The Lonely Girl

This morning, the New York City skyline is painted several different shades of grey. Partly because the weather is overcast and cloudy, and partly because there’s so much goddamn pollution. That’s what you get when you live in a big city, though. I blame Corporate America. Then again, I blame Corporate America for everything.

It’s days like today when I really miss the sun. I mean really miss it, like I get depressed and all that. That’s a real condition. Some people’s moods are impacted by the weather so badly it can cause clinical issues like depression. Crazy, right? Anyway, I miss the sun. I used to live in Laguna Beach, California. When I was young, my mother told me that Laguna was where the sun was born. You’d believe it, too. Even when we set the clocks back, it still stays sunny out until six thirty.

I left Laguna when I was eighteen. I can’t decide whether my choice to leave was the best decision I’ve ever made or the worst. Regardless, I left. I don’t have the money to go back either, even if I wanted to. The reason I left is because my father wanted me to go the University of Southern California and major in economics so that I could work with him at “the Company” one day. My father’s the CEO of an insurance company, and I rather stick needles in my eyes than sit in a classroom for four years only to take a spot at a goddamn insurance company and work there until I drop dead. I told my father exactly that the day I graduated. He didn’t believe me at first. Actually, he only believed me when I spent all my graduation money on a plane ticket to New York.

My passion was, is, and always will be music. My mother forced me to take piano lessons from the time I was seven to fifteen. I got good at it, as you may assume. I liked piano a lot for a seven-year-old, and when I found out there were other instruments to play, I begged my mom for lessons in those, too. My mother liked this idea- she thought I was becoming quite the cultured young musician. I learned to play the drums, the saxophone, and the cello. I had voice lessons, too. I even taught myself to play a harmonica. Oh yeah, and I learned guitar, which is my favorite. I think that if there is a God, He created me just to play a guitar. On my days here in the city, my Gibson is the only thing that keeps me going. If it were a girl, she’d be my soul mate. That’s how much I love that guitar.

Ironically, my parents bought me that Gibson as a graduation present. When they saw that I was gone and that I had taken all my clothes and my guitar with me, they knew something was going on. Unfortunately, I am not a very good planner, and I forgot to clear my flight confirmation on the family iMac’s internet history. Dad found me in New York shortly after I had gotten there. He tried to force me to come home. I’m not exaggerating; he literally attempted to pick me up and drag me out of the hotel I was staying.
We got into a big fight out on the street. I screamed that I hated him and he screamed it back. He was disgusted that I was throwing my future away for something as trivial as music. I was disgusted at the fact that he thought just because he fathered me, I was supposed to be his carbon copy. It ended on bad terms: me giving my extremely strict father the finger, and him cutting me off permanently. I didn’t want his money and I still don’t today. I’m just fine here in the Big Apple. I play my guitar for the lost souls that attempt to navigate this concrete jungle. I entertain the masses. I know all the best pizza places and I give the best directions. My fans love me.

I’m only kidding, but it’s important to stay positive. I ran out of money about a month after my dad left me in New York. I couldn’t afford a hotel anymore. I have no skills for a job with a decent income, and plus, I don’t want to have to leave my guitar anywhere where hobos can get their grimy hands on it. It’s way too valuable. I’m sure you’re thinking, “Why doesn’t he just sell it?” Selling it would get me a nice two thousand, if I’m lucky. However, selling it would like be selling my soul. I will die with that guitar. I can’t afford a funeral, but I’d like to be buried with ole’ Gib.

Today, I am on the corner of fifth, a place where the New York “people traffic,” as I like to call it, is dense. I leave my guitar case open in front of me, just like all the other musicians you see playing on the streets, and I sing songs. I’m good, too. Really good. The economy’s hurting, though, and people in New York aren’t the kindest to begin with. I thank anyone decent enough to throw some coins in. Occasionally I get the big spender, a nice tourist who throws in a five. Once, someone gave me a twenty. I was so grateful. I wrote a song for him.

Of course, the Corporates don’t stop and tip me. You see, Corporates, especially the hardcore ones, tend to stand out of the crowd. Their Dolce and Gabana suits are freshly steamed, their overpriced shoes are polished, and their briefcases are monogrammed and filled to capacity. They are almost always yelling into an iPhone or typing on a Blackberry, and are generally bald, wrinkly, old, white men. A lot of them don’t even bother to look at me, and the ones who do glare and sneer. It’s funny, too, because the Corporates are the ones who have money to burn. This, my dear friends, is why I rebel against Corporate America. Seeing those people everyday reminds me exactly why I left home. I would hate myself if I had become one of them.

I mostly play my original songs, but I do covers upon request. Sometimes some giggly female tourists ask me to sing them “Happy Birthday.” I gladly oblige. They always throw in a five. Sometimes they’ll flirt with me and ask me why such a “good-looking” guy is singing on the streets. I always reply with, “Good looks can’t get you everywhere,” because it’s true. The people need to know this. One time, a girl told me that I should be playing at Madison Square Garden. That was pretty flattering. I’m not sure if she liked my voice as much as she liked my face, but I appreciated the complement all the same.

One of my biggest hits is the “Homeless Shelter Blues.” Yes, I live in a homeless shelter. I don’t have the money for an apartment. Sure I save some of the money I earn. Most of it goes straight to Lombardi’s Pizza because as much as I appreciate the kindness, the soup kitchen is pretty rough on the stomach. There are some great characters at the shelter, though, and they make for good stories and even better songs. The “Homeless Shelter Blues” is a pretty entertaining song. A good amount of people stop and listen. They always laugh at my silly lyrics, and my funny songs are the top grossing, but I write serious music, too. I wrote a pretty emotional song about my dad.

I’m playing that song today. I strum a few chords and start out singing quietly, then as my lyrics get angrier, I do, too. This one usually scares a few people, but on this lugubrious day (I may be homeless but I did take the SAT), my people seem to be really receptive to it. I get a couple fives, which is nice. It’s about nine o’clock now, and most of the people are at work, so the sidewalk’s not as crowded. As I sing, I watch the stragglers walk by- delivery boys with piles of papers in the baskets attached to their old bicycles, enthusiastic tourists snapping blurry photos left and right, and heavily made-up trophy wives with a shopping problem and their husbands’ black cards burning holes in their pockets. One girl, however, catches my eye.
She’s young, probably early twenties, and she’s dressed like a Corporate- black blazer, pinstripe pencil skirt, and shiny “appropriately high” high heels. They look like Prada’s. My mother had a pair of Prada’s. Her hair is slicked back into a very professional looking ponytail and her perfectly plucked eyebrows are furrowed as she blabs into what looks like a $200 cell phone. She stops at the corner, waiting with the rest of the passersby for the “safe to walk” sign to show. She ends her call and sighs, throwing it back into her leather purse, also Prada. I sing a little louder, hoping to capture her attention. I do, and she turns around, an interested look playing on her face. She moves closer to me and the walk sign comes on, but she ignores it. She stares at me and I stare back at her, playing my song. She stays until the end and when I finish, she smiles, and reaches into her purse and pulls out a hundred. Needless to say, I’m shocked.
“Miss, that’s very kind of you, but-”
“It’s a drop in the bucket for me,” She says, placing the bill into my case. She doesn’t sound pompous or condescending. She’s just telling the truth. “That’s a great song. Is it original?”
“It is,” I smile. “I’m glad you liked it.”
“Is it about your father?” She asks, studying my face.
I’m surprised. “Yeah…is it that obvious?”
“It’s not obvious, but I feel the same way about my dad, so I guess I just sort of…got it,” She shrugs. “He wasn’t around a lot when I was growing up and when he was he would just harp on me about school and stuff. It was very stressful.”
“I know the feeling well.”
She grins. “You know, I don’t normally do this so don’t think I’m weird-”
“I’m a hobo on the street serenading the public,” I say. “There’s no way I’m going to think you’re weird.”
“Okay, then. I’d really like to have coffee with you sometime. I just have this feeling you have a great story to tell.”
I’m floored by this comment. I accept her invitation and agree to meet her at a small French café down the street at three o’clock. The rest of the morning I play my songs with a stupid smile on my face. I don’t even think about the lyrics- all I can think about is that girl’s beautiful face, anxiously waiting for three o’clock.
At two-forty-five I walk into the café and the first thing I notice is the menu, which is expensive. I sigh. Even though I was raised by a couple of lunatics, they did raise me to be a gentleman. The gentleman always pays, even when the woman is the one who invited him. I sit down at a table and ten minutes later, the girl walks in. She smiles when she sees me, and settles into the chair across from me.
“What would you like?” She asks, glancing at the menu. “The chai latte here is great.”
“I love chai,” I respond. I have no idea what a chai latte is.
I remove twenty dollars in fives from the pocket of my dingy pants. God, I really should have changed. She sees my money and begins to shake her head vigorously. “Please. This is on me.”
“Hey, you’re a lady. It is my job to pay,” I smile.
She doesn’t fight me on it, seeing that I’m not going to allow her to buy me one of those chai thingies. A waitress comes and takes our order- two large chais- and walks off. We turn to each other and smile.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t actually catch your name earlier,” She says.
“My name’s Stephen,” I reply. “But, you can call me Steve.”
“Well, Steve,” She smiles, folding her hands. “I’m Natalie.”
“Pretty name.”
The waitress brings us our coffees, if chai is even a type of coffee, which I think it is. We both take a sip at the same time. As I’m drinking this newfangled chai concoction, I notice a diamond finger on her hand. It’s on her left hand. It’s an engagement ring. This is disappointing, even though I knew I would never have a chance with her, me being homeless and her being a Corporate and all. At least she’s a decent Corporate. She’s the first decent Corporate I’ve met. I honestly think she could break the Corporate stereo type if she put her mind to it- that’s how highly I think of her, and I’ve only known her a few hours.
“So,” I say. “Where do you work?”
“I’m vice president of Tinseltown Productions,” She responds evenly. “It’s a television producing company.”
“That sounds pretty cool,” I say honestly.
“It pays the bills,” She sips her chai. “I think being a traveling guitar player is much more interesting, to be honest.”
“It’s definitely interesting, I’ll give it that.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, how did you get started with all of this?”
“I left home when I was eighteen because I wanted to be a musician in the city. My dad wanted me to a businessman but…it’s just not for me.”
She nods like she understands exactly what I’m talking about. “So, you left when you were eighteen. How old are you now?”
“Twenty-three.”
Her eyes widen. “You’ve been at this for five years?”
I nod. This shocks her.
“That’s incredible. Kudos to you for persistence!” She exclaims.
“Yeah, well I’m sure becoming the vice president of a major company at such a young age deserves some praise as well. How old are you, if I may ask?”
She smiles. “I’m twenty-three, too. To be honest my dad owns the company and he hired me right out of college. I am very privileged. Hard work had very little to do with it.”
“I highly doubt that,” I counter.
Seeing Natalie sitting across from me now, I notice that her eyes are not actually the brown color I had seen earlier that day, but a deep, darkened blue. No, a hunter green maybe? They keep shifting colors, taking on new shades and personalities whenever her tone of voice changes. It’s gorgeous, and I can’t stop staring into them, as corny as that sounds.
“About your song,” Natalie begins. “I…it really spoke to me. From what I heard it sounds like you and I have the same exact father or something, someone who just wants you to be…well, a successful businessperson. He wants you to become a carbon copy of him, you know?”
This surprises me. “That’s exactly how I feel,” I say incredulously.
“You know, I envy you,” She sighs. “Sometimes I wish that I could just skip out on the whole corporate thing. I wish I could be free, like you. You just seemed so free singing on the sidewalk like that. It looked like so much fun.”
“It has its fair share of hardships but I strongly believe I’m happier being poor here than being rich over in California with my dad for a boss.”
She nods again. Her smile is gone, though. “I don’t think I could ever be brave enough to do that.”
“You could be,” I reach across the table and put my hand over hers, not realizing it’s the same finger with the ring.
She glances down at our hands. “I really don’t think so.” She removes her hand out from under mine.
“I-I’m sorry,” I fumble. “I, uh…I didn’t mean anything by that. I understand you’re taken.”
She examines her ring. “Yeah. I am taken.”
We leave the shop after I pay. She thanks me for the coffee and tells me that she hopes to see me again. I agree. She goes her way and I walk in the opposite direction. The irony here is not lost on me.
I can’t help but wonder what her music was. I mean, what her passion was that she gave up to take on the Corporate persona. If there was one thing I “learned” from my father, it was that all other hobbies and interests aside from work were just dead weight that you had to drop on your way up the corporate ladder. According to him, all those things do is weigh you down. I can’t disagree more. It’s your passions in life that lift you up, raise your spirits when you’re down. They protect you from the triumph of unhappiness.
I never do see Natalie the Corporate in her glossy Prada heels again. I still can’t help but feel sorry for her even now. She seemed so sad that day in the cafe, yet so resigned in her misery. I think she knew exactly what she was giving up and what she was getting. I just hope that it ends up being worth it for her in the end.
I keep the receipt from our coffee date taped in my guitar case, and I wrote a song about her. I call it “Lonely Girl,” and despite its lack of jocular lyrics, it has become my new crowd favorite. I don’t think I will ever forget Natalie and the conversation we had that day in the café, drinking chai. Every time I strum my Gibson to the tune of “Lonely Girl,” I remember her beautiful face and the look in her opalescent eyes when she realized that she wasn’t brave enough to stand up for what she wanted. Sometimes when I remember that, I feel so sad that I almost cry.
Natalie changed herself to fit the hold that her father had made for her the second she was born. She shifted, just like her eyes, into a person that she didn’t recognize when she saw her reflection in that diamond ring of hers. I hope Natalie’s happy right now, but I know better than that. She lost something that unfortunately can never be replaced once it’s too late, something I fortunately still have. It’s an awful thing to lose your dream, and even if I’ve lost everything else, I always know that my dreams are still my own.