The guitar player up on the little stage was very good. Too good to be in a run down restaurant with dim lights, and some unidentifiable funky smell coming from the bathrooms.
The artist ought to have been playing guitar in New York, for a slew of fancy folks in tuxes and weird hairstyles. I felt his pain. He was an artist, stuck in a little cafe with ugly decor, warm beer, and fried oyster po’ boys stuffed so full that you needed a letter of permission from your doctor to eat them.
“Do you know anything classical?” I asked throwing a dollar bill into the galvanized bucket.
“Sure,” he said confidently. “I know a lot of classical pieces, but it’ll cost you a lot more than a dollar to hear one dude.”
“Okay, great,” I chuckled, digging my wallet back out. “What about some Bach?”
I tossed another dollar in the bucket.
“Sorry. Bach will cost you a lot more than that.”
“Are you serious?” I pulled out a five dollar bill, and dropped it in the bucket.
“Sorry,” he shook his head. “The father of modern western music will cost you at least a twenty.”
I shoved my wallet in my pocket, and curled my lip up to show my canines, “Just play whatever the hell seven dollars will buy me.”
He started playing, “You Can’t Always Get What You Want.”