A lesson in something (at the People's Park)

Late afternoon, patches of sunlight peering through the trees, in the distance ragged groups of people and scavenged goods scattered haphazardly in the sun, and I’m hanging out with a hobo.

It certainly was not the hobos that drew me to the “People’s Park,” where once protestors of war sought refuge from the National Guard and now economic objectors are free to defy the Dow Jones. It was the art: murals, brilliant colors, psychedelic images.

Then I saw the jazz guitar in his arms, the broad round hollow body, the wood stained orange and red, a distant mellow twang.

 “Mind if I join?” I had brought my harmonica for just an occasion as this.

“Oh, I don’t know chords or anything, I just play by the spirit.” I couldn’t tell if his tan skin came from being Hispanic, Native American, or long exposed to the sun. There were only a few long white strands at each temple contrasting starkly among black locks. Two of the strings of his guitar were missing and a third flailed uselessly from the neck.

“Perfect, I don’t know anything about harmonica so it works out,” and I sat beside him on the bench.

So we played our makeshift duet. He seemed to use the limitations of the instrument as an advantage, moving around shapes that would be much more difficult if all six strings had been present, and drawing textures that seemed not only viable but genuine. I sucked. Both literally and metaphorically. Awkwardly stumbling across my brand new chromatic harmonica, I only somewhat successfully managed to pick out melodies over his chords.

“Sorry,” I periodically apologized for my flubbed chirps. I didn’t know how long he'd put up with me, but I didn’t think I could hold out for long.

He didn’t seem the least concerned: “Trial and error. That’s how we learn.”

So we played on by trial and error as I struggled to surpass my inexperience just enough to find the spirit that led him. After a few improvisations he paused to open and close his fingers. “I can’t get my hands around some of these changes, I’ve got arthritis.”

“Arthritis?” I asked, but it was the word “changes” that caught my attention.

“I’m almost 50. But that’s no excuse.” And he’s back at it.

So now I’m officially hanging out with a hobo. But I can’t picture him lounging on a streetcorner with a sign or jangling a cardboard cup in the face of passers-by. No, no, this man belongs beside a campfire in the woods, or perhaps resting beside a river, strumming contentedly for the pleasure of the people or the birds or even just the trees.

As our session nears the end he turns, “Yeah man, thanks for that. I wouldn’tve thought of that on my own." Here I’m almost feeling guilty for subjecting him to my beginning harmonica and he’s thanking me as though somehow I’ve taught him something.

We stand, he now towering over me. He introduces himself as “Russel” and invites me back anytime (would’ve given me his phone number, he says, if he owned a phone). I thank him, and he wraps both of his massive arms around me in an enormous hug that forces every trace of air from my lungs until he finally lets go. Now he’s off to find a beer and I’m off to wander someplace else.

 (Russel with his guitar)