NYC. 4/22, 10:45 PM. Thank goodness for the right subway busker at the right time.
I left work tonight after my computer shut itself down at 9:10. I'm swamped with forecast requests and if that hadn't happened I might have stayed much later. As it was, I decided the shutdown was my computer's way of saying "Go home, you have other stuffs to do tonight" (which I do -- more on that before much longer).
I left the office feeling just plain jangled.
I walked to the Broadway-Lafayette subway station. I swiped my card, pushed on through the turnstile, and as I headed for the stairs down to the platform, I heard the mellow notes of a sweetly-played trombone curling up the stairs to meet me.
My shoulders immediately began to descend from the level where they'd been hovering tensely, somewhere around the lower line of my jaw.
My train didn't come for I don't know how long.
I don't know how long because with this gentlemusician pouring popular standards of the 30's and 40's into the air of the platform, it didn't matter that much. I leaned against a pillar and I leaned into the music and I let it massage the day's cares away. I applauded and donated (of couse - the musician is worthy of his hire).
A few tunes later, the B train finally clattered into the station. I threw a last dollar in the basket and then stepped on board.
The bell chimed and doors closed on the chorus of "Dream A Little Dream of Me" and the train pulled out of the station, leaving the musician and his gleaming trombone behind, but the music followed me all the way home.