.
.
.
When I first saw him, I groaned in frustration that I would have to pass by the homeless man standing outside of Savon Drugs.
As I grew closer to the automatic doors and to this man wearing tattered slacks and tennis shoes gray from dirt and grime, I could not help but take notice to the sounds he made. Beautiful sounds. Sounds that no doubt came from years of classical training.
The man did not stand in front of the store begging. He did not have a sign. He did not have a bucket.
Instead, he played a violin.
The condition of the violin and its case were in dramatic contrast to the condition of the man's attire. I had no doubt that this man took great concern in caring for his violin... likely his livelihood.
This was not to say the man himself appeared unkept. Yes, his shoes were dirty. Yes, the bottoms of his pants were tattered and a bit ravelled. But he obviously tried. His shirt was neatly tucked. His beard trimmed. His hands clean.
As I walked through the aisles of Savon in search of simple things like shampoo and a writing pen, I couldn't help but consider the man still playing outside the store.
I imagined he was probably once a promising top violin student... the pride of his instructor. Maybe he attended college on scholarship where he honed his craft. Perhaps he played in the pit for Friday night show performances. Did he compete? Did he earn 3rd chair in regional? Was he in a band?
And the biggest thing I considered - why was he now playing outside Savon in the cold night air?
Did he have family? Friends? Anyone who could have taken him in when times first became tough? No one to keep him from becoming homeless? Did they offer but his pride kept him from accepting help at the time?
Pride. That one caught me and kept me thinking. I mean, even in his current state, he wasn't begging. He wasn't asking for a dollar. He had no sign saying he was a US Vet down on his luck. There was no bucket or can. He wasn't lounging next to the door.
No, he stood on his feet. He played. He held his head high. He tucked in his shirt for presentation. He meant to earn any money that came his way. The opened violin case at his feet was his only form of asking... asking that if you like his music and his performance, then feel free to say so by dropping some change.
The man had his pride... in the form of his violin, his skill, his talent.
I left the store and passed by him once more enjoying the music he played.
I don't carry cash, I thought. I just don't. It's too easy to spend. I have nothing to give you. I have nothing to...
But that's not true. Even when I don't have cash, even when my bank account is in double digits, I still have plenty. Plenty of everything I need... and then some.
I respected that man's pride. I found it honorable that he approached his situation so unlike others in LA in his condition.
I knew that there was change in the ash tray of my truck. I kept it there for parking meters. But I couldn't give him change. What would he think of me for dropping a few quarters and dimes in his violin case?
Pride.
And for a moment, my own pride kept me from knowing what he would really think. In truth, he would think I liked his music.
When I play piano, the only thing I want to hear is "sounds good." When I serve an ace on the tennis court, I just want to hear, "nice shot." When I write a funny short story, I want to hear someone laugh.
This man would be no different. He would like to have someone acknowledge his talents. And while nice words are always good, dropping some change probably speaks just as loud to say, "I like your music. Thanks for playing."
So, with $1.45 of change in my hand, I walked back towards the doors of Savon and towards this man. I dropped the change in the violin case.
"Thank you. God bless."
That's what he said.
And he continued to play.
.
.
When I first saw him, I groaned in frustration that I would have to pass by the homeless man standing outside of Savon Drugs.
As I grew closer to the automatic doors and to this man wearing tattered slacks and tennis shoes gray from dirt and grime, I could not help but take notice to the sounds he made. Beautiful sounds. Sounds that no doubt came from years of classical training.
The man did not stand in front of the store begging. He did not have a sign. He did not have a bucket.
Instead, he played a violin.
The condition of the violin and its case were in dramatic contrast to the condition of the man's attire. I had no doubt that this man took great concern in caring for his violin... likely his livelihood.
This was not to say the man himself appeared unkept. Yes, his shoes were dirty. Yes, the bottoms of his pants were tattered and a bit ravelled. But he obviously tried. His shirt was neatly tucked. His beard trimmed. His hands clean.
As I walked through the aisles of Savon in search of simple things like shampoo and a writing pen, I couldn't help but consider the man still playing outside the store.
I imagined he was probably once a promising top violin student... the pride of his instructor. Maybe he attended college on scholarship where he honed his craft. Perhaps he played in the pit for Friday night show performances. Did he compete? Did he earn 3rd chair in regional? Was he in a band?
And the biggest thing I considered - why was he now playing outside Savon in the cold night air?
Did he have family? Friends? Anyone who could have taken him in when times first became tough? No one to keep him from becoming homeless? Did they offer but his pride kept him from accepting help at the time?
Pride. That one caught me and kept me thinking. I mean, even in his current state, he wasn't begging. He wasn't asking for a dollar. He had no sign saying he was a US Vet down on his luck. There was no bucket or can. He wasn't lounging next to the door.
No, he stood on his feet. He played. He held his head high. He tucked in his shirt for presentation. He meant to earn any money that came his way. The opened violin case at his feet was his only form of asking... asking that if you like his music and his performance, then feel free to say so by dropping some change.
The man had his pride... in the form of his violin, his skill, his talent.
I left the store and passed by him once more enjoying the music he played.
I don't carry cash, I thought. I just don't. It's too easy to spend. I have nothing to give you. I have nothing to...
But that's not true. Even when I don't have cash, even when my bank account is in double digits, I still have plenty. Plenty of everything I need... and then some.
I respected that man's pride. I found it honorable that he approached his situation so unlike others in LA in his condition.
I knew that there was change in the ash tray of my truck. I kept it there for parking meters. But I couldn't give him change. What would he think of me for dropping a few quarters and dimes in his violin case?
Pride.
And for a moment, my own pride kept me from knowing what he would really think. In truth, he would think I liked his music.
When I play piano, the only thing I want to hear is "sounds good." When I serve an ace on the tennis court, I just want to hear, "nice shot." When I write a funny short story, I want to hear someone laugh.
This man would be no different. He would like to have someone acknowledge his talents. And while nice words are always good, dropping some change probably speaks just as loud to say, "I like your music. Thanks for playing."
So, with $1.45 of change in my hand, I walked back towards the doors of Savon and towards this man. I dropped the change in the violin case.
"Thank you. God bless."
That's what he said.
And he continued to play.
posted by Doris @ 1:15 PM
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