The Minstrel in the Gallery

May 25, 2000

I heard a bird chirping outside of Macy*s today. Its song flitted above the squinting, grumping crowd of Manhattanites bruising their heels and swelling their calves into the pavement as they scurried around, through, and away from each other under a hazy glaring sun. A breeze seemed to follow the chirping and for a moment I forgot about the ache in my head and the sweat on my back and the fatigue in my knees brought on by the white hot sweltering sky.

That a little bird would find itself alone in the middle of noon-day Herald Square seemed very sad. But that that little bird could still sing and be heard above the din of people and cars and buses and jackhammers gave me pause.

Such a loud song it sang. Chirp, chirp, chirp. Chirp, chirp, chirp. It was very fast. Much faster than I can write it. A staccato rapid fire burst of song that kept me turning and jerking trying to find the mouth from which it came.

Was it a frantic song of searching, a desperate call for help? Or was it a sweet ode to joy, a celebration of the vitality of spring and of the people coming into bloom?

I looked in the sky to try to catch a glimpse of this songbird in flight. Seeing nothing, I scanned the buildings above to see if the source of our serenade was perched upon a ledge. Nothing there either.

And then I bent my head to the sidewalk and saw an old homeless man with a week’s worth or white stubble on his face and long wild white hair growing out from under a faded green John Deere hat. In his mouth was a birdcall.

Chirp, chirp, chirp. Chirp, chirp, chirp. That one was for me. He stopped and smiled and asked me from his seat on the cement, "You like that, do ya?"

"I sure do," I replied. "You sound like spring."

I thought that sounded very poetic. The old man seemed to agree for he nodded his head, and his eyes seemed to sparkle as if some eternal bit of wisdom was just acknowledged by the both of us in one fleeting, transcendent moment. How symbolic it was that this forgotten soul could still make his sweet melody heard above the sweaty, hustling pack of ambivalent, callused strangers.

"Your whistle makes a beautiful song," I continued. And as I was caught up in the warmth and specialness of this surreal moment, I added, "Thank you for sharing it with all of us."

I looked at the smiling old sage and awaited his wise reciprocation.

"I’ll sell it to you for a dollar."

And that was that.

Proving to myself once again that I have no grip on reality,

Broadway Jim Sosnicky