Busted!

October. I have been playing here at my spot now for four months. I developed a sore throat, which prevented me from playing for a week. I really missed playing for my people. I missed their smiles. I missed singing.
I managed to sing the following week, but my voice was still rough and actually I had to sing all my songs in a lower key. My voice sounded full, deeper, more present, and dare I say, sexy, in an FM-radio-announcer kind of way. I loved it. I sang my heart out. It was like I was channeling someone, borrowing their voice for a time. I hoped it wouldn't change.
On Wednesday, however, all this ground to a halt. Right in the middle of a song, two cops approached. The blond female cop on the left was chatting up a storm with the male cop on the right, as they walked past me, then stopped. The blond turned to me and started talking to me, right in the middle of my singing. I stopped. "You need a permit to play here." I played innocent. "Really? I didn't realize that." "Well, you do. Call that number on the sign down there at the designated performance space." I thanked her for the tip.
They continued walking and resumed their conversation.
I know if I had protested, they could have arrested me. I know they had the right to shut me down, as I was singing on private property, SEPTA property.
I unstrapped my guitar, packed it away, then sat with a cup of coffee at the cafe at the end of the hall. I informed my merchant friends what had happened, and they expressed their condolences. We all knew the rules. I told them, I'd be back, with a permit, and I'd see them soon.
I called the number that afternoon and got a very nice lady who was very encouraging. The following day I showed up at her office at SEPTA headquarters and filled out the application. She was at a meeting but her secretary greeted me and let me sit down in their conference room to fill out my application. "I'm a musician, too," she called to me from her desk. "Really? What do you play?" "Guitar." "So, do I." She continued, "And I write poetry, mostly spiritual. I don't know if you're into that kind of thing. I also have a blogspot where I write about spirituality." She was very sweet. I continued filling out my application, then handed it to her with my photo i.d. "You've been very helpful," I said. "Can I give you a c.d.?" She was thrilled. She opened it up and popped the disc into her computer. My wife Patricia's voice suddenly filled her cubicle. I watched her start to sway to the music, a dreamy jazzy tune called "Cover Me," which Patricia wrote and is perfect for her soft smoky voice. "I love this," she said.
As I descended from the tenth floor in the elevator, I thought, "It's all about the connections, the people."