Salt in Wound

This wasn’t my preferred train car, but it gave me extra time to work on my material. For there at the end of the platform was the fluorescent-vest-wearing, long-blond-hair-under-a-hat Fist Bump Guy. Most days when I get off the train at Christopher Street, he’s standing there. He is employed by the transit authority though I don’t have the slightest idea what his job entails. But he sure is friendly.

Like many of the detraining regulars, each morning I am the recipient of an upbeat greeting and a fist bump. Whether it’s “Wild Wednesday” or “Thirsty Thursday” or “Feel-Good Friday,” I’m always happy to see him. And I’m a little sad when he’s not there. The brief interaction never fails to raise my spirits.

Yet, I didn’t know his name.

The encounters are usually too quick for extended chats: Fist bump, up the stairs, and out into the street. And the truth is, I simply can’t add another regular conversation to my daily commute. Depending on the day of the week, there might be two other stop-and-chats awaiting me. I can hardly afford further delay; let’s just say I’m not known as an early arriver at the office.

Still, even with a fast hello, I like to have something original to say. So on this particular morning, with half the platform to walk down, I rehearsed some banter in my head. “Must’ve been extra busy earlier,” I might proclaim, in reference to NJ Transit cancellations and cross-honored tickets on the PATH system. (Listening to traffic-and-weather together on the 8′s sharpens your public-transportation acumen.) Yeah, that was a solid topic. I was ready.

But Fist Bump Guy immediately hijacked the conversation. “Yo…oh, wait…have you already copped some of my music?”

“Uh… no?” I answered.

“You gotta check out my CD,” said Fist Bump.

“I’d like to hear it,” I said, somewhat sincerely. “Bring one in.”

“Oh, I’ve got some with me. Only $10.”

“Um, I’ve got a twenty,” I said, mildly crestfallen.

“I’ve got change. Let’s get out of the way of the cameras.” He explained that he could get into trouble if seen. So we ducked behind a post to complete our transaction. Fist Bump handed me a CD-R with no liner notes.

Well, at least I knew his name now. But, ascending to street level, anxiety started to settle in.

It wasn’t from parting with a ten spot. I am a patron of the arts, after all. I own a fairly substantial number of recordings by friends and associates. I generally keep these filed in the farthest outpost of my music collection: the bottom of the last shelving unit, below the artist tribute albums, the record-label compilations, and the holiday discs.

I like seeing them all together, knowing I have such talented people in my life. Now, there are recordings by friends that have graduated to my main A-to-Z collection. But only I can make the determination when an artist belongs to the world at large and not just to me.

But back to the anxiety. Depending on the closeness of my relationship with the musician, and how often I see the person, there is often an unspoken understanding that I will actually listen to the recording in question. (Though in a couple of cases, I’ve never even removed the shrink wrap.) I’d quite possibly be seeing Fist Bump G… uh, Earl… in less than 24 hours. Tick tick tick, Jack Bauer.

Another thought gnawed at me. Earlier in the summer I’d bought a disc from a guy on the sidewalk. Five bucks. I admired his pluck. The music industry had changed; it was harder and harder to get people to hear your songs these days. So heeding the words of the Doobie Brothers, he was takin’ it to the streets. I never listened to the disc, but he had my utmost respect.

Soon enough, though, I started to notice more guys, every day, selling their CDs out on Broadway. Was it just this year’s soak-the-unsuspecting-tourists scheme? Earl wouldn’t play me like that, would he? We see each other nearly every day! We bump fists! Still, $10 was an awful lot for a plain CD-R….

I got to work and loaded the disc into iTunes. Seven untitled tracks totaling 23.6 minutes—that was certainly manageable. But what was I dealing with here? New Brunswick basement punk? Death metal? Post-emo? I clicked Play and braced for the worst. It was… hip-hop. OK, not my No. 1 genre, but still manageable. I’d give it my full attention after work.

Because I am a bit anal retentive regarding music, I gave the disc a title (The PATH e.p.) and cover art (a photo I’d swiped from some other train rider’s “what a great guy Earl is” blog post) before transferring the music to my iPod.

Heading home, I gave it a listen. Hmmm… not bad, not bad…. (Didn’t really matter; I’d have to say I liked it regardless.) Mentions of women, of Glocks… was there a darker side to the seemingly sweet, fun-loving Earl? No, it wasn’t too hardcore; he’s just going for some street legitimacy, adding a little urban flavor. I took in the sounds. I searched my internal database for artist comparisons. I mentally ranked the tracks. I memorized lyrical hooks.

The next morning I was in my preferred car. There was smiling Earl, at his normal post. In four seconds we’d be face-to-face. I was nervous and a little awkward, fumbling to get off the train, remove earphones, place book in backpack, clutch umbrella, while a mob of fellow commuters streamed by. I headed cross-current straight to Earl.

“W-wow wow!” I exclaimed, aping the chorus of Track 1. “Very impressive stuff. Lots of different styles. You’ve got the slow jam. And I really like that Movin’ On Up one….”

“Everyone responds to that when we do it live!” Earl replied. “That one’s a little older…”

“2005 I think it said,” I quickly interjected.

“Yeah, but we put it on there, we’re gonna do a video for it, next month or so.”

“Let me know when that’s done,” I said.

“Oh mos def, I’ll be handing out business cards when that’s up,” Earl said. “I appreciate you listening.”

I thanked him for sharing his music, and passed through the turnstile. But feeling like I hadn’t done enough, I turned back to Earl.

“You may have graduated from Cooley High,” I said, quoting another lyric. Say something from another song; prove you listened to the whole disc. “Players don’t know. Haters don’t know!” OK, maybe I was overdoing it now. Up the stairs. Quit while you’re ahead.

I stood under the awning at street level. It was still raining, so I probably wouldn’t run into Larry, collecting for autism, or was it MS this week….