Slowly, I walk down the stairs into the subway. I see a woman gently touch her lover on the arm, making him grin and wrap his arm around her waist. Beside me is a man, looking at them and shaking his head. I felt bad for the man. He did not have the confidence to openly admit his longing for a lover of his own, so he pretends to find public displays of affection uncivilized. After looking away he slowly shrugs his shoulders, frowning slightly. I take out my guitar and ask him if he wants to hear a song. He gives me a puzzled look, “shouldn’t you be in school son?” he said. His voice is hoarse, sounding like he spent most of his life yelling. I tried to make a charming grin, copying a man on the billboard advertising shampoo for men. I started playing the song “Stay True To Your School” by the Beach Boys. He laughed, “I like you kid,” he said. “You know what? A buddy of mine is in the jingle writing business and maybe he could get you a job.” I smiled for the first time in months. The musty subway station started smelling like roses. The creaking of the subway and pattering of feet became a lively rhythm. My greasy hair and tattered cloths felt like a suit. The man handed me his friends card, I wiped my hands on me jeans and shook his hand.
I begin by going north on the subway, heading to my “gig.” I arrive outside the Silver City up above the Eglinton subway station. I take out my guitar and slowly tune it. I begin to play the acoustic copy of Eric Clapton’s “Layla.” From time to time middle-aged couples drop money into my case, remembering how much they loved Eric Clapton in the 1970’s. Occasionally an eccentric teenager sings along and drops a coin in. Often I get pitiful looks from older people because of my age, and other times people refuse to make eye contact with me. On the warmest summer days when everyone is about I make minimum wage, however that is rare, and it’s during the winter months when money is most important. Although street performing is unrewarding and often people are rude to me, it is peaceful.
I look at the clock on top of the screen above me and I realize that my time is up and now I am loitering on public property. I look in my guitar case and notice some coins and a five-dollar bill. I pick up the five-dollar bill. It is crisp and it feels rewarding. I decide to save it for when I need new guitar strings. As I put it in my pocket, I feet the business card. I suddenly come to life. I bend down and gather the coins and put them into my sweatshirt pocket and I run to the nearest payphone. I feel my guitar bouncing against the side of my leg. I accidentally brush past a girl with what looked like a three hundred dollar purse. She makes a face like when someone steps in dog feces. I suddenly am aware of how I look and I am nervous about meeting a businessman. I decide that I need this opportunity. I have to give it a chance even if I don’t look ready for a job.
I put fifty cents into the payphone. A man picks up, “hello?” he says. His voice is definite and strong. Similar to what actors sounded like in the old black and white movies. “Hi,” I said, “my name is James Roland, a friend told me that you were in the jingle business and I was wondering if I could get some work.” I tried to sound confident. I took a deep breath and continued speaking. “I am free any time and I would love to meet you in person.” After a short pause, the man responded. “There is a commercial for dog food and the director wanted a classical guitar in the background. You would have to write the song though.” My heart started pounding and I shook with excitement, I tried to sound as professional as possible. “That sounds very good. When can we meet?” the man told me to go to the University of Toronto at noon tomorrow. He will meet me outside the music hall at the Edward Johnson Building.
The next day I arrive at the University. I know that I will never be able to set foot in here as a student however nothing could me unhappy today. The man takes me to a recording studio where there are three people. He shows me the clip and gives me an hour to come up with something in the background. I spend the next hour in a dark second year university classroom looking at the music less commercial. Within half an hour I bring it to life. I love what I create and am eager to show it to the producer. Once I play the audio track the producer looks impressed and says that the music makes him want to buy the dog food. I was so thrilled with how happy this man was I began to laugh at his comment. The man was impressed with how funny he was.
I was about to leave when the man asked me the question I was dreading. “Excuse me young man, but before you go, I need to see your work permit.” I was just a street performer; I don’t have a permit to work in the city. I was born and raised in Toronto however there is very little proving that I even exist. I frown at the man and tell him that I don’t have a work permit. The man was disappointed. “I’ll tell you what,” he said, “I can’t give you credit for the jingle however I will pay you two hundred dollars.” Two hundred dollars isn’t nearly the amount of money that a jingle writer should get for a song however it is illegal for the man to give me any money at all. I thank him and take the money.
I decide to spend the night in a cheap hotel, to reward myself for what I did today. I will take a shower and get a good meal. I would have one hundred and fifty dollars left. I was pleased with what I did that day and I decided I would spend the money on paying for a work permit. With that I could show the world that I can write jingles. I was about to walk up to the hotel room when a man with a hood runs up to me. He smells of alcohol and anger. He pins me to a wall with a knife. He punches me in the ribs and takes my guitar. I sit down and put my hands into my face. I will spend the money on buying a new guitar. A tear falls down my cheek and I realized that nothing would ever change.
