The Flautist in the Subway

A day in the life of a Subway Flautist



         I walk close to the wall in the stairwell to prevent falling. It is all too easy to shoulder an old beggar man out of the way when one is young and in a hurry. so it is best to avoid heavy foot traffic whenever possible. I carry a lightweight folding stool in one hand while navigating the steps down into the subway. In my other hand is a heavy wooden cane. Not yet conceding the need for a white cane to feel my way through the shrinking world of oncoming blindness I'm dependent on listening to hear the tiny sounds from every corner of this Cathedral of the underground.  Angels are forced to work overtime here; You can hear them hard at work.

        The voice of my friend, Tony, comes from behind the counter where he sells coffee and assorted prepackaged eats. His chipper, enthusiastic welcome brings a smile to my face. “Cold morning isn’t it,” he says, his breath forming a cloud in the cold draft from the street above.

          “It sure is. It looks like we’ll get more snow.” Keeping the shiver out of my voice is hard. A cup of the fragrant brew simmering on the burner behind the counter would be delicious; however, paying for coffee is impossible just now, as my total cash on hand is a nickel and three pennies. A small amount of change in my hat makes it obvious that donations are accepted. Spending it, even if it were enough to buy coffee, is out of the question.  An empty one has an annoying tendency to stay that way.

        Setting my stool between a stanchion and the end of Tony’s counter holding his popcorn machine leaves plenty of room for passersby to access Tony’s tiny service counter. Shrinking into the smallest obstacle possible and sitting on my stool removes the weight from my legs. Opening the collar of my heavy-wool Salvation Army long-coat draped over my shoulders allows me access to my treasured flutes inside. I assembled the larger of my two flutes and attempted to run a quick scale to see if inspiration is waiting this morning finds. My fingers are stiff from the cold and refuse to function well. Wearing fingerless gloves helps seal the holes in the flute, but provides little insulation.  Thin outer gloves over my knit ones provide some protection from the biting winter wind on the street above.

          “Here this might help, I’m making another pot, and this is going to waste unless you drink it.” Tony thrusts a steaming cup of coffee into my hands.

             “Thank you, Tony.” Smiling and holding the hot cup for a few seconds allows the heat from the coffee to penetrate my half-frozen fingers. Soon the flute catches hold of the wispy tail of a comet-like sphere of pure musical energy flying through the universe. The song from the flute is bright and shares the warmth of Tony’s generosity with the pulse of passersby emerging from the train.

          Although every day thousands of people pass within inches of my face, few ever see me.To be quite honest, I do not see them very well either, at least not with my eyes. But there are other channels of communication.

           The high voltage on the power rail generates ozone as it arcs to the trains' pick-up brushes.  The wide spectrum interference generated momentarily blocks my sixth sense receptors and adds an acrid taste to the air.  The ozone blends with the essence of tension present in the cloud around the hundreds of crowded bodies hurrying onto and off from the busy trains, in carefully-scheduled pulses.

            Not one passenger seems to be aware they have just relinquished complete control to someone who they can’t see and probably never will meet for the duration of their ride on an electric train hurrying beneath the city.  How casually we hand off the care of our lives to nameless, faceless strangers.

            Not much air circulates down here except when the trains rush by the station.  I smell garlic and the lingering odor of pizza trapped in the hands that pass by nose high, a foot away from my stool.  The composite air down here smells like sweat and very old cheese laced with trails of perfume, deodorant, shampoo and makeup.

          Two small red-haired freckle-faced boys race from the train, five steps in front of their harried mother “Play Muffin Man, please Mister.” As Muffin Man flows from my flute, smiles of sheer delight paint the faces of the boys.

          It is obvious to me that their mother is hanging tenaciously to the very end of her rope. She pauses and murmurs, "Thank you." She is embarrassed, as she has no spare change to toss into my hat.     

         “Those smiles are more pay than I have a right to expect!”  Next up is “Candy Man” and the mother’s smile merges with those of her two children. Hopefully, she will enjoy a few moments of peace.

            Some days there are a lot of passersby. Some smells and sounds become recognizable, and I know who to expect long before these old eyes can identify the faces.

            The sound that corduroy pants make is distracting when it echoes off the concrete and brick of the station walls, Whiiiihhh, Whiiiihhh, Whiiiihhh. New from the store, corduroy pants sound differently than ones washed a few times. It is a louder, more insistent proclamation, “Here I am.”           

           A melancholy song inspired by the young man wearing them emerges effortlessly from the flute in my hands. He spent all day out in the cold, fruitlessly searching for any job.  Left with no idea what to tell his pregnant wife when he returns home to their tiny apartment he plods on.  His sadness weighs heavily upon his tired young shoulders.

          Faces full of hope and despair, love and hate, joy and pain fill the platform. I hear, smell, see and feel their stories.  Slowly the fragments of the lives people show me integrate into the fabric of the music.

        Time passes slowly between trains. The day drags on measured by the staccato beat of melting ice dripping onto the top of the toll keeper’s booth. After several hours my hat only contains five quarters more than with what I started. For drawing customers, Tony has rewarded me with a sub and another cup of coffee.  I am about to consider this day a complete waste when a small crowd gathers in anticipation of the arrival of the next local connection to Downtown. They mill around virtually at my feet. Tony does a brisk business selling hot chocolate, coffee, popcorn, and cellophane wrapped sandwiches.

            Suddenly, one of those rare but unforgettable moments begins, inspiring this old man’s life.  My fingers find the flute and from it, emerges a song that seems to come from nowhere and everywhere at the same time.  It fills the entire underground, spreading its blessing on all present.

            A sunny-faced, middle-aged, slightly overweight, but well-dressed dowager smiles, her first of the day; it grows even wider as the music gains intensity. The stone chamber of the train station begins to reverberate. Several more people stop to listen. The angel music is full and strong and uses this old man solely as a source of air. Each note floats on gossamer wings just above the heads of the milling crowd waiting for the train.

          Time all but stops. Waiting passengers remove earphones and telephones wondering, “What is everyone listening to?”  The platform becomes a resonate chamber enhancing the sound that is everywhere now. It cannot be stopped or even slowed down. It has a life completely its own.

          “I remember that song from my wedding.” Coins began to drop by the handful. The clusters of people who crowd around me are generous with their praise, and dollar bills begin to fall like snowflakes into my hat.

          “The music is beautiful.”

          “It makes me feel good.”

            My amazement turns into a profitable moment for all. God himself gently pulls something beautiful from my flute. The sound is finally interrupted by the roar of an approaching train.  The graceful notes dwindle and vanish like wisps of smoke among the hundred or so people who suddenly share an irrational desire to know what time it is.  Every eye consults the watch on the appropriate wrist. It seems important now, to identify this place and time when returning from where the music carried them.

         The doors on the train whoosh open and the sound of clapping people disappear inside. It is extremely humbling to know God touched all these people with the sound he produced from my flute.

          A very rare and sacred event has just occurred. I hold the flute with reverence. People heard the song of the angels! Thanks to them there is money; all that I need now, plus some to share with others who haven’t received their checks yet.  I have a warm, dry place to go home to; some do not have even that.

         “Way to go, man, that was awesome,” says Tony with a smile on his face.  “I did a lot of business in just a few minutes.”

          Now the platform is almost empty; it is half an hour before the next local train will stop here. An Express train thunders by, and  I hear timid, almost childlike, footsteps approach. It is a young woman who smells of incense. The odor clings to her knee-length gray wool tweed skirt.  She has on brightly colored argyle stockings to keep her lower legs warm. Her shoes are plain black, rather masculine Oxfords. It is obvious to me that she has just arrived from 5:30 High Mass at the Cathedral on the next block. 

          Her voice is sweet and unspoiled by the world.    “I heard that wonderful sound; all the Angels were singing along.” She is close enough for me to look into her radiant face.  She is young, and she shines with the luster of freshly polished bronze.  Her aura is a strange mixture of extreme peace laced with flickers of anxiety. “Do things like that happen here often?”  I realize that she has waited patiently, probably missing her train to hear the Music and to ask me that question.

          She stands in silence waiting for an answer, completely unaware of everything she is showing me. When I look deeply into her eyes, I see pictures, like a slide show; vignettes of the life of a young girl, who has recently left a convent and has yet to find her place in this strange outside world. She spends forty hours a week behind a counter at a bank. 5:30 PM, High Mass is a daily ritual for her.

           My ears fill with the beautiful sound of a group of young girls singing as they enjoy the acoustics of an old stone walkway between buildings bringing new life to “Ave Maria."  I know that the girl from the convent doesn’t realize what she is sending to me.

        “When did you leave the convent?” I ask, certain as more pictures of her life flash before my eyes.

          She looks at me in sheer disbelief. “Who are you?  How can you know?”

          “Sometimes I just know things and see pictures, especially of bittersweet things that people have experienced. With some people, it is as if we share the same space and time, for a few moments.” I shrug my shoulders because there is no real-world explanation of what just occurred. “It is like the music; sometimes, it just happens.”

          “Will I see you again,” she asks?   

          “That is completely up to you; every day I am here about this time. I will keep playing here until God calls my name.”                                           

        Her cheeks turn pink with embarrassment as the thought crosses her mind that this is the seventh week that she has passed here twice a day, and until a few minutes ago I have been totally invisible to her bright brown eyes.

          “It’s okay, sometimes I am invisible,” I say, and even though it is below zero outside, I suddenly feel warm and welcome next to her.

          She lightly touches my shoulder. I feel it to my core. “I will pray for this beautiful creature,” I think to myself. I smile as warmly as I am capable and extract my littlest flute which has been warming inside my coat all day long.  It is full of sweet music crying to be set free in the cold late afternoon air. I begin to play a song of warm breezes, soaring birds, and colorful flowers. The music is incandescent and pours free in shimmering wisps through my underground cathedral.

          “I’ll pray for you too,” she says just loudly enough for me to hear her admission that she shares my ability..  Minutes pass, and she stands spellbound by the sounds that surround her.  When her train arrives, she boards and gives a shy little wave through the window.  A pleading look in her eyes says that she hopes I can answer some important questions for her.

          I listen with my ears and open up my soul. I know she can feel me there waiting patiently to play her music to the steady rhythm of her loving heart.

           A coarse voice of a policeman interrupts my woolgathering. “Move along, Buddy;” the pain of his aching feet resonates in the sound of his voice.  Squeaking loudly his uniform shoes speak as he walks on to roust the next loiterer hiding from the cold.

         Thanking providence for my long brown wool coat, I gather it around me keep the icy wind from insinuating its cold knife-like fingers into the warm place where my soul lives.

        It is a three-block walk to the crumbling third-floor walk-up where I live, from the subway entrance, and a six-block walk to the library.  I sometimes spend hours in the library. There are few places to go because my fifty-odd years of paying into social security barely cover my rent and my share of the utilities.  There are between eleven and forty dollars left each month depending on the weather.  I spend it as wisely as possible and hope for generous tips like today from those who hear my songs. That's what fills my belly and my soul.         

            Energized I ascend the stairs into the freezing wind outside.The girl in the gray tweed skirt will seek me out again, at least once. Perhaps she will open her heart again.  Moments like that form links in the chain of my life and the notes from my flute weld them together with pure energy.  I pray it is enough.

          “What to do? Is this ability a blessing or a curse?”

            On my way home, I visit the giant chamber that is the interior of the Basilica.  Lighting a candle and kneeling before a full-size replica of the Pieta. I think of how a mother would feel holding her dead son. “Please take care of them, the young man in corduroy pants and the girl who left the convent,” I whisper, certain that somewhere both mother and son hear my plea.

            The young woman I met today is like a single candle burning brightly in a large darkened room. She is visible from every corner, yet by herself alone she is unable to see the dangers that lurk subtly in shadows of dark corners, waiting patiently for just the right moment to strike.   

            I think, “It is amazing to me how people like us shatter basic physical law. When we are together the resultant light is much brighter than the sum of its parts.  From where does the extra energy come?  Someday perhaps I will have an answer."

            I stop at a convenience store to pick up a can of soup and a dozen eggs.  I limp up the crumbling stairs to my walk-up.  It has been a very good day for a nearly blind old beggar man.



The End