A New York Story: The Emperor’s new Mariachi

The Manhattan bound 7 train pulled into Queensboro Plaza, and the passengers filed routinely into a comfortably full, but not crowded, car. Just as the doors were closing, I heard the guitar player shout, “¡Ándale!” to the accordian player as they jumped onto the train from opposite doors. The passengers stared straight head, or at their smart phone screens, or turned their earbuds up as the musicians met at the front of the car. One woman never missed a word in her cell phone conversation as she moved to the opposite end of the car. ‘Just another day on the train, getting from point A to point B.  No one spoke (except the guitar player in rapid fire Spanish), but the collective consciousness of the passengers was palpable: “Don’t look at them. Don’t acknowledge them. And for God’s sake, don’t give them any money! They will go away.” I stared diagonally ahead so that I had a peripheral view, wearing my neutral New York face, secretly happy that they hadn’t brought the trumpet player along. Phew! And then the music started–gentle guitar chords, balanced with quiet accordion. (Can accordions play quietly? Apparently so.) The two men joined their voices in sweet tenor/baritone harmonies, singing a surprisingly pretty song. Still, no one in the captive audience dared to look their way or acknowledge the musicians or risk the wrath of fellow passengers. (“Just stare straight ahead and they will leave.”) The music was so sweet I had to look away to the end of the car and that was when I saw the toddler in the stroller. The little boy was mesmerized by the guitar and the accordion and the singers. His little face just lit up and I was able to enjoy the spontaneous concert through the eyes of a curly-haired cherub. I smiled at the boy, but he only had eyes for the musicians. Standing above him, the weary mom (or nanny) protectively clutched the stroller handles but couldn’t see the child’s face. As the musicians  finished their song, they made one last stroll through the car, cowboy hats outreached for tips. The musicians never glanced down at the child. (Toddles don’t usually carry cash.) The guitarist smiled and tipped his hat and the men disappeared to busk in the next train car, where they would hopefully find some Spring Break tourists to take photos and toss in a dollar. The whole thing lasted maybe three minutes and they were gone, but to me the air in the car felt lighter…whether from the music or its cessation, I don’t know. In the classic fairy tale, the Emperor’s New Clothes, only a child admits that the king is wearing nothing but his underwear. ("Seriously! Don’t you people see that the emperor is naked?”) On the noontime 7 train in New York City, only a tot in a stroller acknowledged that something truly amazing was happening. And I’m grateful to have shared that magical moment through a child’s eyes.