He was sitting alone, with his dreadlocks, long pony tail, plaid, and cropped jeans. Hiking boots with wool socks too. And, the accordion. In a newly gated off area, he was at the centre; a stage was off to the side, signifying the evening's main attraction was to come.
But he, so solitary and typically grunge-accordionist, gave the whole place its atmosphere:
The square was almost austere in the posed-ness of it all, with the mix of many hipster-types, post-work day 9 to 5'ers, moms, hippies, old men... All frozen, quizzical, critical, lost in thought, enjoying the day and the moment. The music wasn't happy - it was somewhat rough, in fact - and neither was the sky. It was all very muted, enjoyed, and... too nice. The young, cool people were smoking and pensive. They couldn't be bothered to smile, but I think that's the way they like it sometimes. A grandma got up with her grandson and tried to dance with him, but it didn't last.
The shame was that I saw no one drop money in the accordionist's case, even though they were all staring at him. Maybe they were afraid to walk into the centre of the ring and be observed, or too busy exhaling ribbons of smoke.
As I left and dropped some change, I was rewarded with the most genuine of smiles. The air felt happier as credence was given to the moment's maker.
