Singing for his Supper
The summer had been relatively fruitful - with the bustle of tourism in the self proclaimed ‘Capital of Culture’ in St. Petersburg, his guitar case always had enough money for a place to stay, at least a small breakfast and a good dinner every night. It paid for the hostel he’d been staying in.
But now that the crowds had faded and the cooler temperatures were beginning to roll in - the leaves on trees beginning to shift from green to golden and red - things were tighter. Playing out in the open was tough, so rather than where he set up outside the subway exit in the tourist district, he moved down into the tunnels themselves just a little beyond the gates. It was warmer there and the acoustics were surprisingly splendid.
It made playing his guitar sound better. Carried his voice a little farther. But it made setting up his turntable harder - there was a lot less space to spread out, so he left it behind in the Timeshare apartment he had just recently moved into.
It cost a lot less overall.. a quarter of what the hostel had been running him, and the other benefit was that he had a refrigerator to store his own food in, so it made making meals less expensive - but the drawbacks leveled it all out. He had the apartment during the day while the guy was at work, but he had to clear out by 5pm every night and all day Sunday.
He had a bike for transportation - an older thing he’d bought used when he’d had a little spare cash in Kazakhstan. He’d ridden it all the way up through Astana, through the winding paths that cut through the Altai mountains and spilled him out on the other side. He’d played music at towns and villages all along the way to pay for gas and had finally landed at his final destination just as the winds were carrying the warmth of the summer in off the ocean.
Today, the winds had changed and had chased him into the tunnels again - where he quietly sat between sets, strumming something lonely on his guitar.. singing mostly to himself while he warmed up for an evening of trying to rattle enough change out of the pockets of the passers by to pay for what would be his breakfast. He nodded to a few regulars, waving a thank you when a few coins or a ruble found it’s way into his open guitar case.
He had to pick out a set of songs.. something to celebrate the turning of the seasons. A good mix of modern and retro.. a little bit of folk thrown in perhaps.. his fingers absently played over the strings as he considered his choices.