Peaceable Kingdom

It can be a jungle out there.  On the streets, I mean.  I try to get along with everyone.  Coexist peacefully and share the turf.  Philadelphia has relaxed in the past few years as far as its tolerance level of street musicians.  It is still wise to consider store owners so as not to offend them or hurt their business.  They usually leave you alone to do your music, if you're considerate of them.  If you smile at cops who pass by, they usually smile back.  Greasing the skids in a peaceable kingdom.
There's another element of the street hustle that musicians have to contend with.  Street people.  Sometimes this becomes a turf-war situation.  Many are cool.  If you're on a particular spot first, they keep moving.  Some are friendly, even chat a bit before seeking an available location elsewhere.
Some, however, are downright territorial.  It's not about who is there first.  There's an unwritten code somewhere that tells them, they own the spot.  No matter what time they show up, it's their spot and you're supposed to leave.  Busking bullies.
I don't know if you can call them buskers.  But they sit on the stoop and hold out their baseball hat to passers-by.  Some are quiet.  Some suck up to people and call them "Sir."  Others are downright belligerent.
There's one guy who shows up late in the evening, when I'm playing on Chestnut Street in the bar and restaurant district of Old City.  I hear him approaching because he is screaming and yelling obscenities about my being there on "his" spot.  He plants himself next to me and starts asking for money.  Full volume.  Calling out to people.  Trying to reason with him has proven useless and has only provoked him to curse me out, again, full-volume.   The other night a friend of his showed up and planted himself on the other side of me, flanking me like bookends.  I asked them to move, since we weren't working as a team.  I mean, picture this.  I'm singing, playing guitar, throwing in some harmonica now and then, and they're collecting the money.
My busking mentor Clinton, who has been playing on the streets for years, tells me not to budge.  Gotta put your foot down, he says.
I don't know.  Maybe he's right.  But there comes a time when sharing might be good, an investment in the future.  Spreading good will.
I mean, after all, I've been on the spot three hours and my fingertips are hurting from the guitar strings, and it's getting louder on the streets with motorcycles and cars, and I'm tired.  I've made some money, and it's probably time to go home anyway....
If I stay any longer, I know it would be purely out of spite, not wanting to give in to my boisterous bookends.
I pack up my guitar.  As I'm leaving I wish the bookends a good night.
Then something sad happens.
The belligerent one who was loudest looks up at me.  His eyes are half shut.   His lids are puffy.  One eye is almost completely closed.  He is slurring his words when he almost pathetically asks me for some change.  Like he has never seen me before in his life.  I get a close look at him.  He is quiet now.   He repeats his request for money.
I look at him.  I see sadness.  Drugs.  Alcohol.  Dissipation.  He doesn't recognize me.
I repeat, "Have a good night," then turn and continue on down the sidewalk.  I think about him, as I walk past rich people drinking overpriced mixed drinks, lounging at sidewalk tables.  Chatting on cell phones, smoking.  Laughing.  Not worried about where they will sleep tonight.
The thump of rock music from loudspeakers takes over, changing as I pass one bar after another.  I weave in and out of the crowd on the sidewalk, making my way up Second Street toward Market, past bouncers and women with little clothing on, and men on the prowl, following them.
Peaceable kingdom.  I guess we can all learn to get along.