The Banjo Player

A man strums his banjo within the subway tunnel. He’s short but only because he sits, and his stomach protrudes like a Buddha of sorts. His jaw seems cut from stone, but his features are soft and grandfatherly. Upon his head sits a hat that is red and made of wool. His cheeks are red and flushed from the cool of the air. The tunnel is not quite cold but the trains bring a draft from all points of the city. With his fingers he plucks a familiar happy tune, but he sighs and cries and shakes and moans.

When a policeman gets angry and chases me,
then I just think of my favorite things.

He begins to whistle – a haunting sound that echoes along the corridor, much like it would within the depths of a cathedral.

Teenagers laugh when one of them sings,
these are a few of my favorite things.

A passing businessman tosses a coin in his lap. A small girl precariously balances her drunken boyfriend on her frail shoulder. Another drunkard plops himself into a bench seat. “Play it again!” he yells.

Snow that is falling and stays on my nose,
these are a few of my favorite things.

“A round of applause for the train folks.” He shuts his eyes and a smile breaks across his lips. The train comes.

The shame about the rug

(I revised this one and decided to repost it.)

He died suddenly. His death was not sudden because it was unexpected (in fact I had anticipated it), but because of the speed in which it passed. I expected more from him. There was no staggering, no clawing at the ground. Simply a thud as he slumped forward, his blood ruining the beautiful afghan before him.

I wasn’t even sure it had happened until I noticed the pool forming around where his face used to be. I didn’t even realize I’d pulled the trigger. There was simply an inexplicable explosion at my wrist. It was deafening, like a world ending. Like there was no sound at all.

He didn’t cry, didn’t beg. Instead, he’d asked me for a smoke. Prick bastard. It’s amazing, all those jobs I’d pulled I’d never killed a man before. My hands were still shaking when I dropped the gun; when I rolled him up in that beautiful rug. It’s a shame about the rug. Some poor sap in Saudi Awherever probably wove the thing and fed his family for a year with the money, and here I am using it like some death shroud cocoon.

I should’ve made him turn around. I would’ve loved to see his face. No laugh, no punchline. Just a bang, and a drop, and a whiff of smoke.

Coupleting

all these people that I know that I'll never know/
all these people that I know that'll never know me.