THE SINGER AND HIS SONG

This is the first among what will probably be a very few non-humorous posts from me. It's generally more fun for me to make myself laugh, but when the subject was right, it pressed upon me the need to write on it.
Amidst the every day routines in what most would consider to be an extraordinary city, it's easy to lose one's self in one's self. Something about the magnitude of this place forces me to be inward. There's no way to conquor the city. There's really no way of fully comprehending it, so you begin to float in it. Often the only thing seperating one day from another are the little different conversations had and little circumstantial "nothings."
Part of my own rhythm in every day is, of course, the commute. It's almost as predictable as gravity. Because as long as all the many millions of people here stay within their usual rhythm there won't be any breaks in anybody else's. I close down my computer applications. Say goodbye to whoever is left in the room. Make my way down to the basement to get on the 4 or 5 train, and I'm headed first to Grand Central to meet Aubrey.
It's a Friday, so there is a particular sense of emancipation on the ride away from work. Aubrey and I head back down to board a 6 train to 59th street and Lexington Ave where we will switch to an R train. But before we get on an R, we will probabley wait for the N and W trains to arrive and leave. And while we wait we listen to this "singer" that's down there sometimes. He's terrible. He almost has a good voice but he's got no clue how to use it. He sings at the top of his lungs to a track tape in a small speaker. It's fairly irritating. Maybe we won't have to wait for the R. Maybe we'll be lucky. Rhythm. Rhythm.
We head down the stairs from the 6 to the R. I can see the "singer." But he's not singing. He's packing his things. He has a look of humiliation. But it's more than that. More desperate. It's a specific look I remember making as a child when someone made fun of me, or I made a public idiot of myself in class or whatever combination of factors it took to make me want nothing but to be home and in mom's arms. He's crouched down with two NYPD officers standing over him. You're not supposed to sing on the platform. I'm sure he knew that. Everyone knew that. You're not supposed to hold the doors of the subway open, or walk when you don't have a walk sign, or outside of a crosswalk at all, or throw your Nutrageous wrapper on the ground, or a million other little circumstantial "nothings" we all take part in. I've never had an officer blink an eye at me for it. We have rules for a reason. Protection, order, and justice among other reasons. I believe we also have understanding. The ability to understand when understanding is what's needed. The same understanding that created those laws of protection to discern who's being protected, and from what.
I'm sure I'm not the only one on that platform who's had his friday rhythm interupted by this young man's singing and wished he'd stop. Maybe even considered paying him on the condition that he shut up for five minuetes. I'm also sure that not any one of us ever hoped he would get ticketed. Like that moment when the words you'll always regret left your lips and you can't breathe them back in, I wanted nothing more than to not have wished him silent. I don't think one person was ever threatened by this singer. No one is going to sleep better knowing they finally got him. And I look upon these two police officers with the obvious question in mind: "Do you really have nothing better to do?"
As they stood there over him like statues monitoring to make certain this "menace" was taken care of, I looked at him, clutching his ticket, and with suddenly absolutely nothing in this world. What little of his pride he had left was stripped of him. I'm almost jealous. I've got too much in this world. Too much hindging on my own success or faliure, or at least my percieved version of the two, to really be able to do good. What would'nt I give him now? Just to sing. Not because I want to hear it, but just so he can.
A man approaches the singer and the police. He kneels down, and places some amount of money in the singer's bag. I couldn't see how much. It didn't matter. It may as well have been a thousand. One officer in a very demanding tone asks what he's doing. He, half bashfully, and half enraged, responds very plainly: "I'm giving him money. This is rediculous." That was it. He was the example we needed. At least a third of the people there on the platform, myself included, pulled out their wallets and approached the three of them. There was no question now who was being protected. The police officers that were using there stature physically and officially were now outnumbered and over-ruled. Something they had not counted on. A combination of compassion and courage in one man to call for the same in everyone else.
I extend my hand to him with a few bucks in it. I wait. He has a humbled look of relief and at the same time still embarassed. He wanted to cry. He wanted to sing. I wait. Others come up around me, continuing to give. I wait. Rhythm. Why won't he take my money? "He's blind." The lady next to me informs me. I never knew. I couldn't tell. Maybe because I didn't look closely enough before or maybe because when he sang he sang with sight. As technicaly "bad" as the singing may have been it was his time to open his eyes for a few moments. A little embarassed at my ignorance I quickly placed the money in his hand and my wife and I returned to our spots to wait for an R.
It's good friday so there is a particular feeling of emancipation. Across the track on the wall the name Jesus is written in the dust. I've seen it before. Why was it written? When was it written? How did it even get there? It didn't really matter. It was just appropriate. There were so many symbols surrounding me in these few minuets.
Sacrifice on good friday. The first one. In a moment where those with the power pressed the law upon one that had little choice and little alternative. When the law created to protect was used to destroy, one man with a combination of compassion and courage approached, knelt down, and gave of himself. And His example changed everyone else.
That universally insignificant moment on the subway was a reminding and sobering representation that this wasn't the first time for grace, and redemption. Rhythm. Rhythm. Broken.
The R train arrives. As Aubrey and I get on I look back at a blind man having his worst and greatest moment, talking to a lawyer that happened to see what had just transpired. The lawyer has the ticket, and is already making inquiries with another officer about the two officers that watched their influence in full force and then fail in a matter of minutes among people that understood when understanding was needed.
A singer who, without reason and without seeing, had, for months, been singing his song facing the name of Jesus. I traded my rhythm in for his.