Among the things I will remember most about 2014 is studying for the New York bar examination. One Saturday last July I rode a No. 1 train headed downtown, my thoughts deep into an outline of criminal law, which is among the subjects tested.
A few stops into my ride a man boarded the car, announced that he was a musician, produced a flute and proceeded to play what he described as an original composition titled “The Quiet Storm.”
The title of the piece notwithstanding, I braced to be assaulted acoustically. All I wanted to do was to study. Now I would have to contend with this busker while I tried to memorize the material in my hands.
But the music was as billed. Quiet, soothing, lovely in a way, at least compared with what I anticipated. Over the summer, I took to using foam ear plugs to insulate me from the sounds of the city, which in my yearning to focus I had come to resent as an intrusion.
On the subway, the setup I resented most became companions who sat on benches across from each other. That demanded they speak loudly enough to be heard by each other and anyone nearby. I expected every place to be pin quiet, even, go figure, the streets of New York City in July.
The library was worse. I resented fellow students who rippled the silence with the force of their typing. I felt entitled to silence, which, of course, inverts what’s reasonable. It also shows how the bar exam or, for that matter, any undertaking that demands a mass of memorization, can consume us.
The man with the flute finished his piece and asked those of us around him for money. “Canadian coins are OK,” he offered as a made his way the length of the car. This I also largely ignored. Then he said something that caused me to gaze up from my notes. “I’m sorry everybody,” he said.
The apology snapped me from self-absorption. He had only played music and here he apologized. That seemed disproportionate to anything he had done. Of course, it can be nice to ride the train without being panhandled. Still, I wondered, what have we come to if someone has to apologize for playing a piece of music that qualifies as tolerably lovely?
I reached into my pocket and hoped I had a dollar. I didn’t, but I had a $5 bill, which I walked over to the musician and handed to him. “Thanks man,” he said, looking me in the eye.
“That was a nice piece, you played,” I replied. “Thank you.”
The man brightened. “It’s the first I played in six months,” he added. “I lost my son recently.”
My next thought was to ask him what had happened. But the train had arrived at my stop, the doors opened and I stepped out, instinctively, onto the platform. “Take care,” I said.
That was that. For a moment, I regretted not riding along so that we might continue the conversation. Then again, our exchange seemed enough to create a connection that will stay with me always.