Not too long along, Ellen would have been happy to spend a simple summer day wandering the streets of Harvard Square, with just her wallet, cool cotton clothes, and a comfortable pair of shoes. Even without the wallet she could have had a pleasant day looking at all the people, the fresh faced college students, the camera-clicking tourists, and the grunge-influenced psuedo-hippies who had replaced the eighties punk-haired loiterers. And it can be said that if you left out her clothes in addition to the wallet, and promised her no one would notice, she would have still had a good time. But the sidewalks were too hot to go barefoot on. And Ellen also preferred to have a barrette to pull her long hair back, off of her neck, so as to get the full advantage of any breeze that happened by. However, it doesn't matter exactly what she was wearing. Just that she was happy. Or used to be.
This one summer day, when the sun was close to falling behind the construction site of yet another mid-rise shopping plaza, Ellen passed by a street musician performing in front of the bookstore that discounted its hard-cover books, which was across the street from the bookstore that discounted its paperback books, which sat next to a stationery store that had just lowered its price on paper clips. Ellen rarely stopped to watch street musicians, perhaps only when a large crowd had gathered, promising an exciting act, albeit an obstructed view. This time there was no crowd, and the young woman strumming an acoustic guitar didn't appear to be particularly original. But there was something intriguing about her. She was a singer, not a bad one at all, and, from the looks of her swiftly shifting fingers, she was a proficient guitarist as well. Her cutoff halter shirt was made out of a pink gingham fabric and her almost white blue jeans were rubbed off at the knees. As she sang, she continuously rolled her right foot slightly to its side and back, like a small girl fidgeting in patent leather shoes, only her feet were clad in scuffed Keds sneakers. What struck Ellen, what made her stop in her tracks, was the pure and innocent tone of this singer's voice. It was high and sweet, childlike, but with a sustained tone of maturity. Her fingers flew delicately over the six strings, weaving a web of sound that wound itself around the innocent voice and lifted it up, above the store signs, quieting their dismal 15% off announcements. Ellen listened first without hearing the lyrics, drawn to the call of the intricate sounds. Slowly she began to hear and comprehend the words that were coming forth.
"'For here or to go?' all that really means is 'on a tray or in a bag?'. Isn't it really more than that?"
The young artist made the lyrics, worldly as they were, enchanting with an otherworldly lilt. The sun, bleaching Ellen's hair to a wheaten hue, lost a third of itself behind the building under construction.
"We call to arms and arrogance. But when we pray we call on chance. Is that all we can depend on anymore?"
People streamed by, carrying a myriad of shopping bags which announced where they had been: the Gap, Urban Outfitters, GapKids, Tower Records, the Coop, CVS. And still, Ellen listened to the singer who had a childlike air and a childlike voice, but who softly forced sophistication into words of ear-numbing power.
"No one cried at eight fifteen, but black rain fell in steady streams. I yelled for war. I cried for peace. But still it rains. It rains on still."
Ellen was moved by the words, but her deepest emotions ebbed into tears at the sweetness of the voice that formed them.
"We have all forgotten. But that does not mean that we are forgiven. And I hope we never are."
A minivan screeched to a violent halt behind Ellen. Unaware, she did not move. She was bound in a tight tunnel of sound that stretched ahead of her to the resounding guitar. People were screaming in hysterics all around her; the driver of the minivan had almost struck a seven year old boy. The child lay on the painted crosswalk, unconscious, in a breathless sleep, as oblivious to the chaos around him as Ellen was. The air snapped with the intensity of a lightning storm, and the singer sang on with a sharply contrasting softness.
"My mother cried when her son died, but she only sighed when I left as a bride. Who does life depend on anyway?"
LIFE. Ellen's entire body snapped around. She sensed instantly what had happened behind her and parted the frantic crowd.
"Are you a doctor?" someone asked.
"No, I am -- I was a medical student," she replied. And she knew exactly what to do from an instinct sharpened by two years of EMT training. She worked quickly, checking his breathing, checking his pulse. The music rose and thundered in her head and she could not shake it out. Noticing a bag of sourballs on the ground nearby, she began the procedure for an obstructed airway. Under her steady fingertips the boy's pulse beat weakly. Only her mind was shaking, reeling from a high-pitched melody.
"Who are they to tell me what to do? I lived my life as they wanted me to. But that was never enough for them, or anyone."
The boy began coughing fitfully as Ellen removed a round green candy from his mouth. The crowd gave a collective sigh that was drowned out in the wail of an approaching ambulance. Ellen waited for the medical team to pack the child into a protective sheath before she turned around, back to the music. A few witnesses grabbed her arms to tell her how wonderful she had been, but she could only hear the singing. As she pushed through the crowd in front of her, and broke free, hoping to see the guitar and feel the voice, there was a muffled snap in the air. It was as if someone had snuffed out a candle of sound. The singer was gone.
People dispersed as the ambulance pulled away, red and blue lights flashing. Ellen looked frantically for a fleeing shape with a guitar, but saw nothing in the crowd. She sat down on a concrete bench, staring into the window of the bookstore that discounted its hard-cover books. After such a life affirming action, how could she feel so unfulfilled? Her unhappiness welled up around the pocket of sound that still resonated within her body. It was as if her soul was at work digesting what it had heard and seen. In a quiet struggle, the drudgery of the mundane world and the realities of promises made to everyone except herself succumbed to the beauty of the voice that had left behind a small legacy of hope. After a few minutes, Ellen suddenly noticed what she had been staring at. Without effort, she got up and walked into the bookstore. She had a few books to buy. And it didn't matter which bookstore she bought them at, because neither one discounted textbooks. And, she thought, after she was done with that purchase, she would head over to the stationery store. Because a student can never have too many paper clips. For such a utilitarian item, a paper clip was so elegantly and perfectly useful. It was a small beauty; she smiled to herself at the thought of it.
The skeleton of the unfinished building finally consumed the remainder of the sun. And a cooling breeze brought a melody, whistling lightly from down the street.
"We can try trusting chance when fate is not blind. But to direct our fate is a choice of the mind. And isn't that how we should live our lives, anyway?"