Nov. 1, 12:54 p.m.
N Train – 8th Street to 7th Avenue
“What the hell am I doing here…I don’t belong here.”
That’s what the man wearing all black is singing. He ain’t Thom Yorke, but he ain’t bad. He’s more toffee than espresso, but his shirt and jeans are black as night. He’s about 25, but an older guy’s handling the Radiohead tune on an acoustic guitar. He’s also in black, from the waist up at least.
“Here Comes The Sun” is next, though there’s no sun down here and no sun in the forecast for tomorrow. “Come here,” he begs a shy girl standing and singing a few feet away. She blushes and turns. “Awww you’re so talented.” A Q train interrupts the chorus. There’s a saxophone playing somewhere, out of view. It seems to be playing that one song from Cinderella.
The guitarist’s got two Gatorade bottles, one empty, the other half full with orange electrolytes. There’s a backpack on the ground, but no hat or tin or bucket for donations. He’s hit a Beatles kick: he takes the bridge from “All You Need Is Love” straight into “Back in the USSR.” His toffee friend sings the chorus, but doesn’t seem to know the verse. They have a medley worked out for “Please Please Me.”
On the N train, there isn’t any music.