Dear Diary:
In my two years of commuting on the F train from Essex Street to my office, there has been one constant â€" the man with the guitar and pan flute.
Despite boarding the train at 10 a.m., well after the rush, I would notice that his case never had more than a few singles and some change in it. It was also quite obvious that his repertory barely stretched past the Eagles’ “Hotel California,†along with a few other Eagles classics.
Whether for his sake or that of my fellow straphangers, I bought him a book of simple rock guitar riffs.
Two months passed and nothing came of it. Then in March, as I walked down the steps, I not only heard the Beatles (pan flute edition), but also noticed that his guitar case was far more full than usual.
He winked at me. I smiled.
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