The Ride Home

The subway doors almost closed on me. I don’t know why that always happens and frankly, it’s starting to piss me off. Still, at least I made the train. I never liked having to stand there underground, waiting and waiting, staring and receiving stares.

The odd thing I’ve noticed is that on the sidewalks, no one gives anyone else a second glance, no matter how unusual they may appear. It’s a different story at the metro stops and this bothers me. During those five minutes spent waiting at the platform, strangers judge each other out of boredom and glue their eyes to anyone sticking out in the slightest. On the trains too -- anyone a little different got stared at and that is just too bad for me.

I suppose I stuck out a little bit, me being on the short, scrawny side with a large acoustic slung across my back in a cushioned case. Yeah, that’s right: another teenager learning guitar. Someone give me an award for being so damn unique and original. And someone else, give me an award for not punching that perfectly tanned, business-suit-clad snob square in the face because he is giving me the weirdest look. Seriously, hasn’t he ever seen a kid with a guitar before? Jeez.

Okay, okay, I stuck out a lot, but I never wanted to be an underwear model, so I don’t know what the big deal is with my appearance. The only reason my hair is this long is because Mom keeps telling me to cut it and I kind of want to spite her. The only reason my shirt is this tight is that I never bother going shopping. The lack of height and muscle…well, I blame that on genetics, though it’s probably because my daily diet consists of Doritos and Dr. Pepper. Feel free to sue me for looking shabby. I’m pretty sure that businessman wouldn’t mind.

Jeez, the way keeps looking at me, like he’s my dad or something. That disapproving stare, with his lips parted and his eyebrows furrowed—I can’t stand it! I expected him to say something, make a crack about how I’m doing in school, but his isn’t the voice that floated up to me.

“You play, kid?” It was gruff, raspy, and emotionless. I found the source on the floor next to my seat, in army fatigues and a beard that could use a good wash.

“Y-yeah. Kind of. Today was my first lesson.” The thing is, even though I grew up here, I never spoke to a homeless person before. I guess, somewhere in the back of my mind, I disapproved of them the way Mr. Wall Street disapproved of me. So when the same man asked if he could see it, I hesitated. I stared, though I hate being stared at.

“C’mon, kid. I’ll show you a trick or two.” There was something in his face that made me want to. I think it’s because I could see a smile under all the facial hair. I bet that tanned guy was still staring, thinking me even worse than he initially did. That, more than anything, made me unzip the case and gingerly pull out my new pride and joy.

The man took it and the smile was much more pronounced underneath the grime. He put a scarred finger on the second fret, the one I learned was “C” on the second string, and strummed. His hands, stiff and dry, actually came alive over it. My guitar, gleaming, shining and new, was at home in the arms of a dirty, disgusting, smelly, D-train hobo.

He was mesmerizing, to be honest. The tune he churned out sounded familiar, but I couldn’t place it. Then, he stopped. He looked me in the eyes and he asked “Why do you want to play, kid?” I hesitated again. How do you explain to a random hobo that you want to be like John Mayer? Would he even know who that was? “You want to be like someone? Is that it? You got a hero, kid?” His voice wasn’t so gruff anymore. Well, it was, but it sounded less rusty, less foreign.

“Y-yeah. That’s pretty much it.” I replied. With a nod of his head, he went back to playing, to getting mud and grease all over my guitar, to smiling like he had just been transported to a life of four warm walls and three regular meals. It did something to him and that was wonderful. Still, it was still mine, my guitar. My new baby and he was…call me a hypocrite; I deserve it. But can you blame me? That homeless man just wouldn't give back the guitar.

I asked for it back. He asked for a few minutes more. A few minutes later, as the train was getting to my stop, he was still playing, still strumming. People weren’t just staring at me anymore; they were staring at both of us. I felt my cheeks flush a bit, but I asked again.

He stopped playing and looked up at me, like my little brother when it’s bedtime. There was that same begging look in his eyes. He handed it back and the train stopped. I was zipping up the case and stepping off when I noticed that the homeless man had gotten off before me. He was walking somewhere; I don’t know where and I doubt he did either.

The way he slouched as he walked, head down and hands in his pockets told me something. They told me to run after him as fast as my old sneakers would take me.

“Hey!” I picked up speed, turning into a steady run, “Hey! Old guy! Hobo!” I raised my voice, not caring how ridiculous I looked or sounded or if the entire world was staring. “HEY!”

I came to a halt behind him and he turned around. I took the case off my back and held it out to him. Because it wasn’t mine; it was his. And I could save up for a new one. I could explain this to my parents. And the way he grinned as his grubby hands stretched out to accept it will never leave my brain. He was so…so…he was just so happy.

“Thanks, kid,” was all he could croak out.

“You’re welcome,” I said and I meant it.

Before I could turn around he tipped his hat and said, “The name’s Jim.” Then, he turned around and continued on his way, not quite so slouched, and hugging his present. I think he knew where he was going this time.