Chapter 28
Basil Cannonfield strummed the final chords of a familiar Paul McCartney song, removed the coins and bills from his guitar case, gently laid his old Martin in the crushed velvet, then closed the latches and called it a day.
This was his workplace, a slice of sidewalk a few paces to the right of the Chalice entrance.
He had chosen the spot because of its predictable foot traffic.
It was there, three, four, and sometimes five nights a week, that he serenaded the pedestrians of Broadway.
His open guitar case lay on the pavement beside him like a beggar’s pleading maw. “Tips welcome.”
On many nights from his balcony, Theo had listened, as best he could, to the street musician’s songs. Even to his trained, cultured ear, the soulful, folksy voice was a pleasant addition to the sounds of the Promenade.
On a typical evening, most people walked by Basil without breaking stride.
They were careful to avoid eye contact with him or even to look in his direction for fear that it might create an obligation to put something in the open case.
Chalice patrons sitting at the tables on the sidewalk carried on conversations as if he were nothing more than piped-in background noise.
Occasionally, someone actually did pay attention, or better, stopped and listened to a song or two.
Singing was a total-body experience for Basil Cannonfield. His shoulders rose and fell, his neck bobbed rhythmically, and his knees bent as feet tapped or shuffled vigorously in service of the songs. He was pulled like a marionette by the strings of music in his head.
From time to time, he smiled at a familiar pedestrian, even called them by name, and spoke or sang to them in the middle of a performance. It was hard to tell if he actually enjoyed the work, but there was no doubt he was fully engaged in it.
When Basil returned home that night, around eleven o’clock, he emptied his money pouch onto the kitchen table.
This ritual was the agony and the ecstasy of working for tips.
On good nights, when coins were many but bills were more, the term “grand total” had a kingliness to it.
On other, more ordinary nights, Basil could only be glad that his girlfriend, Katrina, had a steady job.
On bad nights, he wondered if it might be time to return to his job as a schoolteacher at McLemore Elementary.
The night had been a good one. The traffic flow had been steady and strong and unusually generous. Springtime and Springsteen had a liberating effect on people’s wallets.
The evening harvest was mostly one-dollar bills, with a welcome complement of fives and tens.
But there was something else.
An envelope bearing his name, elegantly handwritten.
Earlier that evening, shortly after dark, Theo had left his balcony, walked downstairs to the sidewalk, and stood as covertly as possible listening to the music.
In the middle of one particularly energetic song, Theo joined the scrum of pedestrians, walked past Basil, and dropped the envelope into the open guitar case.
This time Theo would spare Mrs. Gidley the trouble of delivery.
Basil’s portrait: a young man in his thirties, tousled shoulder-length hair, thin scraggly beard, attempted mustache.
The face was lean and angular. If congruous to the body on which it rested, he was likely on the lanky side. An impish grin brought playfulness to his countenance. All in all, his features suggested a cross of bohemian and clown, contemplative and jester.
Theo had often seen performers like Basil on sidewalks and subways in Paris and New York. He knew some of them to be gloriously talented, thoughtful, and intelligent, even if unorthodox in their chosen vocation. What was sometimes dismissed as eccentricity in them was, arguably, genius.
Next bestowal: Basil Cannonfield.