The sign led him to a gathering of people beneath an overpass just outside the downtown. A dozen or so long plastic tables had been set up with plastic chairs. A temporary kitchen was protected by the overpass in case of rain. A handwritten sign said Welcome to Under The Overpass. Every Tuesday night.
Webb stood at the back of a long line. He guessed there were maybe thirty people in front of him. He had expected a bunch of old-looking men in filthy overcoats. He knew all too well from his time on the streets of Toronto how living rough could make a middle-aged person look ancient, and how important it was to have a long, heavy coat that could serve as a blanket in winter and a mattress in summer.
But here, there was little of the tangy smell of men who had not bathed in months. Some people were dressed as if headed to watch a Saturday soccer game. There were mothers with young children. Some people met his eye, some looked away. Some stood with shoulders bowed, some with chins high and backs straight.
Seeing the children shook away some of Webb’s self-pity. They were reaching up to hold their mothers’ hands, bewildered by all the people around them.
When Webb reached the front of the line, an older woman with short graying hair and a dark vest over a purple shirt gave him a smile that looked genuine.
“Glad you could join us,” she said. Nothing in her tone or manner suggested she scorned him for needing free food. “You decent with that guitar?”
“Some days,” Webb said, watching as she scooped potato salad onto a paper plate for him.
“Well,” she said, “if this is one of those days, I bet a couple of the kids would be a little less anxious if you played for them after the meal. It’s really hard on kids when their mother has to get them away from a bad situation. Some of the other folks here, well, they’d be in a hospital if they could afford it. Music might make them forget that, even if just for a little while.”
She plunked a hot dog in a bun onto his plate. “Fixings at the table.”
Webb saw a little girl already sitting at a table and thought about why he’d been homeless for a while. He and his mom had needed to get away from his stepfather, who was hurting them. But his mom hadn’t left. Not then.
The girl had badly cut dark hair, and she was clinging to her mother’s hand. Even though there was food on the table in front of her, comfort was obviously more important to her right now.
What a schmuck he was. Moping around like his world had just ended, thinking it was the lowest of lows to accept a handout.
The little girl was the one with real problems. Her mother too. Webb figured it wouldn’t take much convincing to get them to trade places with him. His problems were nothing compared to theirs.
Webb didn’t have to look into a little girl’s face every morning and wonder in desperation what the day might bring. Webb didn’t even have to worry about money if he didn’t pay the producer. He had $1,607 in his checking account. He could use it to get on a bus and go to Toronto, move home with his mother and live a great life, find a job and think about saving up for university. He had choice, and he had freedom. No one was making him live in Nashville.
The girl and her mother, on the other hand, probably had neither choice nor freedom. Nor did the people who needed medical care they couldn’t afford.
Yup, Webb concluded, he was a real schmuck.
As soon as the meal was over, he took out his guitar and quietly started to play. Not in a way that made it look like he was trying to put on a show to make money. As if he was just trying to pass the time with some tunes.
He played songs he knew people would like. No sense bringing out one of his own songs, like “Rock the Boat.” According to one of Nashville’s top producers, that would be a bad idea.
One of his favorites was “One Tin Soldier.” Webb hadn’t written it, but it was going on his album. It was not the right song for this situation, though, with its lyrics about the horrors of war.
Instead, Webb played “Drift Away.” He loved singing the chorus: “Give me the beat, boys, and free my soul…”
He looked up and saw the little girl smiling and singing along.
Oh yeah, Webb thought. Nothing like getting lost in a song.