On Thursday night, I went out for pre-birthday drinks with a whole host of friends—someone from nearly every walk of my life. On the way home, I had one of those special, unexpected New York moments that I know I won’t ever forget. My very favorite subway performer got on the train. He’s a black man in leather and sunglasses and he plays the electric guitar through a miniature amp strapped to his hip.
He never rushes. I think that’s what I like about him. He played What a Wonderful World.
I said, “since I didn’t buy any drinks tonight [thanks for the beers, by the way], I’m giving him two dollars,” and had Caitlin hold on to the six-foot painter’s brush extension pole (another New York moment, and a story for another day) while I dug for cash in my bag.
“And I’m putting on my tiara for him.”
He strolled down the aisle and I dropped the money in his hat. He moved about two steps passed us, paused, and took two steps back, the amp swaying at his hip. He squinted at a spot about six inches above my eyes to read the hot pink letters on my tiara.
“‘Birthday Girl.’ You know, I just had a birthday.”
“Really? Happy birthday! Belatedly. I’m turning twenty-four.”
“I’m more than twice that,” he grinned. “I just had my double-fives. Have a very happy celebration.”
So I did.
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