The Flautist in the Subway

This subway station is a subterranean cathedral thanks to angel music and one old man.

A day in the life of a Subway Flautist

         When one is young and in a hurry, it is all too easy to shoulder an old beggar man aside, so I walk as close to the wall as possible in the stairwell, careful not to fall. 

        I'm late this morning; a three-block walk takes longer on a miserably cold morning.  My legs will hardly bend, my fingers even less.  It will take a while before the angels can use them to convert my breath through the flute into a message telling anyone who cares to listen that they are not alone. I feel needed.  It works out well for me; the angel-inspired music connects me with individuals, sometimes several at once, who express their appreciation for helping them hear it.  They give me a few coins and occasionally a bill falls into my hat.  I rely on those gifts to survive, paying my rent, feeding myself, and giving me some to share with others less blessed than I.

      I slowly make my way to my place out of the way of the thundering herds of people. A lightweight folding stool, held in my left hand, will provide me with a place to sit.  Navigation into the subway requires a heavy wooden cane in my right hand.

      Slowly going blind, yet not conceding the need for a white cane to feel my way through a shrinking world, I listen intently to every tiny sound the angels make as they work overtime in every corner of this underground cathedral; they both guide and inspire me. I hear them over the din of a throng of people rushing by, which keeps my orientation. The travelers pass so close that the sound of my flute can establish contact.

      When my fingers thaw out, the angels guide them to transform the flute's sounds into celestial music that passersby can understand. It puzzles me that all those people seem unable to hear the angels without my help!

      Tony comes around the counter, where he sells coffee and assorted pre-packaged eats. His chipper, enthusiastic welcome brings a smile to my face.   

      "DAMN COLD MORNING!, isn't it?" he says; his breath forms a vapor cloud in the icy draft from the street above. "Let me get that!" His gloved hands grab my stool and set it up for me between the pillar and the shelter of his counter, by the back of his popcorn machine. "Ready just in time, here they...." The rest of his sentence is drowned out by the rush of at least 100 people coming off the early morning local on their way to work, high above the street in the office buildings a block away. It is barely light outside, and frosty cold, so the hot coffee that Tony sells is in high demand.

      Tony leans over the counter when foot traffic slows. "Hey, Mo, sorry about that rush; it came at the wrong time. You didn't have time to thaw them out." He gestures at my fingers, which I was desperately trying to make more flexible so I could play the flute. He turns around, clutching a cup of fragrant brew in his gloved hands.  "Fresh hot coffee for you, Mo," he said, with his signature smile.       

      Wrapping my cold hands around the hot cup provides the warmth necessary to thaw my stiff fingers.  "Bless you, Tony. This will warm me up enough to play in a few minutes! Maybe, more people will stop to listen and be overcome by the delicious smell of your coffee." The warmth from the cup penetrates my hands, and for the first time today, I can bend my fingers a little. Big sips of the hot brew thaw my face enough so I can smile.

      "I heard that we'll get more snow tonight!" Tony says.   

        Barely keeping the shiver out of my voice, I speak.  "Burrr. It is going to get colder, too, for sure."

        Out of my pocket, I take my old wrinkled wide-brim hat, shake it out, open it wide, and put it by my feet. Sometimes it's a trade-off between warmth and mobility.  The coffee in my stomach allows me to opt for mobility, for the moment. I open my heavy-wool Salvation Army long coat and drape it over my shoulders. Fingerless gloves help my fingers seal the holes in the flute, but provide little insulation. On the street above, I put thin outer gloves over my knit fingerless ones to offer some protection from the biting cold winter wind.

      I plunge my hand into my other pocket, and it emerges with all my cash on hand. A nickel and three pennies fall into the hat; even a small amount of change shows that donations are accepted. An empty hat has an annoying tendency to stay that way!

      Sitting on my stool again, I open the coat wide enough to reach a treasured flute inside. The brief lull in foot traffic gives me enough time to avoid collisions while assembling the larger of my two flutes. I inhale, exhale, letting my breath flow evenly into the flute's mouthpiece. I attempt a quick scale to see if inspiration is waiting for me this morning. My fingers are still a little stiff from the cold and aren't working well yet; nothing happens.

        Tony thrusts another steaming cup of coffee into my hands.  "Here, this might help. I'm making another pot, and this is going to waste unless you drink it."

             "Bless you, Tony."  Holding the hot cup for a few seconds lets the coffee's heat penetrate inside and out.

        A few Breaths later, I hold the flute to my lips. Air from deep inside my chest flows across the mouthpiece, joining with the energy of a comet-like sphere of pure celestial music released by the angels. The song that emerges from the flute is bright and shares the warmth of Tony's generosity with another pulse of people from the train. A couple of people drop bills into my hat. When they leave, I look at the first bill, play money? Either this is an attempt at humor, or somebody's kids had fun with Dad's wallet.  Either way, I could not suppress a grin. You never know what will end up in your hat.

        The second bill is a twenty! Tonight we eat!

        Every day, thousands of people pass within inches of my face; few ever see me. I do not see them very well either, at least not with my eyes.  Other channels allow communication with passers-by.

      When the next train comes in, the high voltage on the power rail generates ozone as it arcs to the train's pick-up brushes. The wide-spectrum interference, generated momentarily, blocks the sixth-sense receptors that have been both a blessing and a curse to me for as long as I can remember.

      When entering the train, not one passenger seems to realize they have just relinquished complete control to someone they can't see and probably never consider on their electric train ride beneath the city! How casually we hand off the care of our lives to nameless, faceless strangers.

        When the next train arrives, two small red-haired freckle-faced boys race from the train, five steps in front of their harried mother,

        "Play Muffin Man, please, Mister." Muffin Man flows obediently from my flute, bringing smiles of sheer delight to the faces of the boys.

        It is evident to me that their mother is hanging tenaciously to the very end of her rope. She pauses and murmurs, "Thank you." She is embarrassed, knowing that she has no spare change to toss into my hat. 

         "Those smiles are more pay than I have a right to expect!" Next up, "Candy Man" obediently comes out of the flute, and the mother's smile merges with those of her two children. I think the tune touches a warm place in her memory. I hope the rest of her day is good and not too tiring. I notice the bulge beneath her coat and know those two boys will soon have a sibling.

      Every day, many people pass by. Some are familiar.  I can identify those long before my eyes can see a face. I sense them by a mixture of stimuli. Scents, sounds, and sometimes I feel their familiar presence. A particular floral aroma and the staccato click of her heels tell me that Mrs. Dorsett, a real gem among supers, is stopping for coffee at Tony's. She turns to me and says, "I hope you do well today, Mo."

      I think, "Two more days till my rent is due. The bills in the coffee can tucked way back under my sink are considerably short of enough to pay rent."

      This time of year, corduroy pants make a distinct sound that echoes off the station's concrete and brick walls: Whiiiihhh, Whiiiihhh, Whiiiihhh. New from the store, corduroy pants sound different from ones washed a few times. It is a louder, more insistent proclamation, "Here I am."           

      A melancholy song inspired by a young man wearing well-worn cords emerges effortlessly from the flute in my hands. I sense that he has spent days out in the cold, fruitlessly searching for any job. Left with no idea what to tell his pregnant wife when he returns home to their tiny apartment, tonight, he plods on head down, heart lower. His sadness weighs heavily upon his tired young shoulders. I reach out and offer my hand. He looks down when he feels the twenty-dollar bill in it. He opens his mouth to protest, but I stop him, "You need it more than I do." I see tears well up in his eyes. He continues up the stairs towards his wife, waiting for him to bring home some food.

      Faces full of hope and despair, love and hate, joy and pain crowd the platform. I hear, smell, see, and feel their stories. Slowly, the fragments of the lives people show me integrate into the fabric of the music which pours from the flute in my hands. The angels will sing and bathe anyone in peace who is willing to listen.

      Time passes slowly between trains. The day drags on, late afternoon arrives, measured by the staccato drip of melting ice. I look in my hat again.  It contains only five quarters, a nickel, and three pennies.  Tony rewarded me an hour ago with a sub and another cup of coffee. I am about to consider this day a complete waste when a small crowd gathers in anticipation of the next local connection toward home. They mill around virtually at my feet. Tony does a brisk business selling candy, hot chocolate, coffee, popcorn, and cellophane-wrapped sandwiches.         

      Suddenly, a rare and unforgettable moment begins to inspire this old man's life.  My fingers find their places on the flute, and a song that seems to come from nowhere and everywhere at once fills the entire underground, spreading its blessing on all present.           

      A sour-faced, slightly overweight, middle-aged, and well-dressed woman suddenly cracks a smile, her first of the day. She looks years younger in an instant. Her smile grows even wider as the music gains intensity. The stone chamber of the train station begins to reverberate. Several more people pause and listen. The angel music is full and strong, and uses this old man solely as a source of air. Each note floats on gossamer wings just above the milling crowd waiting for the train homeward.

      Time all but stops. Waiting passengers remove earphones and telephones, wondering, "What is everyone listening to?" The platform becomes a resonant chamber, enhancing the sound that is everywhere now. It cannot be stopped or even slowed down. It has a life entirely its own.

      Coins begin to drop by the handful. Clusters of people crowd around me. They are generous with their praise, and dollar bills fall like snowflakes into my hat.

      "I remember that song from my wedding."

      "The music is beautiful."

      "It makes me feel good."

      Their amazement turns into a most profitable moment for all. God himself gently pulls something beautiful, peaceful, and invigorating from my flute. People feel good. The music is doing its job.

      The healing sound is interrupted by the roar of an approaching train. The graceful notes dwindle and vanish like wisps of smoke—a hundred or so people suddenly share an irrational desire to know what time it is. Every eye consults a timepiece or a telephone. It's essential to identify the place and time when one returns from where the angel music carried them.

      The doors on the train whoosh open, and a surge of clapping people disappears inside. It is incredibly humbling to know that this evening God touched all these people with the sound of my flute.

      When the train leaves, I hold the flute with reverence. An infrequent and sacred event has occurred. People heard the angels' song! Smiles crossed many faces.

      Thanks to the music, there is money enough for now, plus some I can share with others who need help. I have a warm, dry place to go home to; some do not have even that. My heart is glad.

      "Way to go, man, that was awesome," says Tony with a huge smile on his face. "I did a lot of business in just a few minutes."

        Now the platform is almost empty; it's been half an hour since a local train stopped here. An Express train thunders past.

        A strong feeling that is almost more than I can bear engulfs me. "What can I do? Is this ability a blessing or a curse?"

        I feel her long before my other senses can begin to define her. As she approaches, I hear tentative, almost childlike footsteps. As she gets close, the odor of incense clings to her knee-length gray wool tweed skirt. Brightly colored argyle stockings keep her lower legs warm. Her shoes are plain black, rather masculine Oxfords. It is obvious to me that she just came from the 5:30 PM High Mass at the Cathedral on the next block. 

        Her voice is sweet and unspoiled by the world. "I heard that wonderful sound." She is close enough for me to look into her radiant face. She is young, and she shines with the luster of freshly polished bronze, exuding a strange mixture of extreme peace laced with flickers of anxiety. "Do things like that happen here often?" I realize that she waited patiently, out of sight, missing her train so she could ask me that question.

        She stands in silence, waiting for my answer, utterly unaware of what's happening. When I look deeply into her eyes, I see pictures, like a slide show; vignettes of the life of a young girl who recently left a convent and has yet to find her place in this strange outside world. She spends 40 hours a week behind a bank counter. 5:30 PM, High Mass is a daily ritual for her.

           She steps to within an arm's length. My ears fill with the beautiful sound of a group of young girls singing as they enjoy the acoustics of an old stone walkway between buildings, bringing new life to "Ave Maria." I know that the girl from the convent doesn't realize what she is sending to me.

        "When did you leave the convent?" I ask. More pictures of her life flash before my eyes.

        She looks at me in sheer disbelief. "Who are you? How can you know?"

        I answer quickly. Sometimes I know things. I see pictures, especially of bittersweet experiences people have had. With some people, it is as if we share the same space and time, for a few moments." I shrug my shoulders because there is no real-world explanation of what just occurred. "It is like the music; sometimes, it just happens."

        "Will I see you again?" she asks.   

          I say, "That is completely up to you; any weekday I am here about this time. I will keep playing here until God calls my name."                                       

          Her cheeks turn pink with embarrassment as the thought crosses her mind that this is the seventh week that she has passed here twice a day. Until a few minutes ago, I was totally invisible to her large, bright, brown eyes.

          "It's okay, sometimes I am invisible," I say, and even though it is below zero outside, I suddenly feel warm and comfortable next to her.       

          She lightly touches my shoulder. I feel it to my core. "Thank you."

        "I will pray for this beautiful creature," I think to myself. I smile as warmly as I am capable and extract my littlest flute, which has been warming inside my coat all day long. It is full of sweet music, a prayer of thanksgiving to be set free in the cold evening air. The sound of warm breezes, soaring birds, and the scent of colorful flowers fills the air. The angel music is incandescent and pours freely in shimmering wisps, filling my underground cathedral.

          "I'll pray for you too," she says just loudly enough for me to hear her admission that she shares some of my ability. Minutes pass, and she stands spellbound by the sounds that surround her, that she hears now, for the first time.  When her train arrives, she boards and gives a shy little wave through the window. The pleading look in her eyes suggests she hopes I can answer some important questions for her.

          I listen with my ears and open up my soul. I know she can feel me here. I'll wait patiently till she comes here again, and I'll play music that enhances her life to the steady rhythm of her loving heart.

           The coarse voice of a policeman interrupts my woolgathering. "Move along, Buddy;" the pain of his aching feet resonates in the sound of his voice.  Squeaking loudly as he walks, his uniform shoes speak of long hours, tired feet, and an empty belly, as he moves on to roust the next loiterer hiding from the cold.

          I think to myself, "It has been pitch dark for two hours—time to head out."          

        "Thank God for this very warm, long, brown wool coat," I gather it close around me and button up to keep the icy wind from insinuating its cold, knife-like fingers into the warm place where my soul lives. It is a three-block walk from the subway entrance to the crumbling third-floor walk-up where I live, and a six-block walk to the library where I sometimes spend hours out of the cold on Saturdays.

        I plan to stop at a small store just a block and a half from here and purchase a couple of cans of soup, bread, and a small block of hard cheese.

        I now have more than enough to pay a month's rent. I thank God for it. I will spend it all as wisely as possible, and hope for more generous tips like the ones I got today from those who heard the music. That's what fills my belly, but more importantly, it fills my soul and allows me to help others.         

            Energized, I ascend the stairs carefully, slowly stepping into the freezing wind outside. The girl in the gray tweed skirt will seek me out again, at least once. Perhaps she will open her heart again. Moments like that form strong links in the chain of my life, and the notes from my flute weld them together with pure energy."         

       

       

The End