U-8, headed home. Two men get on the train; one is holding a stack of Motz, the newspaper peddled by the homeless all over Berlin. The other guy is carrying a violin. Before the guy with the papers can begin his standard monotone pitch (where do they learn it?), the violinist bursts into a high-energy performance, leaving our poor Motz peddler open-mouthed, speechless, and then, arms folded, seething in the corner.
The violinist shreds. He has a backing tape playing, somehow, though I can’t discern where the music is coming from. Some small speaker hidden on his body cranks out guitar chords which he fiddles over, stomping his foot in rhythm. It is a better entertainment value than the magazine. Nonetheless, the Motz seller feels compelled to give his spiel, clearing his throat and breaking into his low monotone when the song is done, as the violinist circulates the car, collecting change in a paper cup. They both get off at the next stop, the guy with the newspapers leaving empty-handed.
I feel bad for him. But what can you do? There is too much competition for too little spare change on the U-Bahn. I don’t have enough to supply everyone who asks. In an urban setting, it’s important to develop some system for distributing your excess coins, or else you risk falling, eventually, into calloused urban automaton behavior. That’s unpleasant for everyone involved.
I was on the subway in New York City, some years ago, when a man boarded, winding up to an impassioned and grueling plea after the doors hissed shut. “I am HIV positive,” he began, every syllable clear and well enunciated, the voice of a seasoned public speaker, “and the medications I take have made me lose control of my bowels.” This was the set-up, and his story only went downhill from there, delving into the details of his ill health in harrowing specificity, while the packed train full of people stared blankly ahead, pretending not to register his presence. But you could feel it: a general sinking of morale to zero, the crushing toll of being forced not to react, once again, to human misery. After his pitch, he made his rounds, collecting change. No one would look him in the eye as they deposited coins in his cup.
My stop arrived and I disembarked. On the platform, a mariachi band was playing, dressed in full regalia, yelping and singing, strumming happily against the cold of a Manhattan winter. I stood and watched them for a while, grateful for their presence; had they not been there I might have scurried on, trying to forget that moment on the train like so many other small hassles of commuting. But I was profoundly relieved by their gaiety. And it was this feeling of relief, as I listened and watched, that made me realize how upset I actually was. The world was a deeply horrible and unjust place, and I was powerless to change that even slightly. This was not something I hadn’t known, but, as always, it is a shitty feeling on those occasions when you are forced not just to know it, but to feel it.
I let it go, and listened to the band. They were great. They were hope, beauty, the highest aim of humanity incarnate.
This was when I made my resolution: I have only so much change to give and, I decided, from here on out it was going to go to street musicians. I am not advocating this to others, nor am I putting it forward as a moral or ideological position; I am just explaining my system for distributing spare coins. Karmically, it makes sense for me. I have already been paid far too much money in life for playing music versus my skill level and dedication to the craft. Moreover, I want to put my resources and energy into fostering the world I want to see, not into making the world I don’t want to see go away as fast as possible with the minimum of guilt. From here on out, I decided, I will do what I can.
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