Last Wednesday at Central station I was enchanted by a young man, dressed head to toe in 1960s style, with a battered guitar slung over his shoulder. A paisley shirt was tucked into loon pants, that clung to his buttocks and legs. His boots tapped an easy rhythm against the platform.
No one glanced his way. Commuters scurried past, eyes glued to screens. He stood still, rooted by some unseen tether, and watched a train swing in.
When it came to a halt, doors hushing open, he simply hummed – a catchy tune I’d adored since childhood and I felt time stretch. He neither boarded nor moved; he simply waited.
I told my friend Roland. Drama queen that he is, he leaned in, voice hushed, and told me about a busker in 1967 who jumped onto the tracks. He was singing Daydream Believer at the time.
Police gathered his guitar, its neck snapped in two. No one could identify him — no ID, no next of kin, just a ghost of a melody left hanging in the station air.
I pictured that broken guitar, its wood splintered like fractured memory. The next day, the young man stood in the same spot. His guitar case looked newer, somehow unscarred. He lifted his head, met my glance for a heartbeat, then vanished as the train doors closed.
Now I wonder: was he the busker’s restless spirit, or simply a stranger caught between decades? Roland says if I see him again, I should ask him.
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Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 