This is part 18 of my memoir.
First chapter:
Previous chapter:
A Poem
It took a combination of planning and luck to earn enough money by busking. Sometimes, for all our planning, the weather would give out, or the promised tourists were nowhere to be seen. We drove down to Madrid at the end of November. We thought the weather would be good but it wasn’t. The air was raw, the ground black and wet. We bought some fingerless gloves and set up under an archway in front of the Plaza.
The rain turned into sleet. We started to play. My fingers were numb with cold, but I willed them to make the necessary movements, to press down on the strings until the notes were audible. A couple of people stopped to watch but most walked by, heads bent against the wind. It was a far cry from the warm Saturday nights in Seville, the cheers of the crowd, the brilliance of it all. I knew we had to play our best if we were going to make enough money to fill up the van and drive somewhere warmer.
I tried to make the songs sound good. Okay, I’d think as I played, this is a sad part, so think about something sad. Feel sad. But remember it picks up again soon, and keep in mind that there’s a sort of joy in the fact that I can feel at all, even grief. Make sure that comes through.
After a couple of hours Jesse had had enough.
“Fuck this,” he said, “it’s embarrassing.”
“I know. But I guess we can’t expect to be rock stars all the time; I mean, we are busking, you know. Not the most dignified profession in the world.”
“Oh, don’t I know it. Anyway, let’s just call it, okay? I think we have enough pesetas to fill up the van and get a few groceries. Either way my fucking fingers are falling off. I seriously don’t think I can play anymore.”
“Me neither.”
We bought the cheapest food we could find. I felt the injustice of it. Shouldn’t this money that was earned in such a poetic way, and yet under such shitty conditions, with every kind of discomfort, be spent on something better? That the money earned by such efforts should be spent on stale crackers and canned tomatoes was flattening. It was with a pang, at the grocery store, that we watched our hard-earned coins dwindle away; but then again—we could eat.
“Gas is more important now,” said Jesse, “we’ve got to get the hell out of this shithole.”
I laughed.
“I feel like we’ve earned something more though,” I said, “I really went for it in that last song, you know? And it was snowing! I feel like we should be buying fine liquors and expensive cheeses, not canned green beans. I don’t even like green beans. Where’s the poetry in that?”
“Tell you what. Next time you really put your heart into it and someone throws us half a peseta, I’ll keep it and just give you a handwritten poem—all about snow and fine cheeses.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
“No really, you’ll like it. Now, where’s that can opener?”
Hunger
It was almost dark. We had been driving all day, down through the Pyrenees mountains from Spain into France. We decided to stop for the night. Jesse pulled the van over and parked under a grove of Chestnut trees. There was a village just down the road.
I got out and looked around. The Chestnuts rustled in the breeze. I stretched my arms above my head, breathing it in.
Jesse came over and stood beside me. “It’s rad out here,” he said, “so pretty.” He put his arms around me and squeezed. I stood still, not wanting him to let go.
“I don’t know about you, but I’m starving,” he said. “I think I’m gonna cook up some of those beans for dinner. We can have them with bread. Does that sound good?”
I decided to walk down to the village while Jesse cooked. Wogart ran ahead, nose to the wind. I walked fast to keep up with him, and to keep warm. The wind bit through my wool jacket. My cap was pulled low over my ears.
The village was quiet. I didn’t see anyone. I knew that people were inside, eating dinner probably, and keeping warm. It was a good thing to know, and the empty streets and the cold felt less lonely because of it.
I found a little shop, still open, that sold drinks and snacks. I picked out some beer for Jesse. The shopkeeper, an old man with a mustache, looked at me and smiled.
“Vous ressemblez vieil homme, très beau,” he said. You look like an old man, very handsome.
I laughed.
I paid him for the beer and started to walk back. Wogart ran ahead. He turned a corner ahead of me and barked. There was a small herd of sheep on the road. A big white dog ran up from behind them to see what was going on—we watched as it herded the sheep; moving them in a group to the side of the road to let us pass.
It was getting colder. I buttoned my coat up tight and walked, quicker now, back to the van. I could smell the food cooking as I got closer.
“How was your walk?”
“Good.”
I told Jesse how the shopkeeper had said that I looked like an old man. He spooned some beans onto my plate. “Hope you like it—only the best for my old man,” he said, smiling.
I tore off thick crusts from the loaf of bread, a piece for each of us.
And with an almost total ignorance of our own privilege
It is very interesting for me: your freedom to go to any other country, work as a street musician, even feel hungry for some moments.