The first time I passed the old man on the corner with a saxophone, I didn’t spare him a second glance. I was on my way to school, and nearly late at that. Like the other city-goers around me, I put my head down and trudged through the unforgiving streets leaving the man behind.


On my way home, I passed by the same corner again. The old man was still there sitting upon his little stool, tucked away in his alcove. His gentle, relaxed slump was reminiscent of a well-off comfortable grandfather, yet his clothes looked like they had seen better days. The wrinkle lines around his eyes and mouth gave clues to his age, but unlike other street performers, his eyes were not dull. Instead they had a slight shine to them, a sparkle that led to the beginnings of a smile. His saxophone was a tarnished old instrument, a norm with street performers, but something was different with this man. I looked to his feet, expecting to see the customary case or open box for tips from passerby’s. Expecting a soft, worn case scattered with sparkling coins, I stared at the empty gray concrete sidewalk in front of his feet. Seeing my stare, the old man lifted the instrument to his lips and played a short musical phrase, as a salutation. Ashamed of my boldness, I quickly zipped my sweatshirt up and hoisted my backpack higher onto my shoulder before hurrying off without a backward glance.

Days and weeks went by. I walked the same route home, hoping to catch a glimpse of the man with the saxophone. I made it a habit to scan the street for the tarnished gold instrument. I glanced at his corner every day, looking forward to seeing his comforting sparkling eyes. Every time the man saw me, he would play the same phrase, enticing me to stop. Sometimes he would play it slow, other times fast. There were days where he swung the phrase and created a jazz melody, and still others where he would play with a dramatic pompous flair, poking fun at other pedestrians. But I never stopped to listen to him play more than the phrase and the beginning of his next song, rushing to disappear in the passing crowd.

Every time I turned to leave him behind, a tugging thought would tempt my conscience, especially as I took the first few steps away from his corner. He was there every day, in the rain, the cold, and in the snow. No one seemed to notice him, mainly because he wasn’t asking for money. Did anyone ever stop for him? Did he have a family he was trying to provide for? Or was he too ashamed to put out a pail for money, begging at pedestrians?

This habitual pattern had exhausted itself for a couple months when finally a warm November day brought a change in habit and found me dragging my feet across the cement sidewalk. I had had a trying day, and the slightest of imperfect details irritated me. I walked past the man’s corner, barely glancing at his face. Just as I was nearly past his huddled figure, he began playing his phrase for me, deliberately bright and lively. I stopped short, suddenly agitated at his inconsideration for my bad mood. Noticing my frozen figure, the man continued the phrase, improvising the short, fifteen-second phrase into a rather long song. Furious at his mockery, I backtracked and stood in front of him with a stormy expression until he had finished his song.

“Today of all days, you choose to play that? To mock me? To indirectly laugh in my face?” I demanded, incredulously.

The man shrugged. “You looked like you needed a bit of brightness,” he said simply.

“And you play that one phrase for me every time I pass. Why? Why pick on me?”

“Because I see you looking for me every time you go by, listening for my music. But once you see me, you never stop! No one else passes by every day just to look for me.”

Immediately, my expression softened. Before I realized what I was doing, I shrugged off my backpack and sat down amidst the fallen yellow leaves next to him. We stayed in silence for a moment, listening to the city’s symphony.

“You’re not happy,” he said, sharp and abrupt, breaking my concentration.

I looked up in surprise. “What? How did you know?”

He didn’t look back at me, studying the keys of his saxophone. “You remind me of myself. You pass by everyday with your head down, dragging your feet. You always are tired, and you never stop. Even your eyebrows are frowning.”

Himself? A perfect stranger, a man I barely know? “How am I like you?” I asked, now curious of the man’s past.

The man sighed. “I used to wonder what was the purpose of everything. What if purpose of studying? What is the purpose of getting a job? Why do this? Why bother if I’m not happy?”

“How… can you tell?” Astounded, I studied his worn face, his tired eyes that looked in the opposite direction, away from my seat on the concrete beside him. “You don’t have a money box,” I noted, changing the topic.

“Why bother? I’m doing this because I enjoy it! Other people shouldn’t have to pay me to hear me enjoy my own music.”

His words are so simplistic and true. “But what does this have to do with your past and me?”

“Everything,” he answered, picking up his saxophone. “Because life… can be whatever you want it to be, as long as you’re happy.”

I’m confused. We have now returned to the same topic. “Then how did you become happy? Especially since you don’t even have any money?”

He then smiled, his eyes lighting up his entire face. “In life,” he said gently, placing his fingers on the keys, “all you need is faith… and a little bit of music.”