Busker

The last chimes of twelve o'clock could still be heard from the distant Sydney Town Hall clock as Steve dropped his pack on the busy footpath in front of La Perche D'or. He connected his guitar, I-pod, and speakers to an amplifier, placed a battered cigar box on the ground, and threw in a burley of gold coins. Then he ran his fingers across the guitar strings, managing to pluck out an occasional elusive chord, and began to sing.

The song was economical of words and had taken little time to learn. It had probably taken little time to write! It was modern and Steve performed it with a lot of beat, a lot a volume and a total disregard for pitch and melody. As he sang, he nodded and smiled at the passers-by, and managed to dovetail in a cheerful word for anybody who looked like a soft touch. He had hardly finished the first chorus when a short, round, florid-faced man burst from the restaurant entrance. Dressed in black-and-whites, he rushed toward Steve, his extended finger quivering with anger and his mouth opening to speak.

“G'day, Pierre,” Steve said, smiling amiably. “Lovely day out here. You should stay awhile and listen to the music.”

“Get out! Go away. You can not do this again! I will call the council and have them send an officer around to move you.”

“Now get real, Pierre. We both know you'll never get an inspector out during the lunch break. Hell, they're probably all down at the boozer by now. I've just set up and I'll be here for the next two hours.”

“I paid you to stay away.”

“And I did, Pierre. We had a deal. I stayed away all last week.”

Pierre's eye's bulged and the colour of his cheeks deepened. “I paid you fifty dollars to keep away for good. Forever!”

“Ah, now mate, that's not the way I remember it. I said I'd stay away. I didn't say for how long.”

“You'll get no more money from me. Now pick up that rubbish and move.”

Steve strummed his guitar lovingly. “I know this great little French song you're goin' to like. It's all about a sheila who couldn't find a feller.” Steve threw back his head and shouted out the words. “Mademoiselle from Armentiers, parley voo...”

“Enough! Enough!” shouted Pierre. “You're killing business. I'll give you ten dollars. That's all. Ten dollars and you go away and never come back.”

Steve pointed at the cigar box at his feet. “Look at that mate. I've been here for five minutes—and I spent most of that time listening to you rant and rave—and there's already five bucks in the box. I can pull fifty bucks an hour here, easy.”

“I'll give you twenty-five. You go away. You never come back.”

“Pierre, you know that's not goin' to happen. Trouble is, mate, you just don't appreciate good singing. I've got my public to think of.”

“Good singing! You sing like a hacksaw cutting through tin.”

“Ah, now you've hurt me feelings, mate. Of course, if your customers thought the same as you do they'd probably go and eat at that fancy Italian place down the street where they wouldn't have to listen to me. At the prices you charge that'd cost you, let's see, hmm...”

“And for fifty dollars you'd stay away for a week?”

“Sure as shootin', Pierre old son. Fifty bucks buys you a week's silence.”

Muttering about blackmail, Pierre took out his wallet and extracted a fifty dollar bill. He handed it to Steve then, as he began to return the wallet to his pocket, Steve reached out a hand and stopped him.

“Before you put that away, mate, I've got a little business proposition for you.”

“What could you possibly offer me?” Pierre quivered with rage.

“Well, for another fifty bucks I'll spend the next two hours outside Luigi's place.