Celebration for a Gray Day

The other day in Suburban Station an amazing "happening" happened.  I was singing next to Au Bon Pain where there are several tables for people to sit and enjoy their java and a group of people, maybe twenty, took up residence at the tables next to me.  Two or three middle-aged women rode herd on about fifteen young girls, all between four and ten years old, teeming with energy and giggles.  I started singing "Itsy, Bitsy, Spider" and caught the attention of one, then two, who elbowed the others and sat up and listened with bright eyes.  One jumped up and walked over to me, then another.  Soon I had a small audience, all smiles and eventually singing along.  "Oh, sing another," they called, as I ended with "...crawled up the spout again."  I began to sing "The People on the Bus," where each verse you name someone on the bus, like the babies, who go "Wah, wah, wah."  Soon the wheels were going round and round, the driver was saying "move on back," and the mothers were going "sh, sh, sh."  We were all having a grand old time.  I notice now that several adults were grinning, enjoying the singing, probably wishing they could join in.  Then some of the girls took up ballroom stance and started dancing.  They explained it was Kelly's birthday, and wouldn't I sing "Happy Birthday" to her, which I did.  There was applause, laughter, giggles.
It was all so innocent.  Yet at the next table down, a woman was still passed out.  She had been there all day.  When I had arrived earlier to busk, she was lying on the floor.  The police had come and escorted her out of the station.  They said she had been drunk yesterday as well.  An hour later she returned to the same table, only to fall asleep again.
As she lay there, passed out again in her drunkenness, the children danced, sang happy birthday, giggled.  They wanted to sing another song, so I sang "Colours" by Donovan, and they made up verses, adding their own colors to Donovan's, with objects which make them feel the best, when they see them in the morning, when they rise. 
All such innocense, existing side-by-side with drunkenness, the grittiness of the city.  These white kids were obviously killing time till their train would take them to the suburbs, to their safe communities, away from underbelly of the city, which had not seemed to rub off on them in the least bit during their day of pre-Christmas shopping.  I wanted to sing another song by Donovan which talks about the derelict buildings and huddling in the cold, but I figured, why spoil their party, why pop their bubble. 
On the other hand, maybe I missed a teaching moment.
Merry Christmas.

Lesson Learned

The world is not such a touchy-feely place.  Every once in a while I'm reminded of this.  Like the other day, for example.  I was singing my heart out in the subway concourse, and a heavy set woman, full of bags and layers, walked up to me and stood there, listening, eyeing my guitar case with the few dollars and coins that were in it.  Then she looked up at me.  Sometimes people ask me for money, and I figured, this is what was coming, so I sang on, smiled at her, waited for the question.  Finally at the end of the song, I greeted her.  She smiled at me warmly and said "Continue making music.  You sound good."  Then, to my surprise, she pulled out a wallet, stuffed with papers coupons, and found a ten-dollar bill.  She placed it in my case and smiled and then started to walk away.  I couldn't believe it.  I thanked her for her incredible generosity and I knew it was a hardship for her to give me that much money.  As she passed, I reached out to shake her hand, but because she was loaded down with bags, she didn't take my hand.  I touched her elbow and thanked her again.  Suddenly her face snapped into a rage and she hissed at me, "Don't you f**kin' touch me."  She turned around, went back over to my guitar case, reached down and took back her ten-dollar bill, turned at walked away, cursing at me as she left.  I called out an apology after her, but I don't think she heard it, as she disappeared around the corner.
I was temporarily disabled by this encounter.  I couldn't sing.  I forgot lyrics.  I took a coffee break and tried to sort out what had just happened.  I felt like packing it up and going home.
But I didn't.  I took some deep breaths, picked up my guitar, and started singing again.  Slowly I regained my mojo.  A few smiles later and dollars later, I began to feel whole again.
In a way, I thank that woman for reminding me, we all have our limits.  We all need to respect each other's space and sensibilities.  I just feel sad about the whole encounter.  But maybe I'm understanding human beings just a little bit better.