-=Lullaby=-
The tinkling of windchimes—who knew the sound of metal sticks hanging on some doorway could sound so relaxing?
After a long, busy day of busking, the man sat cross-legged on the cardboard box and laid out on the sidewalk. Leaning on the glass panes of a building, he watched civilians flinch at every flash and rumble of thunder.
The warmth emmiting from the glass wall is comfortable enough to keep warm and make anyone feel drowsy—comfort even. Through closed lids, the almost blinding neon lights would wash out; instead, one would see puddles of pastels, which closely resemble a field of flowers among the darkness—at least that's how our balladeer friend here describes it.
The humid rain and high-pitched car horns that filled the streets is what makes the city of Orin, well, the city of Orin.
The very things that would bring good ol' Nicky to sleep, the same things that would lull him to sleep, whether it is a recent breakup or failed job interview, are things that make its inhabitants despise their own home.
.
..
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Nicky, his performance being interrupted by the rain, was left to the side, sitting on a spread out pizza box he'd found somewhere. His father was a clean freak; Nicky is anything but.
His mother, as her affection for her son goes, says he's "the snobbiest of all slobs." Yes, her insults are as creative as Nick's fashion sense. A couple of odd balls would naturally and intentionally make another odd ball.
...
...
...
"Shouldn't have worn Crocks."
...
He himself was following the same path, for his son picks up fights with the big dogs of the street and goes missing for a week—all things a rebel teen would do, even though his son is far from a teenager.
"Ah, right"
That reminds him, his son broke their bedroom window last night on 'accident'; regardless he should deal with that once he goes home.
...
...
...
"My back's itchy"
....
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There's too many homeless people for anyone to care for or handle; even if a customer complains we're "ruining" the view, I'm feeling too comfortable to stand up.
And aren't I... homeless too at this point? I looked around at other people in a similar situation as me; it's sad to admit that we receive equivalent pity and disgust as the garbage spilling out of trash cans.
I hugged my guitar close to my chest for extra warmth and maybe to give me some sort of comfort. A guitar I bought for cheap from some pawnshop that closed down months ago. He yawned as he used the hem of his sleeves to wipe off the raindrops that dripped on the worn instrument, then scratches his back to the customers dissatisfaction. Right, he almost forgot that the "hilltop sunset" the cafe's been famous for is now replaced by a dude shaking cans for money and in desperate need of a shave. "Well, those customers can choke on their overpriced rabbit food for all I care."
"What an eyesore"
"People these days just don't want to work"
"Should we call someone?"
"Street rat"
"Honey, don't look at him"
.....shut up
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Ignoring the whispers, he continues to admire his beloved stringed companion.
You could say it's old and dull-looking, but I've never been happier when I got to own it.
It's bright enough to walk in Noir Boulevard, but the sunset signals the kids that it's time to go home and eat dinner.
"Yeah, dinner..."
I looked down and shook the can that contained my earnings for the day. My neighbors always told me that what I'm doing is just begging for money with extra work. I don't want to believe that; I, for one, think I'm being fair.
At least I don't threaten or try to look pathetic. Unlike construction work, customer service and being a janitor, I genuinely enjoy playing for people; almost feels like NOT working. One good thing about being a corporate slave is I'm 'usually' paid by the hour, and I'm starting to reconsider going back to that.
I depend on strangers who are hopefully generous. There's no fixed income. One day I'll be loaded; in the next I barely get a coin.
What makes me sad the most is when I sing my heart out and no one could even bother to glance. The money I earn shouldn't be tied to my worth, but man, sometimes the mockery and laughter from my fellow 'performers' make my skin crawl and shatter what's left of my dignity. Is what I would say, but I could care less. Once my stomach is full, I'll be the happiest man in the world!
What I did learn in the past few months is that not all homeless people are really, really homeless. Some are middle-class and made this their main source of income. Hell, they could live without the begging with all that money. In this crime-infested place every day is survival of the fittest. Whoever rubbed the most dirt in their face, held the most babies that aren't theirs, wore the filthiest tattered clothes, or had the worst fake disability had all the money.
Part of it that I hate the most? People are taken advantage of for their kindness, and those who actually need the money never receive it.
Welp, that's reality for ya, oh boohoo.
I'm also doing the best I can, by my own morals, as messed up as they be.
This morning the weather guy with his usual monotone voice announced today would be a perfect, sunny day. Guess even people on TV make mistakes.
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I stopped playing and immediately sought shelter from the first sight of rain. Getting sick is the worst possible outcome for me. I clutched my thin jacket closer to my body and made sure I had all my belongings. Pressing my head against the glass, I heard sounds that irritated me. From silverware clicking on plates and the obvious sound of food being cooked on the stove made me drool, then curse the chattering people inside. Oh well, being bitter won't do me any good. This is the life that I was given after all. Might as well make the most of it.
What's the word? What's the word mom used to say? Right. "Welcoming". It makes sense why every cafe in Orin had signs that said "Welcome." Of course I've never been into one because those cafes also happen to be five-star restaurants only rich people can afford to enter and dine in.
"No way!"
What?
"We're eating here? In this Old Shabby cafe?" "Shelby's Cafe Honey" he corrected.
I squinted along with the man to read the big sign that in fact said "Shelby's Cafe."
"Ugh, the pics for my Instagram will be nothing but ancient furniture and sad-looking salad!"
"Ooh! Daddy, how about there?" The girl in a pristine white cardigan and bright pink heels, which matched her lipstick, pointed to a mall across the street. The man in the tux quickly replied, "No, honey, you've already spent your budget for this week; no more shopping." The girl went silent, yet kept her smile. A smile that convinced both the father and I, that she gave up arguing.
"-First you got my favorite clothes drenched, starve me, and now you won't let me buy basic necessities?" And then this girl. Started sobbing, a combination of screaming and shaking violently. I would also be convinced if it weren't for the absence tears and if she hadn't kept glancing back and forth at the mall and at, in which I assume was her father to check if the manipulation was a success.
That kind of behavior is what I would expect from an 8-year-old, not a white girl in her 20s. After a long sigh, the father weakly nodded, and the girl squealed in joy and kissed him on the lips. After that, he was then grabbed by the arm and dragged across the street, straight to the aforementioned mall. Yeah. That's definitely not her father.
It wasn't my intention to overhear the whole conversation; they were loud after all, especially pink heels. Smugglers, Drunkards, Stoners, the Mailman—I'm ready to throw hands any day, but spoiled rich girls? Get me six feet away from them.
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At first it was just a drizzle, but the rain really started pouring down this time. The endless foot traffic in front of me halted to get something from their bags. A popping sound was quickly fallowed by another, and another. One by one, an umbrella was opened, protecting the person beneath from the harsh rainfall.
In an eagle's eye view, the asphalt and people below can no longer be seen.
As if it couldn't get any worse, waves of furious wind attacked. Pulling umbrellas from the hands of their owners and taking them beyond the gray clouds that covered the city.
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A nearby recycling bin got knocked over, rats and cockroaches scattered upon impact. Many cursed and panicked, seeking shelter, but to the citizens of Orin, a typhoon is just another good excuse to stay inside or go outside and eat something to warm their bellies. The wealthy can be warm and cozy in their mansions, but the poor can only pray they survive the next day.
I watched as "Shelby's Cafe" got swarmed with cusomers for the rest of the cold night. Despite the howling wind, the sound is loud enough to be heard, as every swing of the entrance door made a wind chime jingle. It's so small and rusty yet the echo resonates hours after a customer lazily opens a door or when the cold northern breeze plays with it until it had enough fun.
As if it was that small, insignificant decoration that calmed the weather, reassuring the city folk that everything was going to be alright.
The off key jingles were slowly replaced by a much more gentle one, which the breeze passing through, unintentionally brushed off the cobwebs growing around on the tiny instrument. Just to hear it play music, hear it sing once again.
In an instant, cold air was no longer cold but freezing. The rain also slowed down. The pit patterning of it falling from the roof then on asphalt started a rhythmic pattern.
In a city such as Orin, evenings are the most dreaded part of the day. The sun had been completely devoured, their small yet bustling city overtaken by smoky fog and darkness. One by one, the broken streetlights forced themselves to brighten the asphalt and cobbled roads.
Lighting the path, assuring everyone they'll get home safely.
Night time is where killings and robberies go rampant. But the song of the windchimes started to sound almost like a lullaby to me; the once bustling street is left with nothing but a few animals and people scavenging for food in dumpsters. My eyes grew heavy with each passing second. With a strong grip on a pocket knife and a quick survey of the surroundings, I closed my eyes. Everything grew quiet, and I fell asleep.