Overheard in Atlanta

From my balcony I observe some interesting things. Sure, the view is amazing. Looking down at the streets you can see the bums wandering around, sauntering back and forth in bitter rage. At night you can hear them singing, fighting, and snoring?

Right now they're yelling. I'm sitting out here, and a young punk is causing a riot. Six are within sight, mostly older men. By the volume of their voices and the swagger in their walk I'd say two of themare wildly intoxicated. The young guy has a packpack on; he slurs rapidly and walks withan artificial limp; the "street-hardened thug walk." He doesn't belong out here.

My friend Mitch is usually down there, but I know he's nowhere around. He wouldn't get mixed up with those guys anyhow. But if he were around I'd know right away; I'd be able to hear him. Mitch is the neighborhood street performer. On the corner of Ponce and Peachtree he plays the trumpet until late into the night. The yelling has ceased; now only the cars are audible. An occasional horn, siren, the wind.

Mitch plays dutifully, skipping rapidly from tune to tune. He'll never plays a song as it was written - each time he plays it a little different. Mitch will tell you that he just plays whats on his heart, which means changing the rendition. But I suspect he'd have trouble playing a peice perfectly - without changing a few notes. But who cares if he hits every note? He plays with a lively vivacity of soul that is encouraging, and entertaing.

Even talking to Mitch is enjoyable. If you walk by and say hi, he'll play anything you like. He'll never point or look at his money jar. But instead he talks about the music. He rarely talks about his situation; though I've been able to draw it out a few times. He loves the music - he could probably teach a class on jazz, or the blues...