The short story I’m writing collided with real life on Friday. There I was, sitting in a subway car, looking over my pages. Nothing unusual about that, right? I was reading through the scene that takes place at a blues club, when a man stood up a few seats away and positioned himself in the center of the car. I knew I was going to get a musical performance whether I liked it or not.
Then I realized he was holding a trumpet. I looked from him to the words on the page, the scene of a smoky room and music circling the margins of my paper, and I listened.
He was good. I expected him to swing around the half empty car so I could drop a dollar into his cup, but there was no cup and he never asked. He just played his trumpet and displayed a CD but disappeared before anyone could do anything.
That does not happen in New York City, where everyone performing is trying to make a buck. Did he not understand how it’s done?
In any case, it made reading my story that much more surreal, as if the words had propelled the action.
Nah, that’s just silly.
Image courtesy of smokedsalmon at FreeDigitalPhotos.net