With a Little Help
There is a man who sings in the subways with the voice of an angel. Sometimes when I’m descending the stairs after midnight at 14th St. and 6th Ave., I hear the sound floating up from fifty paces down the platform. His grey hair is pulled back in a ponytail. He brings back to life the songs you’re tired of from teenage radio. “Wonderful Tonight,” except this isn’t karaoke, this is someone feeling it.
For years, I’ve wanted to talk to him, to find out how a man with a voice like that got stuck here in the bowels of the dragon, the walls of its throat dripping a green fluid with a plink plink during his pauses. His bell-like voice getting drowned by the sudden screeching of a train and the drunken Williamsburg-bound hipsters stumbling through the doors.
There are times I have to walk away from him, lest I embarrass myself with tears in a city that does its crying behind apartment walls. Last night as I approached it was “Homeward Bound,” and he sang “my love lies waiting, silently for me,” and there were probably times when that was true for him as it was for me for so long. I was in luck; the song was ending as I sat down, so I didn’t have to think about it.
A young, pretty girl sitting on the bench with her back to him reached back and handed him a buck. I’ve seen this happen before; he always tries to flirt with the girls, occasionally even ending a song prematurely to that end. But like the others, she just wanted to hear his music. There was a beaten look to his face, an unwashed look to his hair. I could never understand how what surely must have been a hard life had taken no detectably toll on this voice. Listen to him hit those high notes perfectly.
I sat beside the girl so I could hear him play. Good, a happy song. “With a Little Help from my Friends.” The girl was tapping her foot and staring at a weekly paper. An old hippie couple just descended started to dance. I knew from hearing snippets of his speech that he talked with a gruff New York accent, yet he sang like the well-born this city smiles upon.
“Do you believe in love at first sight? Yes I’m certain that it happens all the time.” Who has a voice this sweet? Lennon? Garfunkel? It could convince even girls to believe in things like love at first sight. I looked at the girl. Not bad. Yet I was too tired for games.
Usually he saves his voice with shortcuts, but here he went all out for the last note of the song. He belted out “friends” as if something was riding on it, stretching it out for ages. Finished for the night, he dropped to his knees and started counting his ones. He glanced up to see if the girl was seeing him be so mercenary, then went back to counting.
“Get home safe everybody,” he said as the Williamsburg train pulled up. I was going the other way, to 8th Avenue. The girl looked at me firmly and smiled. I tried to muster a smile back but it came out a wince.
For the first time, the singer and I were alone. We looked at each other, but no one said anything. Finally, I said, “You really nailed that last song.”
He smiled. “The worse I feel, the better I sound,” he said.
“Did you ever sing with a group?” I asked.
“Man, I’ve done everything in this business except have a hit record. I’ve seen it all, done it all.” New York accent, rec-uhd and awl. “But things are terrible now. I hate doin’ this. It’s the only way I can survive. I don’t even have a place to stay now.”
“Where do you stay?” I asked.
“Sometimes a church. Sometimes no place at all.” He stood and peered down the track. “Jump in front of a train is what I should do. End it all.”
I wanted to say something encouraging, but nothing came to mind. The rumble of my train appeared in the soundscape. I said, “With a voice like yours, you should be...” but I couldn’t think of how to finish it, and I don’t think he heard me anyway.
What can you say in parting to a gifted homeless suicidal man? “Good luck,” I said, before turning to the train door.
He looked at me and said, “It’s too bad you’re not...” and I lost the last word. Was it the name of some rich guy who would save him? Bill Gates? No, it sounded like one word. David? Who’s David? A record producer? It’s too bad I’m not who? I rode the train mulling over silly thoughts of how I might save this angel, silly thoughts I knew I would pursue.
For years, I’ve wanted to talk to him, to find out how a man with a voice like that got stuck here in the bowels of the dragon, the walls of its throat dripping a green fluid with a plink plink during his pauses. His bell-like voice getting drowned by the sudden screeching of a train and the drunken Williamsburg-bound hipsters stumbling through the doors.
There are times I have to walk away from him, lest I embarrass myself with tears in a city that does its crying behind apartment walls. Last night as I approached it was “Homeward Bound,” and he sang “my love lies waiting, silently for me,” and there were probably times when that was true for him as it was for me for so long. I was in luck; the song was ending as I sat down, so I didn’t have to think about it.
A young, pretty girl sitting on the bench with her back to him reached back and handed him a buck. I’ve seen this happen before; he always tries to flirt with the girls, occasionally even ending a song prematurely to that end. But like the others, she just wanted to hear his music. There was a beaten look to his face, an unwashed look to his hair. I could never understand how what surely must have been a hard life had taken no detectably toll on this voice. Listen to him hit those high notes perfectly.
I sat beside the girl so I could hear him play. Good, a happy song. “With a Little Help from my Friends.” The girl was tapping her foot and staring at a weekly paper. An old hippie couple just descended started to dance. I knew from hearing snippets of his speech that he talked with a gruff New York accent, yet he sang like the well-born this city smiles upon.
“Do you believe in love at first sight? Yes I’m certain that it happens all the time.” Who has a voice this sweet? Lennon? Garfunkel? It could convince even girls to believe in things like love at first sight. I looked at the girl. Not bad. Yet I was too tired for games.
Usually he saves his voice with shortcuts, but here he went all out for the last note of the song. He belted out “friends” as if something was riding on it, stretching it out for ages. Finished for the night, he dropped to his knees and started counting his ones. He glanced up to see if the girl was seeing him be so mercenary, then went back to counting.
“Get home safe everybody,” he said as the Williamsburg train pulled up. I was going the other way, to 8th Avenue. The girl looked at me firmly and smiled. I tried to muster a smile back but it came out a wince.
For the first time, the singer and I were alone. We looked at each other, but no one said anything. Finally, I said, “You really nailed that last song.”
He smiled. “The worse I feel, the better I sound,” he said.
“Did you ever sing with a group?” I asked.
“Man, I’ve done everything in this business except have a hit record. I’ve seen it all, done it all.” New York accent, rec-uhd and awl. “But things are terrible now. I hate doin’ this. It’s the only way I can survive. I don’t even have a place to stay now.”
“Where do you stay?” I asked.
“Sometimes a church. Sometimes no place at all.” He stood and peered down the track. “Jump in front of a train is what I should do. End it all.”
I wanted to say something encouraging, but nothing came to mind. The rumble of my train appeared in the soundscape. I said, “With a voice like yours, you should be...” but I couldn’t think of how to finish it, and I don’t think he heard me anyway.
What can you say in parting to a gifted homeless suicidal man? “Good luck,” I said, before turning to the train door.
He looked at me and said, “It’s too bad you’re not...” and I lost the last word. Was it the name of some rich guy who would save him? Bill Gates? No, it sounded like one word. David? Who’s David? A record producer? It’s too bad I’m not who? I rode the train mulling over silly thoughts of how I might save this angel, silly thoughts I knew I would pursue.
posted by Thon at 2:11 PM
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