Curtis's stomach growled while he unpacked his guitar at the southeast corner of Washington and State. He had to score a few dollars to buy dinner. Perhaps beef stew could accompany the lonely can of Pepsi standing inside his small refrigerator.
He bent down and pushed the guitar case several inches. Then he stepped back and took in the scene. Men and women in suits, teenagers in T-shirts and blue jeans, and shoppers carrying bags chatted while strolling on the sidewalk. A fire truck blared its horn to warn cars rolling south. Directly across from Curtis, several diners consumed lunch at a hotel's sidewalk café.
Two police officers stared at Curtis while walking north. He wondered what attracted them: the guitar or his appearance. His thin body stood about six feet. His red T-shirt, blue jeans, and green Converse gym shoes contrasted with his cocoa complexion. Strands of gray sprinkled his Afro.
A quick glance right at Marshall Field's clock told him it was 2:25. He began serenading passersby with 'Kumbaya'. No one paused for the music. After several minutes, the musician rested. A blond man wearing a Chicago Cubs jersey stopped at the case. He lifted a camera and aimed it at Curtis. The musician smiled, thinking that the man resembled a former boyfriend. The photographer snapped a picture, and stole away. Curtis's smile faded.
The guitar started again. But no money settled into the basket.
While resting again, Curtis thought of his deceased mother Jackie. She had always looked out for him. When Curtis was seventeen, a few classmates called him a faggot and pummeled him after school. Jackie hugged him and said she loved him regardless of his preference. Then she stormed into the principal's office and demanded expulsions or his resignation. The former took place.
Curtis's stomach rumbled again. His mind snapped back to the present. Looks like Pepsi will have to do. Why not play a jaunty tune for Jackie before leaving? 'Skip To My Lou' would work. He stood still and started soft. Gradually, the sound grew in resonance. His body began to sway. He closed his eyes and let the music take control. Curtis forgot he was an unemployed computer salesman living in a roach-infested studio on Argyle Street. At the corner, he became a star. His fingers flew across the strings as he improvised. The tune grew even louder. He ended the song by striking all six strings together.
Curtis grinned as he fished in his left front pocket for the El transfer. There were ten minutes left for him to hop on the Red Line. Finally, he looked down and flashed his biggest smile of the day. A five-dollar bill rested inside the case.
Michael Marsh has written for several local newspapers for the past fifteen years.