He’s sitting in front of the bank at 152 Bleecker Street.
Behind him the bricks age and flicker back to clean and new. The bank changes into a dirty, hole in the wall cafe. Cafe au Go Go, actually.
Came all this way for love, you know? All the way to this big city with nothing but my guitar and ten dollars in my pocket.
He plays on a beat up guitar and tips his hat to look up at me.
She sent me a letter. I still have it somewhere. Carried it across the country. She said she missed me, begged me to come out here. I did.
He searches through his pockets.
But, two nights after I arrived…she said she made a mistake. Threw me out of her apartment.
I’ve been trying to get a gig here. Maybe I could play a few songs, get enough money for bus fare or something.
He strums a few chords. Adjusts the tuning. Plays with the strap.
But, I only know one song, really. And how many times can I just keep playing the same, old song? I’ll never get back to Kansas City at this rate.
I’m going to starve in New York…
The building flashes back and forth between trendy 1960’s night club and modern brick apartments on top of a bank.
The transitions are saddening. History swept under the rug in an attempt to make everything more appealing. In an attempt to make money, forgetting that this building holds up one of the corner stones of American culture.
I’m a thousand miles away from home…but I still love her, you know?
People make mistakes…the heart is responsible for the majority of them.
But, here I am…playing my guitar. I have a harmonica, too. I’ll play and play. Starve and bleed and freeze. But I’ll make it back to Kansas City.
He begins playing the same song. The building shimmers and I catch a glimpse of Bleecker Street during a musical revolution.
It shimmers again and I’m standing in front of a Capital One bank. No guitarist in sight.
I wonder what the music scene in Kansas City was like.