A/N: Title stolen from play I saw at Edinburgh fringe, twas very good play
and it also had a busker in it, but, rather expectedly, not the Doctor.
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Playing for Reward
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He was an odd chap: quite short, with dancing eyes and a jumper covered in question marks. He swung an umbrella around his wrist even though the sky was a bright blue. His dress sense wasn't exactly normal, but it wasn't any stranger than dozens of others who passed me by during the day.
I had decided to play jazz that morning. I had set up at my pitch early, just inside the park on a nice patch of grass, between the main path and a brick red wall, and in plenty of time to catch the morning crowd heading through the park on their way to work.
He turned up just after ten o'clock. I noticed the furrowed expression of concentration on his face, and didn't expect him to even look up, let alone stop.
But he did.
And then he stood at the side of the path till I'd finished the song, and clapped enthusiastically. I couldn't help grinning at him, and I was even happier when he tossed some change into the hat.
He offered his hand, and introduced himself. "I'm the Doctor," he said, and I noticed his accent. Scottish, sort of. "Do you play here a lot?" he asked.
"Every day," I replied. "It wasn't exactly the career option my parents were hoping for . . ."
"Do you play blues?" he asked.
"Not often," I admitted. "Not a favourite with the punters."
"No, I suppose not." He cast a long look down the path. I didn't know what he saw, but I doubted it was what I saw. He was preoccupied, I think. "Why do you do it?" he asked, still watching the passing people.
"Busking?"
"Yes."
I was going to shrug and tell him I didn't know. But there was something about his expression; something in the eyes and in the way he asked that told me that wasn't the right answer. Well, maybe it was, but I thought that he would be disappointed with it, and I didn't want to disappoint anyone today.
"I suppose it's the little things," I began, watching his face: there was a change there, maybe his eyes widened just a little, his head tilted a fraction. Hardly any difference at all, really, but I knew that it meant he was paying attention, really listening to what I was saying. It made me a bit nervous, to be honest. "When you watch people walking past, and notice them smile when they hear you playing, or hum along. They seem just that little bit happier, and if I can do that, even if it's only for a few seconds, I feel like I've done some good."
"Like you've made a difference?" he asked me.
"Yes," I replied, nodding. "I mean, that's what we all want to do isn't it?"
I expected him to agree with me, but he didn't. Instead, he clasped both his hands over the umbrella's handle, and rested his chin on them, and looking incredibly serious, he asked me: "Depends on the difference." Then he stood up, and pointed along the path. "They notice the small things, but what about the big picture. Maybe that's what they should be looking at."
"Maybe they don't really care," I said.
"Just so long as the trains are running on time? Someone empties the rubbish bins, and keeps milk and bread in the shops?" he asked, quirking an eyebrow and smiling, not as though he thought something was funny, it was more enigmatic than that. Like he had secrets and he was amused because no else knew.
The expression annoyed me.
"Not everyone's out to save the universe, you know," I muttered, and then he really did laugh, and smile, but properly this time.
"But I do," he said without a hint of irony.
For a second, I believed him.
Then he shook his head and looked away. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, sadder. "I'm just not sure if I should, anymore."
"Why not?" I asked, before realising I really shouldn't be indulging in his delusions. He seemed to consider for a moment before replying.
"No matter how long I fight, things never seem to get any better." His brow creased in frustration.
I didn't really know what to say to that. So I stayed quiet, wishing, just a little, that this little man would decide just to move on. Then I had an idea, and he really did seem to be terribly unhappy, and delusional or not, I hated to see someone look like that.
"Maybe not." He looked up at me, and I felt obligated to continue. "But maybe that's not what's important. If I was doing this for money I'd be a fool, but that's not my reward. Music has a way of inspiring people, and that can give them hope. Maybe that's what you're doing. Maybe that's what's important."
He stared for a moment, into the distance, his face expressionless; an unreadable mask, I thought. I wasn't even sure that he had been listening to me.
"I play games," he said, finally.
"We all do," I said with a shrug.
"No, no." He shook his head violently. "Games with lives, with destiny: I dance with death."
I nodded, slowly. It was at this point that I realised that I really was quite scared. He spoke with such conviction, such certainty, I simply couldn't believe he was lying, which meant he must have been quite mad.
"Dangerous games," I said, taking the smallest step away form him.
"Oh yes," he agreed, but he didn't seem proud. There was something else lurking behind is eyes, and I remember thinking, he's as afraid as I am. "All the time I'm playing on a knife-edge; it's difficult not to get cut."
"And you like to play these games?" I asked, very quietly.
And then his whole disposition changed, and when he smiled now, his eyes were alight with fun: happy and genuine, and I didn't feel afraid of him anymore.
"Oh no," he said, grinning. He reached into his pocket and took something out. At first I thought it was a knife, as I caught a glint of metal in the sunlight. "Sometimes I like to play the spoons."
And then he did.
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End.
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Playing for Reward
+++
He was an odd chap: quite short, with dancing eyes and a jumper covered in question marks. He swung an umbrella around his wrist even though the sky was a bright blue. His dress sense wasn't exactly normal, but it wasn't any stranger than dozens of others who passed me by during the day.
I had decided to play jazz that morning. I had set up at my pitch early, just inside the park on a nice patch of grass, between the main path and a brick red wall, and in plenty of time to catch the morning crowd heading through the park on their way to work.
He turned up just after ten o'clock. I noticed the furrowed expression of concentration on his face, and didn't expect him to even look up, let alone stop.
But he did.
And then he stood at the side of the path till I'd finished the song, and clapped enthusiastically. I couldn't help grinning at him, and I was even happier when he tossed some change into the hat.
He offered his hand, and introduced himself. "I'm the Doctor," he said, and I noticed his accent. Scottish, sort of. "Do you play here a lot?" he asked.
"Every day," I replied. "It wasn't exactly the career option my parents were hoping for . . ."
"Do you play blues?" he asked.
"Not often," I admitted. "Not a favourite with the punters."
"No, I suppose not." He cast a long look down the path. I didn't know what he saw, but I doubted it was what I saw. He was preoccupied, I think. "Why do you do it?" he asked, still watching the passing people.
"Busking?"
"Yes."
I was going to shrug and tell him I didn't know. But there was something about his expression; something in the eyes and in the way he asked that told me that wasn't the right answer. Well, maybe it was, but I thought that he would be disappointed with it, and I didn't want to disappoint anyone today.
"I suppose it's the little things," I began, watching his face: there was a change there, maybe his eyes widened just a little, his head tilted a fraction. Hardly any difference at all, really, but I knew that it meant he was paying attention, really listening to what I was saying. It made me a bit nervous, to be honest. "When you watch people walking past, and notice them smile when they hear you playing, or hum along. They seem just that little bit happier, and if I can do that, even if it's only for a few seconds, I feel like I've done some good."
"Like you've made a difference?" he asked me.
"Yes," I replied, nodding. "I mean, that's what we all want to do isn't it?"
I expected him to agree with me, but he didn't. Instead, he clasped both his hands over the umbrella's handle, and rested his chin on them, and looking incredibly serious, he asked me: "Depends on the difference." Then he stood up, and pointed along the path. "They notice the small things, but what about the big picture. Maybe that's what they should be looking at."
"Maybe they don't really care," I said.
"Just so long as the trains are running on time? Someone empties the rubbish bins, and keeps milk and bread in the shops?" he asked, quirking an eyebrow and smiling, not as though he thought something was funny, it was more enigmatic than that. Like he had secrets and he was amused because no else knew.
The expression annoyed me.
"Not everyone's out to save the universe, you know," I muttered, and then he really did laugh, and smile, but properly this time.
"But I do," he said without a hint of irony.
For a second, I believed him.
Then he shook his head and looked away. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, sadder. "I'm just not sure if I should, anymore."
"Why not?" I asked, before realising I really shouldn't be indulging in his delusions. He seemed to consider for a moment before replying.
"No matter how long I fight, things never seem to get any better." His brow creased in frustration.
I didn't really know what to say to that. So I stayed quiet, wishing, just a little, that this little man would decide just to move on. Then I had an idea, and he really did seem to be terribly unhappy, and delusional or not, I hated to see someone look like that.
"Maybe not." He looked up at me, and I felt obligated to continue. "But maybe that's not what's important. If I was doing this for money I'd be a fool, but that's not my reward. Music has a way of inspiring people, and that can give them hope. Maybe that's what you're doing. Maybe that's what's important."
He stared for a moment, into the distance, his face expressionless; an unreadable mask, I thought. I wasn't even sure that he had been listening to me.
"I play games," he said, finally.
"We all do," I said with a shrug.
"No, no." He shook his head violently. "Games with lives, with destiny: I dance with death."
I nodded, slowly. It was at this point that I realised that I really was quite scared. He spoke with such conviction, such certainty, I simply couldn't believe he was lying, which meant he must have been quite mad.
"Dangerous games," I said, taking the smallest step away form him.
"Oh yes," he agreed, but he didn't seem proud. There was something else lurking behind is eyes, and I remember thinking, he's as afraid as I am. "All the time I'm playing on a knife-edge; it's difficult not to get cut."
"And you like to play these games?" I asked, very quietly.
And then his whole disposition changed, and when he smiled now, his eyes were alight with fun: happy and genuine, and I didn't feel afraid of him anymore.
"Oh no," he said, grinning. He reached into his pocket and took something out. At first I thought it was a knife, as I caught a glint of metal in the sunlight. "Sometimes I like to play the spoons."
And then he did.
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End.