the color and glitter she lavished on it, that read:
"When I make music, lyrics are the least important part"
- Kurt Cobain
I finished my song and watched her for a minute as I sipped from my then cold cup of coffee to see what her intentions were, much the same as Kennedy did upon discovering that the Russians had dropped a few nukes off in Cuba. I looked across the tracks to the Downtown side and saw that, though the crowds were still as thick as the Uptown side, there was not a single musician playing for cash and wondered why she'd chosen my platform. Before too long she closed her eyes and started to moan like a cat being beaten against a fence to a series of random chords. I didn't know what it was she was playing but I could tell two things, the girl didn't know how to play as evidenced by her inability to keep to anything loosely defined as rhythm and that she hadn't been playing long based on how long it took her to change between her remedial first position chords.
I waited for a train to come and go to see if what I had witnessed was merely some form of tortured warm up and whether she had a real act or if that was it but as it turned out, that was it.
Finally not able to stand it any longer, I meandered up and stood over her until she opened her eyes and took notice of me. When she did she stopped her throat noises and looked at me as though I owed her some explanation.
"Hey," I said to her trying to be cordial. "What's that you're playing?"
"Music," was her singular reply.
"Uh huh," I said with a shrug. "It sounds pretty random to me."
"It is," she said as though I were stupid child. "I let my body make my music."
"Right," I said, my patience slipping with every attitude-drenched word she uttered. "Well it sounds like you need a little bit more practice. It sounds like you started playing last week."
"I did," she grunted. "Now, what do you want?"
I gave her a sideways glance and tried to figure out exactly where her attitude originated, but gave up knowing it was probably a generational thing I would never understand.
"Look," I started trying to reclaim some of my cool. "I play in this station everyday. I make my money here..."
"So," she asked and my brain sent images of me smashing her divine instrument over her pretty little head.
"So, with you here, I won't make as much money. Money I need to pay rent and buy food with," I tried to explain as calmly as possible. "I was hoping that you'd be amenable to maybe moving to the Downtown side just so that we're hitting different crowds."
For a split second it looked as though she was actually giving my suggestion due consideration but she quickly dispelled any misunderstandings with her reply.
"No," she said then closed her eyes again like a child would in hope that the monsters under their bed wouldn't see her if she couldn't see them. After regaining her center with a series of short deep breaths, she started strumming and wailing as though I had never even been there. It was too much for me. I put my hand over the strings, muting them and waited for her to take notice of me again. When she did, anyone who was in the station could tell that she was not a happy woman. I was clearly fucking with her Karma or something equally as stupid.
"If you ever touch my guitar again, you're so going to wish that you didn't," she growled.
"By Christ," I shouted and almost laughed. "Now let me tell you something little girl. This is my station. The way I figure it, there are at least two platforms in every stop, and we both know there are a lot of stops, so why don't you go find yourself another?"
"Why don't you go find another?"
"I told you. This one is mine. I play here everyday. Now, you can go find another, or you and I can have problems. Got me?"
Her sneer turned into a slow grin. "Oh really? What can you do to me?"
I stood there for a second and felt stumped by my own cleverness before an idea popped into my head. I began whistling as I walked over to my case to fetch my restringing kit. I returned and held it up for her to see.
"If you so much as touch me, I'll have the cops here so fast asshole, you won't even know what," she said as I produced a pair of wire cutters. She paused, waiting to see what it was I was planning, but soon continued with a series of obscenities that would make a grown man blush as I began clipping her strings. Three popped with satisfying plinks before she pulled her guitar away and wrap her arms around to protect it.
I strolled back to my little spot as she cursed my back, packed her guitar, and pushed her way out of the station. I re-shouldered my six-string and prepared to play another tune when I noticed that the entire platform was silent. It seemed as though even the trains had stopped running in shock. I simply smiled and played a rendition of All Along the Watchtower, letting things return to normal.
The next day began much the same as the last except that when I went to buy my tokens from Tyrone he looked at me and then over my shoulder. I glanced back and saw two cops standing next to the girl from the day before and mumbled my own curse to the gods.
"I don't think that chick's going to take it sitting down," Tyrone said with a smile.
"Well, it's going to take more than a few cops to scare me off," I said and rotated through to the platform.
I'd barely exited the turnstile when she screamed, "That's him. He's the one who did it," and the cops started moving towards me. I pretended not to notice as I calmly strolled over to my spot and set down my case. The cops met me there.
"Excuse me sir, would you mind stepping over here," the officer said and pointed to the corner to my right.
"Sure," I said and brought my coffee over. "What seems to be the problem, boys?"
The two of them were about the same height as me and both looked like they were probably Puerto Rican. Both also favored shaved heads. They could have been twins. Their badges read "Vargas" and "Paul," the latter of which I figured was a strange name for a Latino but then, stranger things had happened.
"Sir," Officer Vargas started. "That young lady said that you assaulted her yesterday with a pair of wire clippers and that you damaged her guitar. Is this true?"
I sipped calmly from my coffee and said, "I didn't assault anyone or damage anything. I clipped three strings from her guitar. You can pick them up for a buck each at a music store." They looked back and forth at each other as if to figure out what to do then back at the girl. "Look," I said. "If it'll help smooth things over, I've got an extra set in my case that I'll give to her."
Officer Paul shrugged at his partner and said, "That would be fine, but sir, I don't suppose I have to say this, but that kind of behavior is not to be encouraged."
As I knelt down next to my case to retrieve the set of strings followed by the two cops I said, "I know officer. We just had a misunderstanding that got out of hand." Once found, I handed him a complete set, three more than what was owed, then shook both their hands and began to set up for the day.
As they returned to the girl with the pacifier I hoped she'd choke on, I heard her begin to scream again though the words were unintelligible and I'm not all together certain that they were English. The cops, having done their duty for the law, exited the station through the large black gate beside the turnstiles and the girl followed them though with a scowl directed my way the entire time. I wiggled my fingers protruding my knit fingerless gloves as a goodbye and refrained from smiling until she was gone.
Until noon, the day passed much the same as usual. I played the same medley of five songs in different progressions to prevent the inevitable onset of boredom that came everyday around quitting time only stopping every now and then for another sip of coffee. Then I heard a gaggle of girls descend the stairs and thought that they might be worth a few bucks so I began up anew with Proud Mary thinking I could impress them but I was wrong. The group was nothing more than a latter day hippy brigade led my none other than my new enemy. As I'd just begun, and there were actual passengers on the platform, I figured that it would be bad form to merely quit and wait for them to pass so I played on.
My mental blinders prevented me from noticing the girls until it was too late. Out of nowhere, the six of them produced spray cans of paint and proceeded to recolor me, my guitar, and anything else in a three-foot radius around where I stood. My vision went red, though not in anger – the color aimed for my face was such – and I was helpless to defend myself as I clawed at my own eyes.
When my attackers were satisfied that they had done their work, I was left reeling on the paint soaked floor, Tyrone running from the token booth to help me. As my vision returned, courtesy of a bottle of water donated by Ahmed to wash out my eyes, I decided that the day's playing was over and started out for home.
I can't say that I didn't sit on my futon after a long hot shower and think of ways to dismember my opponent as I restrung my now tie-dyed instrument, but after a good night of sleep, I can say that I decided to take the high road. I would ignore her from then on because anything else might prove to be detrimental to my personal well being.
Tyrone greeted me as usual in his booth the next day and had a good chuckle at my expense from the paint that still clung tenaciously to my hair. I shrugged and handed him my money, moving then on to my usual place of business. The paint from the previous day's attack was still on the cement, maintenance not yet having removed it, but I ignored it and struck up the first song for the day.
I suppose the girl had thought that I would know when I was beat, because she strolled past me on the platform, winking as if to say that we both knew she could do what ever she wanted. Inside, my blood boiled and I knew that the ending was not going to be pretty. The hippy circled me a few times then sat down at my feet and started to make her noises. I tried to ignore her but she was making it an impossible task but I didn't want to quit and let the little bitch win.
What sent me over the edge was a smile she looked up and delivered as I began a new song. She might as well have said, "I can sit here all day," because it had the same effect. The station began to rumble with the vibrations of an incoming train and before it rounded the corner, a well placed kick to the head of her guitar sent it scattering across the cement and into the tracks. Her eyes, wide from shock, made sure that she saw the whole thing and a platform full of passengers would have confirmed had she not. Before the uptown local was even out of the station the girl was at my throat, not in tears from the loss of a beloved friend as I would have been were my guitar fated to end in the same manner, but in a rage that came from knowing her will may dominate many but it would never dominate me.
She punched and kicked and slapped and scratched while I held tight onto my guitar until the police that Tyrone was calling arrived. And when they did I held on some more until they could subdue the little demon long enough to take me away.
I sat in Central Booking for a night and saw a bail judge the next day who lambasted me for acting the way I did at my age, but after that was free until my trial date to go back to playing underground. And while I saw some of the members of by nemesis' little troupe come through to ride, they never bothered me again, looking at me almost with a kind of respect. I'd gone toe to toe with the girl they all feared and I'd won. I never saw her again though, whenever I found myself wanting to remember, I'd look down into the tracks for the remains of her beautiful instrument, always see one, and always feel better.