Every day on my walk to class, I pass a man with a harmonica and guitar on W 23rd Street. Nothing about him looks particularly normal. He usually has some kind of tie-dye bandana wrapped around his head, awkward-looking pantaloons hanging from his waist, and a headset that positions his harmonica perfectly in front of his face, always ready for the next song.
The first time I walked past him, I ignored him. He smiled at me. I looked straight ahead.
I was afraid that making eye contact would somehow invite the man with a harmonica in front of his face and a guitar in his hands into a conversation with me at eight in the morning. At the time, I didn’t feel particularly bad about it. I was going to class. I had somewhere to be. I had things to do. But as I continued walking past him every morning, I started wondering about him. Monday. Tuesday. Wednesday. Thursday. Friday. Every morning, there he was.
I started noticing that I wasn’t the only person who avoided him. Students walked on the opposite side of the sidewalk. Some looked down at their phones. Others stared straight ahead when he said something to them. Most of us were too busy. Too busy wondering if we’d be late to class. Too busy thinking about whether the next O-Chem exam was going to be the final straw. Too busy wondering whether our professor was going to give a pop quiz. Too busy thinking about ourselves. And I can’t really blame us. College has a way of making you feel like you’re constantly running out of time. There is always another assignment. Another exam. Another meeting. Another org event. Another email you forgot to answer. Another thing you’re supposed to be doing. So we walk. Quickly. Head down. Earbuds in. Eyes forward.
And every morning, on W 23rd Street, there is a man who seems to be doing the exact opposite. He stops. He plays. He smiles at strangers. He takes up space. And eventually, I started wondering if that was the point. I don’t know his name. I don’t know where he lives. I don’t know why he comes to W 23rd Street every morning, or what his life looks like when he isn’t standing there with his guitar and harmonica. I don’t know if he’s trying to make people laugh, make a little money, share his music, or simply give himself somewhere to be.
I don’t know. And that’s what bothered me. I had created an entire story about a person I had never spoken to. I had decided he was strange. I had decided he was someone I didn’t want to interact with. I had decided that whatever he was doing couldn’t possibly be as important as whatever I was rushing off to do. All without knowing a single thing about him. Maybe that’s what we do to people who don’t fit neatly into our routines. We turn them into scenery. The guy with the harmonica. The woman who always sits outside the coffee shop. The person who talks to themselves on the bus. The stranger who waves at everyone. We give them a label because a label is easier than a person. But the man on W 23rd Street stopped being scenery to me, today. I started looking for him. Not because I suddenly understood him.
I don’t. But because I started to appreciate the fact that, every morning, he was there. While hundreds of students hurried past him on their way to become doctors, lawyers, engineers, teachers, scientists, business owners, artists and whatever else we have convinced ourselves we need to become, he was standing on a sidewalk playing music. And maybe he was reminding us of something. Not everything has to be productive. Not everything has to lead somewhere. Not every morning needs to be spent worrying about the next thing. Sometimes you can smile at strangers. Sometimes you can just stand on W 23rd Street with a harmonica and a guitar. And maybe that’s enough.