The marathon begins

In a new attempt to keep the blog alive, Kesvick and I have agreed to run a story marathon: we will take turns to continue writing a story, each of us writing from the perspective of a different character.

What's best about this plan? Anyone can join in any time, simply by adding a new character and expanding the story from his/her point of view. You can make any links with existing characters (e.g. "I am your father!"), however short or unpredictable. The more the merrier, people.

And so... it begins. Kesvick, your turn!

______

Nick

"Is there nothing cheaper?"
I looked at the price tag on the old Yamaha keyboard, wishing that the old man would say it was a mistake and shift the decimal point. He didn't.
"I'm afraid this one's the only second-hand that's decent. Any cheaper," The shopkeeper pointed at a pink plastic keyboard fit for a toddler and chuckled heartily. "You'd be looking at a toy!"

I can't afford anything but toys at the moment, I thought, trying to picture myself busking at the corner of a busy street on a Sunday morning with this 1.5 octave mini keyboard. Oh, how did I end up even considering this.

It shouldn't be like this. It should never have been like this. I didn't plan to busk alone - never confident enough to feel comfortable under the scrutinizing eyes of strangers - and for years I didn't have to. But people change, circumstances change, and I guess plans must change accordingly.

After moving into this town I'd spent days convincing myself that I should continue busking, that I can just take the keyboard out on the streets and sing on my own, that if I earn some additional income I'll be able to afford guilty pleasures like that extra coffee or occasional cocktail. The first evening didn't turn out great - as a newcomer I hadn't discovered the best spots to perform, and reputation had to be built from scratch. I'd stopped, demotivated, after only an hour. Having just packed up to leave, a group of youths hit my head with a beer bottle and ran off with the keyboard; in a heartbeat they took away my income, my inspiration, and my past. All of which, as I'm now learning the hard way, cannot be replaced.

"I can't help you, son. You should know that keyboards all cost this much."
"I know, I used to have one."
"Used to? What happened to it?"
"I got robbed."
"Sorry to hear that," he said, with a kind, pitying glance I was quick to avoid. "No wonder you looked so down."
"Y'know what, forget it. What's the cheapest instrument you have?"
The old man lifted an eyebrow. "A recorder?"
I couldn't help laughing. "You must be kidding."
"No kidding, it's even cheaper than a triangle."
"No one plays the recorder after they're 10."
"Harmonica?"
I sighed. "Is there something I can play while singing?"
"Ah, you didn't say you could sing," he turned and picked up one of the guitars lined up against the wall. "This one's been used for a long time, but I'll change the strings and tune it for you, and you'll be fine."
A guitar? "But I don't play-"
"It's still music, not rocket science. You play the keyboard, don't you? You'll find it easy." He placed the guitar in my hands. "Fingers will hurt for a bit, though."
 The price was one-fifth of the cheapest keyboard. It was either this, or no music in the near future.
"I'll take it."
The shopkeeper smiled. "That's the spirit, boy. Now you can start over, yes?"

Start over, familiar words returning to haunt me. Sure, I'll start over. What's gone is gone. I'll just have to learn this thing, and take up some part-time work somewhere before I'm good enough to perform in public and expect to be paid for it. No big deal. A new environment, a new instrument, a new job, a new life.

"Yeah. I'll start over."