Post by Roland Emmanuel on Feb 25, 2013 1:34:54 GMT -5
“Just a city boy
born and raised in South Detroit.
He took the midnight train going anywhere.”
Roland sang, his voice rising and falling with the pitches of the song as his fingers switched and changed positions on the guitar’s neck as each new key was strummed out. He leaned back, resting his shoulders against the side of the truck bed and propped one leg up on the opposite wall, finding relaxation despite how with each pot whole the truck driver drove into his body was sent air born for a few seconds, interrupting his music.
“A singer in a smoky room
A smell of wine and cheap perfume
For a smile they can share the night
It goes on and on and on and on.”
The truck gradually rolled to a stop, parking on the side of the street as the driver motioned that this was as far as he would go. Standing up, Roland slid his guitar back into its case, grabbing the few belongings he had, and hopped over the side of the bed. Turning back towards the driver, he flashed a half smile, waving as he gave a quick, “thanks man” before continuing into the city. By now it was evening, the sun just starting to set, it’s last rays lighting up the windows of the buildings that towered over him. He took a moment to look up, admiring them despite having seen countless like them throughout his life. He had spent seven years of his life on the road, most of that time being in cities, and even though he had been to several much larger than Boston, the thrill of their magnitude never seemed to go away for this country boy.
“Welcome to Boston,” he smiled to himself, a slight country draw hinting as he said each word to himself. It was a big city, with lots of people, perhaps he would get lucky and make some good money here. Maybe even enough to get himself some new cloths, now that would be something. It had been a while since he had had the joy of shopping; something that a normal guy might not have cared all that much about, but for a guy who lived on the road, who could barely afford to feed himself, the prospect of shopping was exciting.
Continuing his walk, he searched for a heavily populated place where he could comfortably set up a nice place to settle down and play his music. It was his job after all. He was a professional street performer. A Class A hobo with a charming smile and a talent for music. One day, he was going to be famous. He was sure of it. He had even spent quite some time in Hollywood, trying, without success, to get a break with some record company. But that plan had fallen through, and he had gotten tired of the same sights and sounds, so he packed up and set out in hopes of getting recognized another way.
Once he found a suitable place, Roland made himself at home, leaning his stuff up against the side of a building and placing his guitar out in front of him. Opening his case, he pulled out his beloved guitar and set it in his lap as he sat down. Leaving the guitar case open for tips, he made quick work of tuning his instrument before his fingers started to pick away at the strings.
He started his concert with his own rendition of “Use Me” by Bill Withers, his voice soft in some parts and then growing deep and raspy as the octaves raised. As he sang his foot tapped, his head moving back and forth with the beat. A couple people took notice, dropping a dollar or two in before continuing on their way. As it grew darker, he knew people would feel less inclined to stay and give him an audience. Perhaps they were tired after the long day at work, hurrying to get home, or maybe they had plans and didn’t have time to stay and watch the young werewolf do his thing. But he didn’t care. He would stay out as long as he felt like he needed to, or as long as he could. Such was the way of the business.
born and raised in South Detroit.
He took the midnight train going anywhere.”
Roland sang, his voice rising and falling with the pitches of the song as his fingers switched and changed positions on the guitar’s neck as each new key was strummed out. He leaned back, resting his shoulders against the side of the truck bed and propped one leg up on the opposite wall, finding relaxation despite how with each pot whole the truck driver drove into his body was sent air born for a few seconds, interrupting his music.
“A singer in a smoky room
A smell of wine and cheap perfume
For a smile they can share the night
It goes on and on and on and on.”
The truck gradually rolled to a stop, parking on the side of the street as the driver motioned that this was as far as he would go. Standing up, Roland slid his guitar back into its case, grabbing the few belongings he had, and hopped over the side of the bed. Turning back towards the driver, he flashed a half smile, waving as he gave a quick, “thanks man” before continuing into the city. By now it was evening, the sun just starting to set, it’s last rays lighting up the windows of the buildings that towered over him. He took a moment to look up, admiring them despite having seen countless like them throughout his life. He had spent seven years of his life on the road, most of that time being in cities, and even though he had been to several much larger than Boston, the thrill of their magnitude never seemed to go away for this country boy.
“Welcome to Boston,” he smiled to himself, a slight country draw hinting as he said each word to himself. It was a big city, with lots of people, perhaps he would get lucky and make some good money here. Maybe even enough to get himself some new cloths, now that would be something. It had been a while since he had had the joy of shopping; something that a normal guy might not have cared all that much about, but for a guy who lived on the road, who could barely afford to feed himself, the prospect of shopping was exciting.
Continuing his walk, he searched for a heavily populated place where he could comfortably set up a nice place to settle down and play his music. It was his job after all. He was a professional street performer. A Class A hobo with a charming smile and a talent for music. One day, he was going to be famous. He was sure of it. He had even spent quite some time in Hollywood, trying, without success, to get a break with some record company. But that plan had fallen through, and he had gotten tired of the same sights and sounds, so he packed up and set out in hopes of getting recognized another way.
Once he found a suitable place, Roland made himself at home, leaning his stuff up against the side of a building and placing his guitar out in front of him. Opening his case, he pulled out his beloved guitar and set it in his lap as he sat down. Leaving the guitar case open for tips, he made quick work of tuning his instrument before his fingers started to pick away at the strings.
He started his concert with his own rendition of “Use Me” by Bill Withers, his voice soft in some parts and then growing deep and raspy as the octaves raised. As he sang his foot tapped, his head moving back and forth with the beat. A couple people took notice, dropping a dollar or two in before continuing on their way. As it grew darker, he knew people would feel less inclined to stay and give him an audience. Perhaps they were tired after the long day at work, hurrying to get home, or maybe they had plans and didn’t have time to stay and watch the young werewolf do his thing. But he didn’t care. He would stay out as long as he felt like he needed to, or as long as he could. Such was the way of the business.