A Series of Bizarre Encounters, Unforeseen Tribulations and Profound Observations.
It was half past two. We had arranged previously to meet at one. Such is frequently the case with musicians. We are unreliable, or at the very least difficult to rush as rule. Regardless, we embarked to the centre of the city with our instruments in tow, hoping the cases would soon be graced by the metallic presence of coins from the generous pockets of our streetcorner patrons. As we boarded the SkyTrain, we noticed the curious absence of riders, but disregarded this and utilized this as an opportunity to play music on public transit uninterrupted. There was a curiously profound air to this recital bereft of an audience, as our voices rang out through the empty train. This mood was disturbed by the train's insistence on suddenly moving backwards to the point we had just boarded upon. Perplexed we boarded another train only to be subjected to the same fate. Apparently they do that. regardless, after our confusion had been moderately quelled, our odyssey took us to a Skytrain station that had proven lucrative in the past. While it didn't today, we were adequately compensated by the people we encountered. There was the DJ who requested our directions to the nearest hipster record store and reciprocated this favour with an offer of work upon his return, the security guard who'd heard the song we play specifically to entice marijuana users to donate their pocket change and asked us if we knew other songs by the same artist. There was the group of stoners we'd been attempting to hook who were instead enamoured of our playing enough to film our smotheringly ironic rendition of Turn My Swag On. There was the elderly man who accosted us as we were packing up, and in a weathered voice with a thick British accent asked what instruments we played. "Guitar. " "Ukulele." we replied, respectively. "Well I left my guitar at home, so its a good thing i also play the cane." And with that, he swings his cane into the air and begins strumming invisible strings while imploring us to accompany his jaunty rendition of Elvis Presley's "biggest tune", a ditty called Such A Night. I had never heard of it previously, and am still not entirely convinced it's a real song. Upon the number's conclusion, he informs us that he is a member of MI6 and insists on "pounding it" with both of us. We leave in barely contained amusement, boarding the train back to downtown only to have our revelry interrupted by the sounding of a particularly intrusive foghorn. "This is why the trombone will never get melody." I remark wistfully, backed by five years that proved to validate that statement completely. "But that wasn't a trombone! That was a boat!" "The two are frequently confused in philharmonic circles." "Well you couldn't really cross a body of water in a trombone." "Unless it was a big trombone and you were a midget." This provokes an impromptu rendition of The Police's Message in a Bottle with the titular nouns being replaced by midget and trombone respectively. Similar epiphanies occurred as we attempted to navigate False Creek, making several failed attempts to vicambulate around the aquatic border whose name proved to be a profound misnomer. We found ourselves in a mutual favourite waterpark, remarking upon the changes that had impacted it as the years slipped away from us. A melancholy jam was had atop the structure that had seemed so glamourous and gargantuan in our faded youth. As these bittersweet refrains traveled through the air prematurely chilled by an evening breeze, we watched the sun set over our childhood empire. We made fifteen dollars in small change that day, but the night sky and August moon alone were worth far more than that.
