Chapter 17B

Before your time I guess’ the man says looking up at the sky. He pats himself down, checking each pocket upon his person and final finds, in his top shirt pocket a metal tin. He pats it twice for luck.

A blast of guitar comes from somewhere in the vicinity, a flurry as a door is quickly opened, then shut again. It must be another venue close by.

You look like you have the old whatcha call it, you know, the artistic temperament. I’m right aren’t I? What are you, musician, poet or something?

Do you