Small Effects

The city supposedly paved with gold is no such thing at all. Rather, it is paved with cracked asphalt, worn away by the forces of time and man. Litter covers the city; errant wrappers are discarded wherever the person is done with it. Papers are not recycled; the word is laughed at in some circles even. Trees grow in crowded places, some placed on the sidewalk, some in a scenic area. None have naturally grown in this city with the streets of asphalt for some time now.



                The buildings loom taller than they should. Their oppressive gaze focuses on every individual as they pass underneath. A smell of industrialization is on every street, smog is ever present. The people themselves are dispassionate, listless in their everyday routines. There are smiles on the outside, but inside there is always a void, one to be filled by the simple variety of life. This is what Brian Orson was born to do, to help fill that void.



                There Brian sits, low to the ground, but high in his throne. The dull world passes by him, and he greets it with his harmonica. A lad no longer, Brian has long since passed his prime. Yet, he retains his energy whenever he plays his harmonica.  He sits on the stoop of an abandoned building, his hat in front of him, begging to be filled with change. He wears his white shirt under a black vest, festooned with pockets. His trousers are ragged from his life, scuffed and ripping at the hems. His face was a patchwork of lines but he bore these easily. He smiled at the passersby as he casually played his harmonica. He seemed content, just to sit and play. His smile was infectious and others stopped their routines for a moment to bathe in the simple pleasure of music.



                Some left change, some did not. It is the way it has been. Some will leave a token of appreciation, while others deny the importance of one man who is different. He still sits on his stoop five hours later. Surprising enough, he has not tired of his music just yet. He seems not to care about his hat, half full of assorted coins and bills. Only when the sun reaches its final destination does he retire. He stoops down and picks up his hat full of change. He stands and stretches his long legs for a moment before he sets off on his course for what he calls home.



                The streets are still no cleaner than when he started playing music. The sun did not shine brighter, nor did people have sudden epiphanies about how to make themselves a better person. The streets did not shine with golden luster and the buildings were still dominant over the suburbs. Even though Brian does this everyday, nothing has changed the city. His small brand of music can only lift spirits for a short time, and even then people hardly notice the change. So Brian does this everyday, to see if he can change one thing in this city. He strides back to his abode, hatful of money and harmonica in one of his many pockets.