I was riding to my car one particularly cold, soggy afternoon a couple weeks ago. I saw a group of shaggy travelers huddled in the rain, scruffy dogs and weathered packs surrounding them. They had instrument bags but only one guitar was still out of its case. I passed by the group, hesitated, and then back around.
On the Street
“How’d you guys do today?” I asked. “Not bad,” said a short, stocky man with a black beard and curly hair and a guitar. I thought he’d look at home on the set of O Brother Where Art Thou. He had dark skin but I couldn’t pin down his race. He looked about 25. “I have a pretty loud voice,” he explained, “People go by and say, ‘Hey, I’ve never heard that song before.'” He was playing one of his originals before I had the mind to ready my phone or ask to video him.
“Oh sweet mama, daddy’s got them crawfish blues,” he sang over a simple blues progression. He was loud, but not in the shout-y punk vocals way. His voice growled powerfully, soulfully over his guitar. I could understand the lyrics and the New Orleans traveling story they told. A terrier sat calmly atop a pack to the right, shivering as his master played.
“I’m Chris,” I introduced myself after his song. “I’m Topher,” he responded. “We make a full name together!” I laughed. I met his companions: Jo was the girl of the group. She had light brown hair, tinged red in places. It hung in curling locks over her face and bristled in clumps on one side where it had been cropped short. She wore a T-shirt with the collar cut out. Her skin was pale white, but with a ruddy freckled tan around her neck and arms. She hung out with Conect (sic). He was a playful, athletic younger member of the group. He wore a baseball hat and facial hair that consisted mostly of an untrimmed cowboy mustache covering the corners of his mouth. The two of them disappeared for a few minutes to find cigarettes. Franco was the quietest, tall and slender with jet black curls flowing from under a grey beanie. He said he normally played the mandolin but that his fingers were too cold that day.
Topher and I chatted about the group’s route to Charlotte. He had been in New Orleans and met up with friends in Atlanta…I didn’t catch the details, but the others chimed in to tell how Franco’s jacket froze to the floor of a freight train the week before. They reached their city, and he woke up stuck to the ground. He had to yank at the coat, ripping a hole in it, but he tore it and himself free in time to get out of the car.
The travelers three dogs introduced themselves: Bubba was Topher’s terrier. He trotted over eagerly at the sound of his name. Daisy was Franco’s, a wiry German he introduced as more of a lap cat than a dog. She approached me and nuzzled my leg with her snout, despite a patch whipstitched to her harness that read, “Don’t pet me. I’m working.” DP (Dumpster Pizza), was Jo’s yellow hound mut, with a head two times too large for his body. DP wriggled in a loop, wagging and falling on himself. The dogs huddled together on the sidewalk, looking cold, hungry and pathetic. But they were calm and obedient, unfazed by passersby. They themselves were expert buskers.
“Should we walk to noDa?” Jo proposed as rain started falling again. “I guess, but I don’t want to…” someone said. “Yeah, okay,” said another. The travelers reluctantly planned their trek at Jo’s goading. She was quiet, and probably the youngest of the group, but the boys only complained momentarily, then heeded her charge.
I thought for a second, surveying the group and their possessions. I wanted to help them, wanted to save them some misery. “I have a small 5-seater, but if you guys can fit I’ll give you a ride,” I offered, finally. “Really? Yeah, that would be awesome,” Jo said. “We’re really good at tetris,” she assured me.
Indeed, fifteen minutes later the entire trunk and every seat and lap in my ’91 Volvo was occupied: 4 packs, 2 guitars, 3 dogs and a mandolin on top of the five of us. I tried to make conversation as I meandered the car around Uptown.
Our Drive Together
Topher dominated the talk, the charismatic spokesman of the group. When I asked about New Orleans, he told me about other traveling kids. Lots come through, and there are lots of different kinds. There are elitist travelers and former travelers and rainbow kids. It’s a good place to meet up, but it’s also a good place to party too much and get in trouble.
Topher said he had a 2001 Jetta in Seattle. He talked about his 2 years of school and his environmental work on riparian regions of the Pacific Northwest. I had to stop him to learn that “riparian” areas are those near creeks and rivers. I was surprised by Topher’s nonchalance. He didn’t carry any rebellious standoffishness. On the contrary, it was my impression that he lived expecting all the world to like him.
Next I addressed Franco, who said he wasn’t really from any one place at all. His dad was a traveler when he was young. He kept moving around, even with his family. I asked if he liked growing up that way. “No, not with my dad. He’s kind of an asshole.” “Sorry to hear that,” I said, trying to ease the tension in the car. “Sounds like you inherited his wanderlust, though” I added, failing miserably. We sat in silence while I navigated an on-ramp. Eventually Topher jumpstarted the conversation again.
Afternoon at Amélie’s
At our destination, the group disembarked with a quick thanks and packed inside the atrium. I was left alone a minute, wanting to continue our hangout, but wondering whether I should impose. Did these kids just tolerate my presence for the ride, for the possibility of a dollar in their gig bag? I wondered if they were ready to be done with me.
I bought a pastry and chai and found my travelers. “Mind if I join you again?” “Sure!” “Have a seat,” they offered. Jo and the boys were excited, a little too excited, when the baguette I’d ordered for the table arrived. One of the guys asked to use my empty chai cup for a free coffee refill and returned with his prize a few minutes later. Jo and Conect played Rummy. Topher played pop songs and rap covers and blues. I sat and drew the group, making and soaking up conversation.
“DP has a cut on his foot!” The lazy ether broke as Jo pointed out the gash splitting one of the pads the dog’s rear left foot. “How did that happen? Did you guys see his foot was cut? What should I do?” her voice rose. “Is it clotted?” Topher sat up a little. “I don’t know, it just looks like meat,” said Jo. “As long it’s clean and it’s not bleeding he’ll be fine,” said Topher. At that Jo relaxed, regaining her composure.
A guy with a camera came up and shot Topher playing another song. The camera guy hovered around the table, lens trained, for three minutes. Topher kept on as he had been. He switched from gypsy jazz to his own rendition of “Bad Kids,” modifying the lyrics to “Bad kids / all my friends are bad kids / all my friends are homeless kids / kids like you and me.” An older man walked up, did a giddy dance and proceeded to lecture the group on their wandering lifestyle. He got very serious as he vaguely described his own virtuous and focused life pursuit, some version of uniting artists against the establishment. Then he turned sunny, wished us well and wandered off again.
We were sitting, listening and playing again when I noticed Jo make an outrageous face, staring off to my side. I looked to see a smiling little 4-year-old girl behind a glass door. I joined in the exchange of faces, chuckling. The girl’s mother looked up and smiled from behind the office front. I looked back and continued drawing the group.
