The Man with the Two Stringed Violin

On the corner of 1st and Pike Street in downtown Seattle sat a man. In front of the man sat an open violin case and in the man’s lap sat a violin, only two strings remained on its creaky frame— the rest had snapped long ago. The violin was the same honey molasses color as the man’s beard, which hung almost to his chest. He wore a ratty old pair of shoes and a ratty old stocking hat. Everyday, from the moment the city woke up at five o’clock in the morning, till the moment it nearly fell asleep at one o’clock the next morning, the man with the two-stringed violin played. He played for anyone and everyone who will listen. He played because he must.
“I wish he would stop that awful noise,” whined a woman as she crossed the street.
“You’ll get used to it,” replied someone else on the street. “He’s always playing.”
“Hey, you bum,” hollered another. “Cut it out will you!”
But the man with the two-stringed violin played on.
“There’s the old fiddler again,” smirked a businessman. “Still playing the same broken tune that is in his broken head on that pitiful violin.”
“Maybe if I put some money in the case he’ll stop that racket,” said someone else.
“Poor man,” whispered a lady.
“Yes, poor fellow,” said another. “Someone should take him to the mad house where he belongs.”
But the man with the two-stringed violin played on.
The cars, taxicabs, and buses dashed by, and the sound of the violin was lost amidst their screams. The freezing rain turned from sleet to snow and filled the open violin case with white powder. The tips of the man’s fingers turned rigid and white like a corpse, as they poked out of his fingerless gloves. But the man with the two-stringed violin played on.
He played and he played and he played. The screeching notes of the two strings cut through the air like Styrofoam scraping against glass. The man closed his eyes and kept playing. Faster and faster and faster the bow worked across the strings. People covered their ears and glared at the man. The noise ricocheted off the skyscrapers and tore through the alleys. One final screech seemed to shatter everything. The man opened his eyes and saw the pieces of the city fall away like broken shards of glass.
The music had cracked the city and the man walked through the crack. Skyscrapers disappeared and hills of slush evaporated like puddles in the sun. He could not feel his cold fingers or the snow that had turned back into rain. He was not standing on the corner of 1st and Pike anymore. He was center stage at Benaroya Hall and he was the solo musician. He stood and bowed to the thunderous applause of the city. The rumble of the buses and cars shook the stage. As for the jeers of the people—he did not hear them.