Spare Changing

“Kirabo?”

He blinked awake. For a moment, he felt out of place. Chalky walls reflected white light from a cold glass window. The sound of city leaked through its translucent charm, even from several stories high, and the smell of brewing coffee seemed to soften the keen edges of a modern, greyscale design. A heartening, feminine voice greets him through a cracked door.

“There’s some coffee out here for you. Just the way you like it.”

Then, just as quick as she was there, she was gone.

Calloused fingers tried to wipe away the tired from a dark face. It was the face of a boy, turning into a man. He felt the floor pressing into the back of his sweatpants like ice, and the stiffness of the dresser he was leaning up against was contagious, leaking through his t-shirt into his shoulders. Papers littered his bedroom in organized chaos, and his guitar was resting at his side.

They loved it, his music. They mentioned it to be revolutionary, dynamic, influential, and “emotionally rousing”.

Except, it was made from a hollow place.

He leaned forward and carefully gathered his papers, organizing them cerebrally. A skilled hand snatched his guitar and adjusted the tuning ever so slightly, before placing it in its nearby case. He jumped to his feet, reached into his pocket, and pulled out his cell phone.

0818.

Today was the day, and he was running behind.

He had never changed so fast in his life. From derelict to decent, he shed his dreary comfort and left the room well groomed, boasting a bright yellow collared shirt tucked into his favorite pair of jeans. In one hand, he had his guitar case, and in the other, a small briefcase filled with his compositions.

He approached his favorite person as she tucked away some clean dishes from the dishwasher. She was tall, pale skinned, and short, light brown hair bordered kind blue eyes hiding behind the rims of scholarly glasses. Her sleeves were rolled up. She flung a hand towel over her shoulder.

“Aren’t you a ray of sunshine.” She chirped lightheartedly. “I’m glad you like that shirt. Here’s your fuel.”

She dropped a canister down boldly in front of him as he approached. Kirabo set down his things and gave her a big hug. If only he could explain, but somehow, he never had to.

“Whoa!” She chuckled. “Where did that come from?” She pat his back. “You’ll do great, kiddo. I’d say good luck, but somehow, even with the worst luck in the world, you’ve already changed it for the better.”

He pulled away, and through a cheeky smile, signed to her something along the lines of, “You ain't seen nothing yet.”

“Damn straight!” She grinned and grabbed his hand in a brotherly embrace. “It’d be crazy to see what you’d accomplish if karma actually paid you your dues. Go get 'em!”

The interaction was just a moment. When he looked back from the front door, his heart pressed against his ribs and his lungs ached, but his only voice was locked away in his hardcase.

He always wanted a sister.

He shut the door carefully behind him, coffee in one hand, briefcase tucked under an elbow, and his instrument hovering beside him in his other hand like an extension of his arm. A dark hallway led him past a pair of elevators to a dim stairwell. Descension was but a blink of time.

Kirabo busted out into the street, breathing in the sooty, exhausted air with a shaky wheeze. His lungs never fully recovered from the fire. Perhaps part of him wanted to use the stairs to remember what he came from, but that was the artist in him: finding a way to hide behind his fears with a justifiable, admirable delusion.

Cars yelled. Brakes cried. People honked.

Perhaps his brain didn’t process that quite right, but after only two years in contemporary living, he liked to think he was doing fine.

0842.

He started down the street. He passed the bus stop, looking back and watching people bustle into the tube-on-wheels with all their things.

“Wait!”

A strange, loud voice, and just as he looked forward, an indiscernible man smashed through him to get to the bus. He felt hot coffee burn spots into his yellow shirt, and the container exploded open into the sidewalk. His briefcase was sent flying to the ground, and as he reached for it, he felt a sharp, twisting pain in the wrist holding his guitar case. A heavy shove sent him to his knees. Weightlessness, as his arms were instantaneously unburdened.

He wanted to yell, but nothing came out. Kirabo stumbled towards his briefcase and grabbed it with shaky hands, watching a guilty man peek through a bus window, and his guitar disappear into a distant alleyway. He jumped to his feet with his compositions pressed against his chest, grabbed his topless coffee mug, and took off. His legs pounded angrily against asphalt in pursuit.

Cars honked. Brakes cried. People yelled.

He got it right this time.

A scowl turned his features dangerous. Each alleyway he saw a glimpse of his thief. His chest burned and his lungs screamed for air. A big, blue M sent panic coursing through his body, and with every ounce of energy he had left, he sent out a throbbing roar, tearing down the escalator into the metro station like a loose bull. He saw him. Just a few steps ahead.

Always, just a few steps ahead.

Kirabo pulled out his wallet, fumbling for his card to push through the Metro gates, a furious, grumbling public accosting him in the background. A beep, and then a green light. It was a forgotten moment in time, adrenaline sending him tearing through the station.

Kirabo watched the train close its doors and lurch forward. He ran towards it, smacking on it’s metal sides. Inside, the thief waved a taunting goodbye. A handful of people pulled him away from the moving train.

His heart dropped. He fell into a crouch, then a sit.

0852.

Ten minutes is all it took to upheave a life. The thief gave him the slip. There were a few concerned citizens, but Kirabo brushed them off with a downtrodden leer as he pulled himself to his feet and limped his way back out of the metro, squeezing through the gates.

While he was retracing his steps, a soft thrumming pulled his attention. Song echoed off of the tunnel’s walls up ahead, and a spark of hope sent him pushing frantically ahead through the more peaceful, lingering office workers with spare time and spare change.

Through the mixed attire of supportive bodies, he saw a guitar. Not his guitar. It was beautiful, rich and resonating. The singer belted out music that strummed heartstrings. He listened carefully from the sidelines. People passed by, coming and going, but Kirabo stayed with wet eyes. He slumped up against the chilly stone. He cradled his briefcase and fingers clung his coffee mug loosely.

His eyes shut.

He heard a cling that startled him awake.

Then, the music stopped.

“Go find your own spot, kid.”

An angry voice growls through a jealous grimace. The guitarist shook a dissatisfied hand at him. Kirabo looked into his mug to find some quarters, his sponsor already disappearing into the public masses. He rose to his feet and faced the musician, dumping the quarters somberly into his open case. The guitarist’s frown softened into confusion.

“What’s your problem?”

Kirabo looked at his phone.

0905.

He dropped to his knees before the musician and ruffled through his compositions, grasping for a pen and an empty sheet of paper. He scribbled hurriedly, hot shame burning through his cheeks.

Audition

10AM

No Guitar

Mine Stolen

He held it up with shaky hands, pointing at it with a pen.

“Yeah, right!” The man faltered, watching Kirabo melt. “This,” He held up his guitar. It was gorgeous, pristine, and Kirabo wanted to sob. “This is my life. The only way I’d give this up is if someone pried it from my cold, dead hands.”

Kirabo ruffled through his pockets, dropping his phone, wallet, and everything but the key to the apartment into the man’s case. He fell to his knees, looking up at the musician, who glared down at him disdainfully. Kirabo scrawled more.

In big letters:

Please?

“Tell you what.” The guitarist pulled the guitar off of his back, strap hanging loosely. “If you get a crowd, I’ll consider.”

The stranger offered his guitar modestly.

For a moment, Kirabo wondered if he could outrun the man like his thief did to him, but a fond spark in the musician’s eyes as he handed off his instrument froze Kirabo’s feet to the ground. He shuffled his papers down against the wall and respectfully grabbed the guitar. His throat tightened as he secured the strap around his shoulders.

His wrist still ached from when the thief twisted his guitar out of his grasp, but Kirabo lived off of second chances. He rolled up his coffee spattered sleeves, and a small smile escaped while he re-tuned the guitar, slightly sharp.

“Maybe you do know what you’re doing.” The guitarist spoke through a grin, crossing his arms.

Kirabo glanced his way and faced him, people in passing stealing looks curiously. A soft thrumming to start. The sound reached deep. Where his music came from, Kirabo did not know. Perhaps the moment. Perhaps an emotion. Perhaps his release of emotion in that moment, because what he felt when playing, was peace.

People began accumulating, and it didn’t take long for the flashing of phones to capture a glimpse of Kirabo’s story. At the ending notes, the musician grabbed him in a cheerful embrace. He accepted it, and a small crowd of commuters clap, a glint of cheer in their morning drear.

“Get out of here, kid.” He spoke through a heartbroken laugh, closing his guitar case filled with spare change and the contents of Kirabo’s pockets. He handed Kirabo his phone back and shook a finger. “Don’t try to steal it. I’m coming for it.”

0915.

A pat on the back and a rush of adrenaline sent Kirabo rushing up to the streets. His trip was a blur. The audition was a blur. The trip home was a blur. The stairwell, all the way up to the apartment, was a blur. The guitar never left his hands. He felt the chilled metal of the door handle, and after a moment of fatigued content, he pushed the door open.

When he walked in, he felt a steely, academic gaze from behind the screen of a laptop. She looked back down and continued typing, the ghost of a smile on her lips.

“Someone brought something by for you. It’s in your room.”

Kirabo walked by, opened his door, and then shut it behind him. He turned slowly, and a familiar hardcase caught his eye. He set the guitar on his bed, and knelt down. He clicked the case open, and inside it was Kirabo’s things. He looks through his wallet. Nothing was taken.

A small piece of paper was floating among the humble treasures.

It read:

Thank you for a piece of your story. We’d love to know more. P.S. Keep the guitar. The musician was appropriately compensated, after he collected his wages of course.

A phone number was written on the back. Kirabo leaned back against his bedroom wall and closed his eyes with a smile.

Cold, dead hands, huh? He thought fondly. Liar.