Any D.C. regular will tell you that crowds in the city are a nightmare, especially around holidays. Even minor ones like Presidents day brought gatherings large enough to pack the sidewalks for hours. Choking I half ran half walked through an especially rough patch of metro riders, desperate to get on my train before it left for Shady Grove on the red line. My short stature made it impossible to see the time posted, nor could I make out any of the incoming trains lighting up the message boards. Shouts and cries of families and friends entering and departing the metro station clashed with the ever present strums of street performers and broken suitcase wheels.

  Ducking under a couple mid hug I finally reached the edge of the platform, just in time to say goodbye to my ride home as it disappeared with a cold whoosh into the dark tunnel. The round lights under my boots flashed mockingly at me, alerting the other passengers that their own trains would soon arrive to take them to warm beds and welcome arms. Sighing in defeat I traced my steps back to the center of the platform where there were benches for people to sit, I would be waiting at least a half hour till the next train came for me. My only luggage was a ukulele case so I made it easily through the more heavily burdened pack, hopping over small children and avoiding the ever so dangerous lost tourist. I fell rather than found my seat, tripping over a poorly set floor tile and my own too big combat boots I was lucky enough to catch the bench instead of the hard ground.

  Finally able to relax without having to worry about being crushed I rubbed my temples with small hands, the edges of my handmade fingerless gloves tickling my red cheeks. The sounds of people fell away and random intercom announcements faded as I droned them all out, they were a mere buzz in the back of my head.

  “Twang!”

  The noise made me grimace in actual pain, no amount of meditation could eliminate such an awfully played note. Looking to my left I saw only half awake passengers who had also missed their train, no one held an instrument. Another note clawed its way up my back and forced me to jump in my seat. Swinging my head I came face to face with the culprit, who seemed unaware of his crimes against my auditory nerve.

  His guitar was altogether too large for him, his hands while bigger than mine could hardly wrap themselves around either end of his instrument and with how harshly his fingers yanked at the strings I doubted he knew much about proper tuning. The boy himself wasn’t much older than me, sitting cross legged with a beat up red solo cup in front of him his uncut hair had been pulled back in a hair tie, one of those disgusting male fashion trends which had unfortunately stuck for longer than necessary. Finding myself staring I wondered if it would be rude of me to simply hit him over the head with his guitar and save us all the misery of having to listen to him figure out how to play. Indeed he didn’t look to be the type who could pick anything up quickly, his face was scrunched up in concentration and I had to stifle a laugh when his grip became so tight it backfired and he lost hold of his instrument. Covering my mouth so he wouldn’t see me smile I felt a small, almost indiscernible thrum of pity resonate inside of me. His cup was empty except for a few bits of change and by the lack of audience around him I doubted his earnings would increase very much. I had nothing better to do, sitting here avoiding the more gum riddled side of the bench waiting for a train. Shrugging I unzipped my case and pulled out a black ukulele, already tuned from playing it at my dad’s house that afternoon it shined in the cheap lights overhead. Stroking the painted wood lovingly I looped the case strap around my waist in a makeshift belt and walked over to where the boy was sitting. His tongue stuck just slightly out of mouth adorably while his fingers roughly tapped and plucked in vain. Settling down next to him with my legs crossed I smiled in amusement, he still hadn’t noticed his neighbor his attention was so entirely captivated.

   Shaking my head I expertly positioned my calloused fingers against the strings, the familiar feeling of warmth spreading from my chest to my toes as I started to play. I hadn’t really thought of anything in particular, but I had heard a song recently on television that I really liked and somehow it wormed its way not only into my fingers but also my voice.

  “I don’t know my name, and I don’t play by the rules of the game,

  So you say I’m just trying,

  Just trying….”

  He wasn’t the only one to look up, a few others might have stopped in front of me as I played but I was already lost in my own head. Colors brighter than a preschool classroom filled my head and I grinned, my eyes shut and head swaying gently up and down with the jolting tempo of Grace Vanderwaal as I continued to sing louder, and louder,

  “So I heard you are my sister’s friend

  You get along quite nicely.

  You ask me why I cut my hair and changed myself completely.”

 
The tinkle of coins, some heavy some light joined my playing as people began to listen and drop change into the solo cup. I could hear nothing but my own music, shivers running up my arms with each stroke and my smile could be heard within the fast paced lyrics. I tried to keep it slow to enjoy and savor the echoes of melodies I was making but my own eagerness got the better of me. Sensing the next line I forced myself to pause for effect, near feeling the breath of my audience hitch.

   “I am lost…

  Trying to get found

  In an ocean of people

Please don’t ask me any,..questions there won’t be a valid answer

I’ll just say that,”

Has anyone ever felt so alive as when they created music? The warmth spreading over and within your body as it is shared with so many others, excitement electrifying your hands that brought the notes to life before people’s eyes. I now remembered why this song had stuck with me, it was perfect. It was complete nonsense and yet it made you laugh and smile, as music should always do. The lights over us seemed to almost glow brighter and transform into stage lights,

  “That I don’t know my name

  I don’t play by the rules of the game

  So you say I’m just trying

  Just trying,

I went from bland and popular to joining the marching band

I made the closest friends I’ll ever have in my lifetime.”

Images flashed in my head, my own school, my own friends, photos from years ago that still pulled at my heartstrings like I pulled so firmly against my ukulele. My voice faded softly and I let the silence hang, deepening the lyrics and allowing them to sink into my listeners as it had so easily done to me. Returning my voice and playing was softer, just loud enough to be heard over the everyday bustle of life in the city,

  “I am lost…

  Trying to get found

  In an ocean of people,”

  Grinning I threw back my head and called,

  “I now know my name!

   I don’t play by the rules of the game

  So you say, I’m not trying

But I’m trying to find my way.”

   A final encore from my small instrument completed the song, opening my eyes fully for the first time since I had sat down I saw my audience had already moved on, trains and other interests had pulled them from my voice maybe even before I had ended. I might have been upset had it not been for the overflowing cup of money in front of me and the enthusiastic clapping from Mr. guitar next to me.