The Brazen American

The afro-haired man walks and plays his guitar on the street mall. He has two friends by his side. They’re friends your mamma would warn you to stay away from. Both are about my age— young still. One of the afro-haired man’s friends is a ragged neo-hippie. He looks swarthy. His eyes are clouded by drugs. The other friend is a gypsy girl. Gypsy girls are always beautiful. This one was beautiful like a jump into an abyss. The three march down the street mall side by side while the afro-haired man sings too loud. Usually the street performers stay put and let you come to them. They entertain you and you can drop them a dollar if you’d like, if you think they need it, if you think you can spare one dollar. But the afro-haired man with light brown skin, wearing long baggy pants and an extra large hooded sweatshirt, doesn’t stay put. He doesn’t entertain. He intimidates. He walks while he plays his guitar, searching the street mall for inspiration.

Hey you there!
Why ain’t you lookin’ at me?
Why ain’t you lookin’ at me,
pretty lady?

The girl he passes, an awkward seventeen year old with blond hair, chuckles uncomfortably and quickly darts into a shop.

Goodbye blonde girl!
Why you afraid of my song?
My songs are for you,
for you,
for you…

The hippie laughs with half closed eyes and a fully closed smile. He shakes his head, silently acknowledging that he thinks his friends are the greatest. The gypsy girl looks at the afro-haired man with admiration. He’s witty. He’s more confident than everyone else. She wants to grab him and steal some of his attention. The afro-haired man keeps his periphery on her as he scans the crowd.

Hey mister skinny jeans!
You can’t walk that fast!
Not with those jeans,
A-squeezin’, a-squeezin your ass!

Hey lady in the blue dress, don’t run away,
You know that I’ve got something to say.
You lookin’ nice, with that blue dress on,
I said you lookin’ nice with that blue dress on.

The street mall bounces past like a slow cartoon background. The trio is center stage, center of attention, center of the world. The pedestrians are uncomfortable. They wonder who’s next. Who will the afro-haired man sing about? Will he make fun of me? Or that guy there, the fat one? He’s much easier to make fun of than me. Make fun of him for God’s sake, not me.

Oh hey there big boy,
off to the doughnut shop?
I hear they got bear claws
For a dollar off.

The hippie and the gypsy girl roll into laughter. The fat man grimaces but doesn’t say a word. He has no time to argue with an afro-haired man, a hippie and a gypsy girl. The fat man moves out of sight.

The crowd avoids the trio and the afro-haired man’s songs. It’s as if the trio sits atop a hillock while the crowd acts water-like, streaming around them at a safe distance. But all is two-dimensional and the trio walks at the same level as the rest of the masses. There is merely the separation of the singer and the crowd, a crowd now eager to be audience to a different show.

The trio smiles at each other and laughs with the joy of power. The afro-haired man sings louder still. He sees me watching. He strikes a chord.

This guy thinks he’s better me,
But I got talent and friends you see
He walks alone on a busy street
But I got talent and friends with me.

I walk past, annoyed that he brought attention to me, annoyed at his arrogance, annoyed at the lyrics themselves. He’s making everybody uncomfortable. He’s making me uncomfortable.

The afro-haired man struts away, confident, praised by his friends, feared by the mindless masses, the masses who have never gotten in touch with their inner street mall singer. Why not sing aloud? Show the world you have no fear. Show the world what real confidence looks like, because the world needs to know.

I hear the afro-haired man's guitar chords fade into the banter of the crowd.


The next morning I’m on the street mall again, in the cold of autumn dawn. A down jacket barely holds my warmth. The street mall is almost empty.

I pass a coffee shop that smells like cinnamon rolls. Outside, in the frosty shadows, four homeless men wait for patrons to come out and give them a quarter or two, or a cup of coffee, or a different life. The patrons of the coffee shop leave avoiding eye contact with the needy men who beg with their eyes. With warm coffee between their palms, the patrons pass the open hands of the homeless men, one after another. The leaves in the trees shiver from a cold breeze. The men wait patiently. More patrons sit inside. They’re wearing sweaters and typing on laptop computers.

I walk by the four men just as a fifth comes to join them. A fifth to beg for quarters in the cold. A fifth hand to be ignored by exiting patrons. It’s the afro-haired man. Just before settling in to stare at the coffee shop, he looks up at me. He holds my gaze and stays quiet. I look away and walk to work.