THE STREET SINGER
Image generated by Runway AI
Fiction by Jim Rader
(June 2023)
For about a year I'd been renting a room in Gary Leeds' apartment in Jamaica Plain, any hope of staying on longer squashed by his new fiancée Trish, a frequent visitor. A bit of a pain, Trish once cheerily answered the phone, "Leeds residence." I could hear the caller's voice, a folk club manager: "What? Who? Is Jim there?" I snatched the phone away from Trish, got the gig then got into a row with her. Two days later, Gary politely asked me to move out: "There's no rush Jim, a couple more months is fine."
"Well, as luck would have it, Gary, I know a street singer who's looking for a new housemate." "A street singer? Dude, I'd think twice about that, unless he's got some other means of support." "No, that's how Eric makes his living. I heard he's been living there three years now."
Eric Scarlatti played nothing but traditional songs, nineteenth century British ditties such as "In The Gloaming." Tall, goateed Eric dressed appropriately: black cape, grey vest, short pants with leggings, buckled shoes. A few years ago, he hung around the Cambridge open mics, but never signed up for a spot. "My stage is the street," he explained to an emcee.
Eric's usual spot was in bustling Harvard Square, in front of Carducci's Gourmet Shoppe, his open guitar case on the sidewalk full of crumpled dollar bills and change. One overcast Saturday, I stopped to listen then several others stopped, Eric smiling at me as if I'd brought him luck. I couldn't keep my eyes off his right hand, the metal fingerpicks on every finger pulling off intricate figures, like a spider spinning a web. The tune over, the tiny audience applauded just as grey clouds gave way to bright sunshine.
"Eric, you made the sun come out," I said.
He took off his guitar. "Want to play one?"
"Well, I don't know, I--"
A friendly woman in a big lavender hat nudged me. "Oh c'mon, play one."
As Eric didn't have a flat pick, I had to play trad song "Nancy Whisky" with a fingernail. The woman in the lavender hat tossed a dollar into the guitar case. The tune over, Eric took a dollar from the case and handed it to me. "I believe this one's yours," he said in his booming baritone. "Have you ever considered playing the street full time?"
"Well, I don't know, maybe someday I'll try it."
Some months after that airy moment, all street performers were officially relegated to the subway. Eric's new spot was the subway stop below bustling Davis Square, his attire still the same, like a painting. His claim to "cutting the rent" via his unusual occupation seemed to hold some water as more prominent buskers such as Jerry, Mare Streetpeople and Flathead made out alright, blindman Jerry playing trustworthy '60's oldies on his portable keyboard, Mare playing gigs as well, Flathead's comical patter somehow successful on the street though more apt for the stage.
But this troubadour triumvirate now plied their trade elsewhere, apparently discouraged by the subway edict.
I scheduled a showing with Eric Scarlatti, he and his two housemates residing in Somerville near Tufts University, just a few blocks away from my old place. I arrived early as I'd had no trouble finding the dark brown two-decker house, Eric answering the front door in a bathrobe. "My God, you're early, you should've called to give me a heads up."
"Sorry, I forgot to charge my phone."
"Well, c'mon in for the fifty-cent tour."
I followed him to the second floor, a nice apartment, mainstay Eric's bedroom the biggest, the available room small but acceptable, our last stop the kitchen. Eric made us some instant coffee. "You might know my housemates," he said. "They're both musicians. John Henley was doing sound at The Backstreet Café. His band The Air Apparent recently broke up, so he moved to LA. David Michaud is more a singer-songwriter. For a while, he was going by the name Mona Lisa's Lover."
"Oh yeah, I saw David once at an open mic, he wasn't bad."
"Yes, but I should warn you, he's got a bit of a drinking problem. I'm AA, what about you?" "I'm not AA, but cut down a long time ago, you know, a glass or two of wine after work. Listen, David doesn't get violent or anything, does he? I mean when he's drunk."
Eric sipped the last of his coffee. "No, not at all, he just passes out." He got up, went over to the narrow pantry where he picked up two empty half-gallon jugs of Smirnoff. "He went through these in one week."
"Jesus, Eric, I don't know. Now I'm having second thoughts."
He rushed back to the coffee table, his eyes dilated, his hands gesticulating wildly. "No, no, don't be so easily discouraged! Like I said, he's harmless, harmless, you have my word on that."
"Huh, Well, David seemed okay at that open mic."
Eric resumed his seat, let out a deep sigh. "Really Jim, David just gets very silly when he's drunk, very giggly then he passes out."
"Whatever, I'll take your word for it." As a rule, folkies are honest, so I trusted Eric. "Now who do I make out the check to?"
"To the landlord Manny Soto, S-o-t-o. Manny and Rachel live right downstairs with their three- year old son. He used to play Harvard Square back in the day, big John Lennon fan."
"Yeah, I do remember Manny, skinny dude with glasses, right? I heard him play 'Imagine'."
Again, Eric turned excitable. "Yes, yes, that's Manny. Now, now, you just give Manny the first month's rent, and make out a separate check to me for the security deposit."
With the separate checks procedure not unusual for an apartment share, I said, "Okay, and I take it the security is also a month's rent?"
Eric nodded affirmatively, raising his empty coffee cup to his lips.
Shortly before the move, I lucked into a full-time desk job that looked promising, a development that offset Eric's curious excitability, a side of him that was new to me. Also new was his alcoholism. But should things get too weird, I could always move out as I wasn't on a lease.
I had trouble jamming with Eric. Like famed fingerpicker Martin Carthy, he couldn't strum. To boot, Eric didn't know any songs outside his British trad repertoire, not even Dylan songs, though he had a Dylan story: "You know, I was stationed in Hong Kong in my Navy days. They all loved Dylan there, he got tons of airplay, but his records were so hard to find there, hardly anybody had ever seen a picture of him. Sometimes when I was on liberty, I played The Royal Serpent for drinks. The owner offered me a real gig but put a lot of pressure on me to draw." Eric laughed excitably for a minute or so. "So, I posted a bunch of flyers all over town with my picture on them, announcing Bob Dylan's upcoming gig at The Royal Serpent, and it went great, just great!"
"Incredible," I said sincerely, as the story was obviously bullshit, however harmless. "Say, Eric, where is David Michaud? I've been here over a week and have yet to see him."
He stared into space, playing his guitar softly. "Oh, oh, don't worry, you'll see him soon enough, he sleeps over at his girlfriend's a lot, yes, yes, that's where he's been."
I shot Eric a worried look, and he looked down at the floor, an awkward moment, both of us speechless. Simultaneously, someone in our hallway struggled with a house key, giggling. "Shit, I'll get it this time!" "Speak of the devil," said Eric, and in walked David Michaud, long stringy hair, denims, pointy boots. He didn't seem at all drunk, rather stoned silly on weed, he and Eric exchanging steely glances, not a word between them.
"Jim, David," said Eric, packing up his axe, fleeing to his room, shutting the door behind him.
"I remember you from The Backstreet, Jim," said David. "Got any gigs coming up?"
"Just one, a warm-up slot at Club Namaste. How about you?"
"Right now, nothing," he giggled. "I feel like a drink, how about you? Would you like a vodka n' tonic?"
Much to David's disappointment, I had but one drink with him. He could really put it away, alright, but as promised didn't turn violent, and still didn't seem drunk.
Except for the chill-in-the-air every time my housemates were in the same room, things went okay for the next two weeks. Then a note from Manny turned up, taped to my door: "Hi Jim, you have been here almost a month and we still don't have your security deposit. If there is a problem, please call me at 555-592-3434. Manny." Just home from work, I freaked out, stomped to Eric's room, his door open, no one there. Two pairs of leggings on a little clothesline, a bunch of porn videos scattered on his queen-size bed. "SHIT SHIT SHIT!" I yelled, pacing around the living room like a caged animal.
David came out of his room. "Hey what's up? What happened?"
"That phony bastard Eric pocketed my security deposit, that's what!"
"Oh well, welcome to the club. You sound like you could use a drink."
"No thank you. Hey, just how did you handle his scam, David?"
He looked down at the floor. "I didn't. I let it go and coughed up another check."
"What? Dude, it wasn't your fault, it was fucking Manny's fault, letting that nut run the show." "You sure you don't want a drink?"
"I said, no thanks." I took four deep breaths. "I'll go talk with Manny tomorrow after work."
I called Manny from work the next morning and we agreed to meet at 7:00 PM. Though I had enough time to change into jeans, I thought it best to leave on my business attire. After work, I hit the South Station bar. Over a glass of Red Diamond merlot, I decided to take on a somber tone with Manny when reporting Eric rather than rant and rave over the "phony bastard." Then I'd tell Manny I shouldn't be held liable for the security deposit that I'd given Eric in good faith.
Rachel answered the door. "Hi, I'm Jim." "Yes, hello, c'mon in." Their little boy in a playpen by the TV, Manny was on the couch lazily strumming his guitar. "Hi there Manny," I said. "I remember you from Harvard Square." Rachel sat down next to him. He was even skinnier than David.
"Hi," he said. "I hope this meeting will be short, I thought maybe we could play a little bit."
"Manny, it will only take a minute," I said then laid the rap on them.
It was Rachel who responded first. "Oh my God, we've had trouble with Eric, on and off, for the last two years, but never anything like this."
Shaking his head back in forth, Manny sighed as he put down his guitar. "He's just not cutting it anymore playing the street. These days, I don't know who is. I told him he should try giving guitar lessons, but he insists on playing the street."
Rachel folded her arms, her expression stern. "He's always behind. It used to be two weeks behind, now it's going on two months."
The feeling in-the-air was that I was off the hook.
Manny: "Don't worry about the deposit, Jim, I'll drop by tomorrow night and talk to Eric."
Rachel touched his arm. "Let me handle it, honey."
"Phew," I wiped invisible sweat from my brow. "What a relief."
"Cool," said Manny. "Now let's play."
Though not as adept a guitarist as Eric, he knew more tunes.
The following evening, I walked in on Rachel confronting Eric in the kitchen. While they stood and talked, I sat down at the dropleaf table and ate take-out Chinese.
"What did you do with the money, Eric?"
"I invested it, that's right, invested it, in a CD."
"What? A CD? You're putting out a CD of your music with stolen money?"
"Stolen? Hey, I didn't steal, I, I invested it, not in that kind of CD, I meant a Certificate of Deposit, and I can't withdraw it now, no I can't, I'll lose the interest, you see it has to grow, it has to, has to mature..."
Rachel gave Eric two months to catch up. He failed. His hair now snow-white, he left town.