The saxophone player at the commuter train station is playing something French. This large man, with a big nose, layers of unwashed clothes and a white beanie on this giant head. He is all volume this man. He has put the black case I always see a meter in front of him. I throw some coins in there sometimes, “thank you very much” he always says with a giant smile. Not sure if I do it for pity, because I like the music, or because I like the feeling of being someone that is giving something. Perhaps it is of less importance.
Sometimes when I see him he is not playing but trying to keep his fingers warm. He is always leaning against a steel barrack used for some kind of construction. He is always smiling; perhaps he has participated in a sales course, perhaps he knows all about how to greet customers? Although to be honest he does not look like a man who sees us, the tired and stressed morning travelers, as customers. But since I have not asked I cannot know.
The sun is shining today and I am late. I changed my pants and lost all my coins. He is playing French music and I walk past as I do every day. I’m all ideas but no conversation as I silently gaze out the window.