Penny's Song--Chapter Two: Greenwich Village

Penny stepped off the subway train at West Fourth Street, smiling, hands shaking, her heart beating quickly. Being underground made her a little claustrophobic, but everyone else seemed unaffected, whizzing by, minding their own business. Penny felt like a rock star escaping overzealous fans grabbing at her. She took a deep breath, nearly gagging at the awful smell of feces and wine. She received some relief from a swath of air created by a passing train.

Everything was so expanse, active, and fast! There was so much to take in: hippies wearing floral clothing strolling and singing; businessmen striding quickly to some destination where they'd no doubt conduct business. She stopped on the platform to watch a saxophonist execute a sad, soft, familiar tune, harmonizing with a train's whistle and ending it just as another train hissed to a stop across the platform.

"Now for Coltrane," the sax player cooed. Wearing an Indian-inspired tunic, he sported long, light brown hair, a full beard, and sideburns; he advertised the scent of patchouli and vanilla married to Old Spice. His moody melody created the opposite effect in Penny, who suddenly felt blissfully inspired, as if something great was in her path. Music had always affected her positively. She'd miss the church choir. But not Father Duncan.

She and the sax player exchanged a nod and a smile as she cast some coins in a box at his sandaled feet; his notes blended in accord with the passing train's whistle.

A man in a torso-confining three-piece navy leisure suit bumped into her. "Get outa my way," he snorted. Penny watched him pinball into a flower seller, who held out a rose.

"Flower for a token?" he pleaded.

"Get a job," replied leisure suit before chasing a train with doors closing to a tone syncopated offbeat with the tantric sax chords. He spat out a curse, removing the briefcase with which he'd attempted to keep the doors open. The speeding train sounded a melancholy alert about traveling south to Spring Street.

Noticing four different staircases, Penny approached a handsome white-haired, safe looking woman. "Excuse me, where's the exit to West Fourth Street?" The woman pointed with an arthritic index finger to a ramp and steps. Penny heard the haunting bellow of an oncoming train and pressed down her floppy straw hat that the tunnel wind nearly stole. She emerged into the July heat that felt like an open oven, ready to embrace a Thanksgiving turkey.

Ethnic foods and patchouli aromas wafted her way. Nice individually; collectively they made her even more ill than the subway smells. Traffic, sirens, construction, squeaky brakes, and protester sounds attacked her ears. The colorful peace marchers wore flowered tiaras, their smiles a welcome contrast to the life she'd left behind. Her eyes wide, gaping, she instantly felt the vivid, lively, and energetic street atmosphere. She'd fit in with the fellow creatives.

Home was nothing like this; it was bleak, dreary, and boring. Penny's desire to pursue music or writing, perhaps even songwriting, had brought her here. Greenwich Village was a place she'd researched that was famous for the arts, filled with love and kindness; hopefully it also was a place where she could raise her baby in peace. And under fifty miles from home, perhaps she could visit her family when the dust settled.

"Excuse me, where's Washington Square Park?" Penny asked a mailman who swerved to avoid an elderly couple, their hands pressed against their ears as "Piece of My Heart" by Janis Joplin played piercingly on a passing radio.

He had the appearance of an exasperated worker who dreamed of retirement that couldn't come soon enough. He stopped, appearing to enjoy the break. "Take the crosswalk here, then the next street up that way."

As she tried crossing the avenue, a group of men holding posters trotted past, chanting, "Out of the closets and into the streets! Out of the closets and into the streets!" Gay rights protestors. Penny weaved in and out of the small crowd, some of the protesters letting her past, and some oblivious to her, stepping on her sore feet.

She heard someone whistle from across the avenue. "Yeah! Whoo! Out of the closet!" Penny was captivated by the unique character of a man who was holding up a fist in solidarity with the protestors. He was clad in fluorescent lime green bell-bottoms, a bold vest, and a lipstick pink golf cap. He strode quickly like a soldier on a mission, fashioning a flamboyant blur against the steel grey surroundings.

He had a guitar strapped around his chest and what appeared to be a small keyboard under his arm. On his feet were the tallest platforms she'd ever seen that made her feet pound just looking at them. He turned around to greet someone. Quickly scanning his cheerful face, she gasped for air. Had she met him before? Her heart skipped a beat or two like a novice drummer. Her hands were clammy, and she couldn't distinguish whether it was her pregnancy, or something else. Before her mind could properly register him, he waved to his acquaintance and charged away, around the corner, out of sight.

She could hear live music clashing incongruously with the nearby church bell signaling the noon hour. Penny tracked the tunes like she was tailing a pied piper. Approaching Washington Square Park, she passed men playing chess; they were startled as a group of squealing juveniles ran past.

Penny recognized the fountain she'd seen in photos; its flowing, cool streams meshed well with the flippant jazz chords. The pop, rock, and blues musical swells blended like an unlikely milkshake featuring fruit, vanilla, and spinach – fun, fragrant and good for you. An acapella Beatles tribute group reminded her of the St. Joseph's Church choir she had loved all her life. Penny smiled, recalling Abigail. She'd be getting home in an hour or so, to get the news. A tear streamed down her face, sticky from humidity.

The crash of a trash can lid doubling as a cymbal snapped her out of her funk. It was the pink-capped guy she'd seen marching up the avenue! He stood around five foot seven. He had a heart-shaped face and a perfect angular nose. His head was tilted to one side, and he flashed a smile that seemed to say, "I've got a secret. Come hither, and I may let you discover it." He sported haphazard facial stubble which revealed either laziness or lack of time, and it hid what appeared to be newborn-smooth skin.

Crafted chest muscles were visible through his tight shirt, a sexy contrast to his slight belly, which might perhaps be a sign of poor eating habits or an over-indulgent nature. She admired his well-defined thighs, an obvious sign of some athleticism, visible under tight pants. His frizzy buttery-brown faded hair appeared affected by the 95-in-the-shade temperature and possibly damaged by a bad dye experience; it might be beautiful if left to its own natural devices.

His outfit looked like a little girl's closet had thrown up over it, but it somehow worked on him. The colors meshed with his bright and positive energy, fashioning inspiration rather than embarrassment. His eyebrows, like giant caterpillars, attacked his eyes, partially obscured by his immense, embellished star-shaped emerald sunglasses.

"Wake up, Washington Square Park fans!" He set the trash can lid down, waving the mallet. "Welcome to the fountain, everyone. Thanks for having me. I see some familiar faces and some new ones." Ah, he's British. He looked in her direction. Penny thought for a second he spotted her, but turning around, she saw people waving to him.

He strummed his battered acoustic guitar that sported grooves as deep as an octogenarian's face. "This fucking thing is so out of tune. Oops, sorry," he said. A battery-operated keyboard sat in front of him on a flimsy homemade stand, waiting patiently for a turn when the guitar took a break. The musician hammered its black and whites with a solid purpose. The performer produced a harmonious lasso, capturing his fans with great musical intensity, condition of his instruments be damned.

Penny was instantly mesmerized, mystified by his style and his honeyed, breathy style and funny but angry tunes. He performed covers of some of her favorites, along with possible original melodies. His kind countenance revealed youth paired with wisdom. This inviting stranger appeared to possess only his instruments, a certain magnetism, charm, and as her French teacher would say, a "je ne sais quoi". Her back was achy, and her heart raced; she placed her bags on the ground, leaning against the Garibaldi statue. Was it her body's response to the new life inside her, or her heart's way of signaling something, or someone, captivating?

"Isn't he wild?" a woman wearing a string of flowers around her braided sandy blonde head commented, swinging her body in a seizure-like move, the park's answer to France's Arche de Triomphe her backdrop.

"So far out," added her male partner. "He's the guy who feeds the homeless."

"Really? Yeah, he seems outasight," Penny answered. It was nice talking to polite strangers.

Pink cap guy danced, prancing into the fountain while giggling like a mischievous schoolboy. Penny was tempted to dance but she hesitated, though everyone around her was moving and grooving. Though happy to be where she was, she felt self-conscious, so small among the crowd.

Stepping out and shaking off Golden Retriever style, the performer announced, "The next tune is an original of mine, dedicated to my flatmate and musical partner in crime. It's called 'Shogun'." He signaled the intro with a heavy ironic honky-tonk.

"Gone, so gone, from the world he knew. The land called Japan," he sang.

"From Shogun to shotgun, he traversed so far, so far so good."

He sang as though delivering a lullaby. But with the snap of a finger, his song turned a charming sleazy sexy.

After a musical interlude, he continued:

"Sushi, not for me. Pizza in my flat is where it's at."

The crowd chuckled; Penny giggled. If he didn't sing dulcet angel-like notes and play so adeptly, he might be mistaken for a street clown with warlock abilities, weaving a spell over the growing crowd. A man across the park was chasing someone, barking his wallet had been stolen, but he received no assistance. She clutched her belongings closer.

"You like that song?" The crowd hollered. "Glad you don't think it's rubbish," he said, chuckling.

The crowd was spellbound by this small figure of a man with a mammoth musical presence who plucked selectively chosen strings, accompanying his vocals like a well-suited longtime couple. Penny could swear their eyes met. She smiled.

"Jump back in! Jump back in!" the crowd chanted.

He laughed, looking over his shoulder. Several police officers headed in his direction.

"I'd be off my trolley," he said. "But you guys are worth it." He stepped in, his clothes gripping his body, revealing those well-toned pectoral muscles. Penny shook in her Keds, embarrassed about undressing him with her eyes. He splashed some of the children who followed him in. They responded in kind, squealing gleefully.

His feet squeaked as he moved. "My shoes are filled with water now."

"You have only yourself to blame!" shouted a man, clapping and laughing.

The musician stopped in his tracks, pushing back his sopping hair. He held out his arms, then beckoned with his finger curling slowly, seductively. Penny again looked back, but no one was behind her this time. She pointed to her chest mouthing, "Me?" and he nodded. As she approached him, he took her hand, urging her to join him.

"Watch her stuff, please," he said to a woman standing near her. Penny stepped forward slowly, but once in the fountain, she didn't recall climbing in, as if in a dream. What if he sees this gap between my front teeth? He'll hate my frizzy hair, I know it. Oh, gosh, my top. And my ugly sneakers. Is he going to wonder about my belly?

"See? Easy peasy. You don't need goggles to swim in this fountain," he said with a snicker. Electricity coursed between them as they clutched hands, and judging by the "Oh, gosh, the grocery bill is more than I expected" surprised appearance on his face, perhaps he did as well. She felt callouses on his otherwise smooth fingers. "Sorry," he said as though reading her mind. "Occupational hazard," he whispered in her ear, twirling her in a mock Lindy Hop. His voice was like an angel's summoning birds to grasp wings and form a tiara on his head.

Seeing him up close, she confirmed he was indeed handsome, but not in your typical Robert Redford fashion; he was good-looking in a modern, anti-Nixon, pro-love, run-through-the-streets-naked, rock singer way. Probably early twenties. Just her type. He removed his sunglasses. Penny peered into his eyes, the most unusual pale green shade she'd ever seen; they held the promise of springtime like the sprouting March crocuses back home. And they almost matched his fluorescent bell-bottoms. He sang as if speaking to her, gluing his stare to hers like a fly trap grabbing its prey. She experienced a craving, but not for food. Was it the baby again, or this enticing magical musician?

"Do you like Washington Square Park?" he asked, twirling her.

She nodded. "Very much so."

"You're very beautiful."

She blushed.

He said something else, but she couldn't hear him. "What?"

He spoke more loudly, but she shook her head, smiling. "Still can't hear you over the noise."

"Like a porcelain doll." He paused. "I can tell you're a gentle soul, like a fragile flower that needs tending," he whispered in her ear.

"Okay, I heard you that time," she smiled. She certainly was fragile in many ways, but somehow, near him, she felt special, stronger, like she could accomplish many things.

He's nice, but I don't know him; he's still a stranger. Should I be doing this? What would my parents say if they knew? He was so friendly and lively, with confidence that could fill an auditorium, a smile so bright, as he held her hands tightly, appearing not to want to release them. As she tried liberating his grip, he tugged more tightly. Penny blushed, giddy, like a pre-teen who'd just experienced her first kiss. He hummed a tune in her ear ever so hauntingly sensually. The song spoke to her and her alone. She was unaccustomed to this. He flashed her a crooked smile. Shivers went up and down her spine. She wanted so badly to kiss those erotic lips.

What's happening to me?

"I just adore your lovely red hair," he said. "I can tell it's natural. You don't find that much anymore."

What magic did he weave, convincing this self-effacing suburban teen to dance in a fountain with a stranger? For one thing, his smile could melt the biggest igloo. Plus, he was warm and gentle, like he'd be the first to help the baby sparrow, fallen from a tree.

"I think you've ruined your shoes," she told him.

"I've already bodged them once," he said. "Tried fixing them, badly, that is."

"You might need a new pair."

"Already have five pairs, luv."

After a few minutes that seemed like a year, she managed to slide her hands off his, slipping out of the fountain as people clapped and whistled; she retreated to her belongings to remove a cloth from her bag. "Thank you," she said to the woman who watched over your bags.

"You're welcome. I see him here every day. Brave gal. And lucky."

Why am I lucky, Penny wondered? More importantly, why am I brave?

He popped back out, releasing a boisterous laugh and skipping, flailing his arms. He walked up to her. "Thank you for joining me," he said to Penny, squeezing her arm. "For the dance."

The crowd whooped and hollered with delight, mostly for him but clearly, some for Penny. He wiped the hair out of his eyes and chuckled with jubilation.

He returned to his spot to play. This beguiling virtuoso played his tunes with a twist that revealed his likely classical training and adoration for jazz, and obvious high-level creativity only possible when training and art mesh. His voice could be uplifting and lively or solemn and sleepy. His range was amazing, going from baritone G to tenor G in one fell swoop, so sweet like molasses yet gruff like a spurned lover. Money dropped into his bucket like a heavy rainstorm, filling it during just one song; the compensation so well deserved for his intriguing, moving, and enthralling music.

He finished his song with a grand gesture, waving his hand in the air as if painting the sky. He placed the guitar on its stand and removed his cap to bow, his long hair spilling out as the crowd roared. "Thank you. Thank you very much. I'm gonna need a bigger bucket," he said, emptying the money into his guitar case, stuffing some into his pocket.

"You're gonna need bigger pockets, too," an onlooker shouted.

"Ah, yes! My man there is correct. Brilliant." He laughed and tossed a rubber ball into the audience, some groaning as if they thought it was a hard ball, or perhaps upset they didn't catch it. A man tossed it back to him and he caught it without even looking. "Whoo! I'm so cheeky. I'm Randy. Thanks for coming and listening. And for putting up with me need to cool off." He cackled and wiped his face with a cloth. "It's fucking hot today. Oh, there I go again; sorry. Anyone from the FCC out there?" he giggled. Three people, all with long, brown hair and elephant-bell jeans, approached him; they seemed to know him.

The woman who'd watched Penny's bags walked up to her. "He's so funny. He's a standup guy. Might be hard to tell in a city full of suspicious types." Penny admired the multi-colored braids in her hair. "He's so cool, just down to earth, and different from most."

"How?" Penny asked.

"Robbie's not just a musician. He watches out for us. Last week he chased down a mugger."

"It's Randy. Did he catch the mugger?" Penny asked.

"Oh, he caught him all right. And he took the wallet back for the guy and chastised the thief." The woman laughed. "He was like, 'Get the fuck away, scum,'" she said with a fake British accent. She tittered. "That mugger's probably out there finding a different line of work now."

"Oh, wow," Penny said.

"And then he gave the mugger ten bucks of his own," she added.

"Are you joking?" Penny asked.

"Just who he is. Probably how Jesus was, you know?"

Jesus?

"No kidding."

"I know he seems so wild and crazy, but he's a sweetheart," she added. "Very sensing, intuitive." She placed a hand on Penny's shoulder. "Sometimes it's like he's some sort of healer. He's where it's at."

"Wow. He sounds nice," Penny said.

"And he's very talented, not to mention fuckin' sexy," the woman added with a sigh.

Like a sexy Jesus? Penny blushed. "Is he a friend of yours?"

"Not yet," she said with a smile.

Penny noticed her fluorescent high heels. "I like your shoes."

"Thanks."

"Flat sandals and sneakers are all I can manage, especially with frequently swollen feet." She paused. "I felt awkward enough before, you know?" Now, carrying around an extra 15 pounds, she envisioned herself unattractive.

"But you'll be a great mom. I just know it," she said squeezing Penny's hand. "Well, I gotta get to work. Bye."

"Bye," Penny said. She was very sweet; someone she might want to befriend.

Randy finished talking with the group of people with whom he'd been chatting. "Hey, I've got my first gig at The Singing Siren next Friday," he announced to the crowd. "There's no cover, so even you cheap folks can attend." He laughed.

"We love you, Randy!" shouted a man. "Whoo-hoo!"

"Thanks. Here's your tenner." Randy jokingly waved a ten-dollar bill in the air before sliding it back in his pants pocket.

Penny studied the other performers — dancers, acrobats, jugglers, poets, comedians, and musicians. But none could hold a candle to this guy, his sense of humor and knack for entertaining. Not to mention his ability to get her to partake in an action so out of character for her. If she were writing an article about him, she'd use a description like "ebullient, bigger than life, charismatic, and full of everything." Why am I picturing him lying in bed unclothed, his hand resting on his cheek, and the other hand beckoning me? Is it my hormones? No one else elicited these feelings in her, though.

She daydreamed and continued taking in the scenery and the mass of people; he made his way through the crowd, singing acapella and laughing, clapping.

"Groovy tunic," said a passing man, smiling and nodding at her.

"Thanks." Where is Randy? Oh, no. I've lost him.

She turned, pleased to hear her new acquaintance singing and spotting his whereabouts as he gallivanted, encouraging the observers to clap along.

Penny tried to approach him when suddenly a small group of protesters paraded in front of her.

"One, two, three, four! What are we fighting for? Peace, not war! Love, not war!" they chanted. "Nixon must go!"

"Peace, man," a slight but sinewy and toothy man said to Penny, hopscotching toward her flashing a peace sign. "Love, not war!" he called out as her pace quickened.

She pirouetted out of his way, bumping into another group, who was singing, "Hare Krishna, Hare Krishna, Hare Hare!" They clanged tambourines, castanets, and other percussion instruments at a deafening level as they brushed by Penny. "Hare Krishna, Hare Hare," the group continued chanting as they floated by some people who jeered, "Get a job! Join the Army, you bums!" The Hare Krishna people sped by them. Some of them were barefoot, other wore ballet slippers, which glided across the pavement, as if in time with the pace of the quickening music. Penny stared at them. They were dressed even more colorfully than her new musician acquaintance.

Wait, now where was he? Oh, no. He's gone. Why did she worry she might never see him again? But then she heard his unmistakable voice. Her heart raced. Thank goodness. There he was. It was like he also was adept at doing disappearing tricks.

He made his way back to the fountain, the crowd tailing him.

"I was following the peace crowd. Peace always triumphs over hate. Spread the word! I'm Randy. I got a couple more original tunes for you before I take a break," he shouted, noticing a trio of police officers wander into the park. "The police aren't always kind. Of course, it helps if you avoid jumping in the fountain."

"Don't worry. They're not after you." a woman called out.

He chuckled. "The man hassles us. 'Are you licensed to perform?' they ask. But I'm only licensed to make you smile," he cooed. "This one's called 'The Unknown Woman'."

"She ran away, far away, from the world she knew too well. She wanted a new life, a new life, no strife. Running away from what she knew," he began, strumming his guitar in minor chords, also plucking along at the keys. "What she knew was blue. A world unkind and untrue."

How appropriate, Penny thought. Her inhibitions faded like bleached fabric as she began to sway in the wind. She suddenly felt shy again and looked around, but no one seemed to notice her at all. I'm in the right place, she thought, physically and mentally.

The song's genre was unrecognizable at first; it was born as a pop tune and was elevated into jazz. Amazing he could pull this off with just his voice, guitar, and occasionally, a poor-quality keyboard, Penny thought.

Penny was entranced by the man before her, who created musical surprises and bore only good will in his manner. She sighed loudly, blushing. The woman next to her glanced at her with a smile. Did she share the sentiment? This guy probably had scores of women waiting for him all over town. Was she transparent, or able to hide her elation? It needed disguising as it could make a seasoned whore blush.

But it wasn't just physical—there was an emotional connection. Was this what spiritual sorts considered communicating with another's soul? Because that's what it felt like. She could sense a new and peculiar feeling inside her, keeping her baby company.

She urged her coiled tresses away from her eyes. She thought Randy glanced her way, but she turned around and saw two women waving at him. Sadly, he'd already forgotten me. Why was this important to her, when her priority was to seek an apartment and a job?

Everyone clapped along as Randy encouraged. So charismatic and appealing! The song was upbeat and not at all what she'd anticipated. It culminated with the girl finding love and happiness in her new town and returning to her old one to show off.

Not exactly what she was expecting for herself, but okay, nonetheless.

He gazed her way, removed his sunglasses, and nodded, smiling. Penny waved at him. Relieved, she beamed from ear to ear. He had noticed her! Now she had to figure out a way to engage him in another conversation…if she could pin him down. Could she get over her shyness again, or would she clam up? She walked toward him, her knees shaking. He walked her way. What would she say to him? Turns out, she didn't have to worry, as he walked right past her.