There's this guy that plays an electric guitar on the corner of the street on the other side of the park next to where I live.
He's an older guy, wears a duster jacket and an old cowboy hat. Only shows up once a week, and plays whatever he feels like for a few hours. Just blaring out the music, non-stop, with his guitar case open for whatever spare change people drop in it.
Most of the time, it's loud, brash, and kind of annoying. He's not a bad player, but he's just cranking up the amp and using the buildings around the intersection to make use of the echo. I try to avoid walking right by him because it's too damn loud most of the time.
But this one time a few months ago... I don't know if it was his mood, or the air temperature, or someone sprinkled magic guitar dust on him or something. The volume was just right. The echo was just right. The guitar strings were just right. I stood across the street and listened to him.
It was this bittersweet, melancholy, sorrowful, uplifting, slow mix of a warm autumn afternoon, a man just playing what he felt like, and some kind of understanding between him and the street. It seemed almost scripted, like out of a movie or something. People usually just went about their business at the hot dog vendor's cart, or kept walking past him back to work. But not that day. Everyone kind of slowed their pace. Ate their lunch a little slower. Sat down a bit longer. Read the paper a bit more. I could see the hot dog guy kind of swaying a bit. It was... I don't know, it was kind of magical?
He finished it, packed up, and walked off. Haven't seem since. I guess he packed up for the winter.
Hearing this made me think of that. I can see him playing this on the corner, with the autumn sun shining on the road, people sitting on the benches. Everyone is... just right.
Just right.