Despite telling himself he shouldn’t whine about his situation, Webb was in a bad mood when he reached Nashville’s downtown core after about a forty-five-minute walk from the law office. He stepped off the curb across from the Bridgestone Arena, where the Nashville Predators played, and realized that affording a ticket to watch a game live was an impossible dream at this point. He reminded himself he should at least try to enjoy the weather and maybe make a few bucks while he played music.
Late January, and it was T-shirt weather. He peeled off his jacket and hung it over his shoulder. He was wearing a red T-shirt with a white horse logo—the Calgary Stampeders. Each day he chose a different team. At first he’d done it because he liked being reminded of Canada as he chose his shirt for the day, and that was still a good enough reason. But he’d also noticed that it helped with his busking in the downtown core. Lots of the tourists were Canadian, and they liked being reminded of home too. It put them in a better mood, and that bumped up the amount of money they threw in his guitar case.
Webb needed the money, of course. He’d cover some classics, because that paid the bills, but every fourth or fifth song would be one of his own.
As people streamed past him on the sidewalk, he didn’t immediately look for his own corner. His first stop was always a guitar store with hundreds of guitars; the people who worked there were passionate about guitars. They didn’t put pressure on anyone to buy and were happy when people came in and treated it like a guitar museum.
Webb walked inside, guitar on his back, and made a beeline for the Gibson section. He stood in front of the guitars and just soaked up the vibe, imagining great guitar players from decades ago with their Gibsons, wondering about all the places the instruments had been, all the beautiful sounds they’d produced. Yeah, Webb liked his Gibson J-45, but it would never hurt to have more than one.
He had needed to be recharged, and when he stepped back outside again, he vibrated with energy. There was a spot on 2nd Avenue he liked, across from a bar called Coyote Ugly, where he could stand in the late-morning sun. He considered it a prime place to play.
Long before he reached the spot, however, he saw an older, gray-haired man putting his guitar case down exactly where Webb always did.
Webb didn’t see the guy as competition, though, and felt no irritation. The guy was wearing a ballcap—Nashville Sounds, the city’s baseball team—low on his forehead, and it covered most of his face, like he was embarrassed at his age to have to busk. He looked scruffy enough, with his long hair and thin corded arms, that Webb wondered if maybe he had alcohol problems. In theory, someone of this guy’s age should have a decent job to keep him busy during the day. If he didn’t and needed to make money busking, times probably weren’t good for him. Webb knew the bottle was often an escape for someone like that. He’d rather give the man food than money.
Remembering how it had improved his mood the afternoon before to help someone else—when his playing had put a smile on a little girl’s face—Webb made a detour into a bagel shop and ordered a cup of coffee and a breakfast sandwich with cheese to go. It hurt to dig into his cash, but a little busking would cover it sooner or later.
When Webb was on the street again, coffee in one hand, breakfast bagel in the other, the old guy was playing some amazing riffs. Nobody needed to feel sorry for this guy, Webb decided.
He felt his chin bobbing to the rhythm of the guitar riffs as he stepped closer to the man.
Nobody else was around yet.
The guy was leaning against the wall as he played. When Webb’s shadow hit him, the man played a few more chords and then looked up. Only a little. The shadow from the ballcap still hid most of his face. He flicked his eyes up and down, examining Webb but still hitting the tune. Webb liked the guy’s guitar, a black-and-white Fender Stratocaster. At least things weren’t so bad that the guy had to pawn his guitar, Webb thought.
The man, who was wearing an Elvis shirt, squinted at Webb.
“Early to be headed for a gig in one of the places around here,” he said. “Were you looking to busk somewhere too?”
“Sooner or later,” Webb said. He leaned down and set the bagel and coffee beside the man’s empty guitar case. “Lots of times I’ve been busking, people bring me food. Figured you wouldn’t mind if I did the same thing.”
The guy snorted. “Yeah. Never hurts.” He nodded at Webb’s guitar. “You any good with that?”
It wasn’t said like a challenge but as friendly conversation.
“Don’t think I can hit that complicated riff you did in the middle there.” Webb hummed the piece. “How exactly did you do that?”
“Here,” the man said. “Let me show you.”