by Ronald Wong

She landed her bottom on the grimy floor with a spiteful sigh. Spilling out from her crisp Takashimaya bag were a dozen tissue packets. All this while, throngs and waves of people went by in varying speeds – leather shoes, suede shoes, slippers and heels, they galloped past her with no respite.

She lined her tissue packets before her in rows and columns of 3 by 6. Then, she sat up slowly, careful to look between indignant and needy. And she waited.

But a sudden strum of guitar broke her state. A bright resonating voice gleefully bounced off the alternating yellow and white tiles of the underpass like a burst of sunlight breaking its way through the darkness.

She cringed, and rearranged her tissue packets. How long? How long would she have to put up with that? And what was he so happy about anyway?

Hours passed; thirty songs, five customers, and $7 later, still the noise continued. The busker finally stopped after thirty-three songs. As soon as it dawned on her that the ordeal had ended, for now, she felt the headache behind her ears quickly dissipated. Did she really have this headache for the past many hours? She breathed lightly again. But still she could hear the busker humming cheerily. Then there was the sound of a zipper being pulled, a huff and a heavy step followed by a dragging of foot.

And she saw him, the busker limping with his guitar. Dark skinned, he looked like one of those workers who frightened her in her childhood. Or she was frightened by them. It didn’t matter. She could smell him approaching. He smelled like sweaty construction workers. But the smell went away – for a while. As he was just a little distance away, she looked down at her tissue packets, refilled and rearranged in the neat rows, and hoped hard (if one in such a situation could be said to hope) that he would hurry along. But his right foot dragged heavily and all she felt was her chest getting pulled by a hundred rubber bands into her stomach.

He stopped in front of her. In a moment of panic, she did nothing before she decided to rearrange her tissue packets. But she saw a dark-skinned hand stretch down close to her own hands. Was he going to take her tissue packets without paying? Was he going to suddenly run away – the limp being mere pretend? Was she going to run after him or simply not risk her life?

She squinted at the busker’s rough, dry hand as it approached her. Just as he was about to snatch a tissue packet, or so she thought she saw, the busker released a dirty and worn fifty-dollar note.

And he went on his way, taking nothing with him. As he dragged himself away, he sang joyfully to himself, “losers, all the lovely losers…” She couldn’t make out the rest of the line. It happened all too quickly. She couldn’t even be sure if the note came from him.

When she was assured that the sandy sound of his dragging foot had faded into the noise of the crowd, she immediately grabbed the blue bill. She stared at the note intently like a tiger examining its prey. Was it a fake note? She couldn’t tell. It’s been some time since she saw such a note up close. Perhaps he had stolen this and was giving it away to ease his guilt? Or perhaps the person he stole it from had found out about the theft, so he needed to dispose it quickly?

The note felt uncomfortable in her hands. Was it because it was possibly stolen? Her ears and neck became hot. Her breathing thinned. For some reason, she began to feel angry. Why did he leave her with this mess? What right did he have to give her this money? Who was he to give her such an amount of money? She didn’t need his money. She didn’t want his pity. Now her pride had to be swallowed. Where was she going to swallow it to? Surely he had done this on purpose. And what would she do with this money?

And what would she do with this money?

Perhaps, she could spend it all on a meal at the Ichiban Sushi she passed everyday on the way to her spot. Or maybe she could spend some there, and then save some for next week’s meals. Or maybe she could buy some new clothes. Whatever it was, $50 was more than she could earn over the next six days. 

So she quickly grabbed all her tissue packets and stuffed them into her Takashimaya bag. With a huff, she lifted herself off the floor and went along. She clutched the fifty-dollar note firmly in her right hand, which was shoved all the way into her pocket. Quickly she hobbled along. She felt like singing aloud but knew no song, so all she could do was to hum to the tune of “losers, all the lovely losers…”

The Busker and the Beggar by Ronald Wong