“Harley,” the man said, arching an eyebrow as he strummed a simple riff. “You?”
“Webb.” He set his guitar case down, opened it, pulled out the J-45, straightened, dropped the strap over his left shoulder and shifted the guitar into place. He casually flipped his guitar case shut. Nobody else was nearby, but Harley had chosen the spot, and Webb wanted to make it clear he wasn’t here to compete for money.
Webb ran his left-hand fingers up and down the frets, picking, not strumming, with his right-hand fingers.
“Early Lou Reed,” Harley said. “I like it.”
“Loved Velvet Undergound,” Webb said.
“You know what they say about the debut album,” Harley said. “Commercial failure. Only sold thirty thousand copies. But every single one of us who bought the album started our own bands.”
“Mile oneTwelve,” Webb said. “That will be the name of my band. At least, someday…”
Webb dipped his head and kept playing. Harley picked up on the riff, slipping into some of the open places.
Webb grinned and held up his right hand, stopping Harley mid-riff. “What was that thing you did?”
Webb recalled the chords Harley was playing when Webb walked up with the bagel and coffee. He played the first few riffs, stopped and played them again, satisfied he had replicated that much, then stopped again.
“It was right after that,” Webb said. “Something…”
Harley hit the notes. Quick and hard. A four-on-the-floor beat.
“Yeah,” Webb said. “That.”
“Here,” Harley said. He slowed the tempo. Webb watched the man’s fingers on the strings.
“Aaah,” Webb said. “This.”
He played it at half speed a few times, fumbled it, found it and picked up the pace.
“Aaah,” Webb said again, playing the entire riff. Harley joined in, chasing him.
A five-dollar bill floated into Harley’s guitar case.
Webb glanced over, not losing any of the chords. He hadn’t even noticed the approach of a middle-aged couple. She had shiny hair and an even shinier smile. She held hands with a balding man wearing brown pants and a light orange sweater; a camera hung from a strap around his neck.
The man was doing a kind of turkey bob with his chin to the beat.
Webb grinned at the couple. Harley hadn’t noticed them. His eyes were closed.
“Whoo-hooo!” the man said. “This is what it’s all about.”
Yup, tourists, Webb thought.
Harley opened his eyes and grinned. “Yes, sir. This is what it’s all about. Kid’s not bad, is he?”
“Can’t be,” the man said. “He’s a Stampeders fan.”
Webb shrugged. But Harley was right—this was what it was all about. Music brought people together. Even if it was a street bum, a kid from Canada and some guy probably visiting Nashville for a plumbers’ convention.
Webb hit a few new chords. Harley arched an eyebrow. Not a questioning eyebrow, but a hey, let’s see where that goes.
It was the chorus of “Rock the Boat.” Webb throttled into it, and it didn’t take Harley long to fit in. The woman started tapping her toes, and Bill the Plumber kept up the turkey bob. Webb couldn’t help himself: he lit into the vocals.
Yeah, we’re gonna rock the boat
That’s the only way to know
We’re gonna have to rock the boat
Yeah, that’s the only way to go.
Webb had his head tilted up, looking at the tops of the buildings, at the clouds drifting in the blue sky. It felt great. This was what it was all about. Chasing dreams.
This is the time we’re living
Let’s live it so loud
This is the world we’re given
And we won’t be looking back
Only wishing that we had
This is the time we’re living
The time of our lives.
“Whoo-hooo!” Bill the Plumber said again. His wife winked at Webb. Webb hung his head, suddenly shy.
Bill the Plumber pulled up his camera. “Let me video this. Play the chorus again, okay? The two of you. So when you’re famous someday, I can prove I was here with you on the first day of our vacation.”
Harley kept his head down and joined in as Webb replayed the chorus.
“You guys are awesome,” Bill the Plumber said.
His wife nudged him, and he caught the hint. Before they walked on, he pulled out his wallet and dropped another bill in the case.
“Look at that,” Harley said, pointing at the bottom of the guitar case. “Dude must have really loved us.”
The bill beside the original five showed a different number: 100.
“Or he’s Canadian,” Webb said. The couple was almost to the corner. “He knew the Stampeders logo on my shirt.”
“And that means?”
“Fives up there are blue, hundreds are brown. Down here, all the same color. Easy to make a mistake.”
“You willing to turn down an easy fifty bucks?”
“None of it’s mine,” Webb said. “This is your gig.”
Harley laughed. “The guy’s sweater looked like it was made in the last century. She’s got a home perm. They look like they can throw out hundreds?”
“Your gig,” Webb said.
“Would you take it if you were me?” Harley asked.
“Nope.”
“Me neither.” Harley put a couple of fingers up to his mouth and whistled hard. The husband and wife turned at the same time. Harley waved them back.
By the time the couple reached them, Harley had the money ready in his fingers. Bill the Plumber had a puzzled look on his face.
“Kid here thinks you’re from Canada,” Harley said. “Thinks you might have mixed up some currency—unless you meant to drop a hundred. Neither of us wants to steal from you.”
Bill the Plumber’s mouth formed a wide O.
“That’s what I thought,” Harley said. He handed over the bill. The man’s fingers were trembling as he accepted it. “You folks have a good weekend,” Harley said.
“Wow,” Bill the Plumber said. “Yeah. We will. Thanks. Thanks a big bunch.”
“Give them your card,” his wife said. “Case one of them is ever in Moose Jaw and needs a favor.”
“Yes,” Bill the Plumber said. “Most definitely yes. You ever get to Moose Jaw and need new tires, we’re not hard to find.”
He pulled out his wallet, carefully extracted a business card and threw the card onto the velvet.
“Yes, sir,” Harley said. “Next time I’m west of Regina, I’ll make sure to stop by.”
“See, honey?” Bill the Plumber said to his wife as they walked away. “People down here know where Moose Jaw is.”
“Impressive,” Webb said. “Not many people know Moose Jaw. You made their day. First the money and then the Regina thing.”
“Used to travel some,” Harley said. “Now, it’s just this.”
“Music is music,” Webb answered. He wondered what downhill path had led Harley to busking to get by but decided it wasn’t his business to ask.
“Yup.” Harley cocked his head, thinking something over. “Tell you what. I’ve got some buddies. We get together Thursday nights in an old warehouse at the river. We just jam. Sound good? Any time after seven thirty.”
“Sounds good,” Webb said.
Harley wrote the address down on the back of the business card.
Webb tucked it into his wallet but not before flipping it over. Ward Auster, it said. Tires and Services.
Yeah, Webb thought. That would have been his second guess. Ward the Tire Guy.