Downtown 6 train, a little before noon.
33rd Street, three Mexican men in full-on cowboy attire–cowboy hats, boots, Wranglers–jump on with instruments. One plays the world’s cheapest little guitar. One plays a standup bass. One makes a funky noise by rubbing a ribbed column of wood with a freakin’ Afro pick.
The trio creates a wonderful blast of music, a warm ocean breeze on a day with temps in the teens. The car’s inhabitants are fairly rapt.
By 28th, the Afro-pick man has his sombrero off, extending it here and there for change. So they’d been playing all of, oh, a minute, and the guy was asking for money.
Sorry, guys. You have to work a little harder than that to get paid in this town.