And Now a Reality Check

"Nobody's listening anyway," my busking friend Charles says.  Charles is my inspiration.  I met Charles on the streets over ten years ago.  He plays violin.  He also played all the solo instrumentals on our first August Sky album (www.cdbaby.com/augustsky1).  Charles is one of the smartest people I know.  He seems self-taught.  He's a well-read philosopher and artist.  He's a composer and a musician.  He is also a free spirit, flying below the radar. 
It is a Saturday night in Old City.  Charles is busking a block away from me and he has decided to take a break and get a slice of pizza.  He spots me and joins me for a few minutes break.  He tells me about how much money he makes between 1 AM and 2:30 AM after the bars let out.  "It's great money, if you can hang in there until then."
I usually quit around midnight, because something strange happens after 11 PM.  The atmosphere of Old City changes.  Becomes charged.  Louder.  People are drunker.  You almost feel like you need protective clothing.  Strip down to bare essentials...combat mode.  People are rougher.  Once one man grabbed at my guitar, claiming he could play better than me.  Motorcycles roar through the street in packs.  Buses seem louder.  People talk louder, wear less clothing.  One woman ran by, bare from the waste up, with a tuxedo top painted on her chest and back. 
My songs and quiet ballads are almost inappropriate for the atmosphere.
"You suck, you fu**ing pussy," a street person yells at me.  "That's my spot. You can't play for sh**."  And he continued hurling expletives at me, like rotten tomatoes.  Finally I say to him, "Have a nice night" and continue playing and singing.  He continues his rant but finally loses steam and walks away. 
"Nobody's listening anyway," Charles repeats.  "So just strum and sing anything.  Hang in there till late.  You'll make better money."  He claimed he made $250 in two hours.  Hard to believe.  But I love Charles and would never accuse him of bullshitting me.
I play till midnight.  By that time I can hardly hear myself.  Which means people standing five feet from me surely cannot hear me.  No tips are coming in.
I forget about the $250.  I'm satisfied with what I earned.  I pack up my guitar and harmonicas and make my way through the crowd of bare shoulders, long legs, four-inch heels and muscle shirts.  Night clubs music pulsating.  Cops pretending to keep an eye on the situation.
Each block becomes quieter as I get further away from Old City.
I think of Charles' words, nobody's listening anyway.  I know that's not true.  I've had such a warm response from so many people.  I just have to remind myself to concentrate on those appreciative listeners and not worry about a rotten tomato now and then.