I had just stepped onto the uptown N train platform below Union Square. I was joining a few others, but it wasn't too crowded, so the wait would not be long. A small woman, wrapped in Muslim sheathes, was playing a synthesizer on the opposite platform. I am calling it a synthesizer because this looked like one of the originals. I mean, the keyboard was so large it nearly hid her entire body. Having finished a tardy, if not spirited rendition of Joy the the World over a week after Christmas, she began the familiar notes to "Fur Elise". Just then, the scrawny homeless man who slid under the turnstile before me approached and appeared to check the time on the digital clock hanging above. Suddenly he began attempting to reach it, as there was a sticker of some sort that he felt it was necessary to remove. The sticker on the clock was just barely in reach and he could only rip it off in tiny strips. He stood on his tip-toes and balanced himself by allowing his free arm to circle himself. It almost fluttered gracefully like a ballerina's port de bra. Having scraped off another strip, he switched arms and popped back up on the toes and proceeded to circle the other arm several times just the same. He repeated these moves several times even as the train came and I left on it. Had Beethoven's gentle melodies overtaken him? For what reason did he feel it vital to remove that darn sticker? To what do we owe his elegance and delicate artistry? More importantly, when can I see it again?
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