My Brush with Busking

The cement vibrates and it sounds like another rush of lava is exploding through the train-sized tube buried deeply under my feet. Amazingly, my heartbeat persists over the geologic commotion, pushing at my ribcage like a drunk friend who insists he wants to leave the bar now and without help. It’s probably embarrassed, like the rest of my body. Even my fingers don’t want to be here; they’re growing colder and numb. I dropped the ice cube I was holding and picked my violin bow back up. I had forgotten the wise words my violin teacher had once told me: don’t hold ice cubes intermittently while playing violin. (The last part about the ice cube was a joke, as are the other lines I’ve captured in parentheses. It’s my way of trying to make you laugh while keeping my credibility. It’s genius because you’ll be both entertained and informed, knowing exactly where I’m drawing the line. See for yourself.)

I’m outside the Navy Yard-Ballpark station of Washington, D.C.’s “world-class Metrorail system,” as it’s described on the district’s official tourism website. I’ve been coming here for a couple weeks to practice violin amongst the heavily make-upped and blue blazer-clad morning commuters from this part of town. I used to be one of the 600,000 customers that take the metro each day. That’s what drew me here to practice.

I’m white-knuckling my violin into submission, giving it some mafia-style encouragement to smooth out the melody I’m playing. I’m laboring through a bluesy lick that sounds like an attractive version of a dog whining. I keep having to remind myself to smile, like I’m having fun. That’s a struggle when you’re waging war on internal humiliation while trying to focus intently on playing an instrument. I think I might be faking it pretty well today, though; at least that’s how I register the subtle smile and two seconds of eye contact from a middle-aged woman in a long, black wool coat and noisy, high-heeled shoes.

I’ve been building the courage to come to the metro by teaching myself how to play through YouTube videos. My teacher, I guess you’d call him, is an eccentric, feral-bearded, cat-obsessed guy who goes by Fiddlehed. Maybe a better way to describe him would be that he’s the kind of guy that would give himself the nickname “Fiddlehed.” I started my self-paced lessons more than a year ago, a few days before I turned 26; and…

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