Backstage Writers - Think Hope Do

No, please, not that bench. Damn!

The man I dread always waits until the last minute. If the controllers turn up, he stays on the platform and plays for the pigeons. He’s easy to spot, dressed in brown with a broad-brimmed hat, pride trumping shyness with a smirk. I’d hate to hear him speak.

Come on, my ticket-sniffing friends! Where are you today? Maybe I can switch cars. Nope. The engines just went “clunk,” and here he is. Ladies and Gentlemen, the Screecher!

He starts off with Somewhere My Love. I usually like that song - if it’s played in tune with a dose of passion. It is difficult to explain what happens when the Screecher puts bow to strings.

He may be slightly off-key. That would explain the anxiety that courses through me by the time he reaches the “my love” of the first four notes. I can hear it now. Somewhere my love. Ayah! Maybe it’s the quality of the sound. Searing comes to mind. His bow hits a nerve that starts in my ear and ends in my coccyx. I get these full body twitches, and the worst is yet to come. As the train approaches La Defense, his sawing and gyrating reach an unbearable climax. He balances the violin on his chin and swipes the bow across the strings. The violin shrieks. It’s the shower scene in Psycho. It’s death - of today’s performance, at least, thank God. Soon he’ll be walking the aisle. I’ll hear his coin purse jiggling. I always shut my eyes. He must know me as “the Sleeper.” I wonder if I can force my heart to relax.

I tell Julian the Screecher is like a bad bottle of wine. Julian calls me a snob. I list all the modest wines I’m happy to drink- even without food - and explain that I usually love metro musicians. Julian says the Screecher is only trying to express himself. I explain that wine can go bad if not stored properly. It turns into vinegar not even fit for a salad. Julian asks me if I’ve ever tried playing the violin. He’s right about one thing, Julian. The Screecher loves playing. He looks proud as he prances around and strikes off his own renditions of time-worn tunes. Julian says I should think about where that violin has been. OK, I agree, the Screecher needs to play for us, but do I need to listen?

I hate it when Julian tries to set me straight.