Marty closed his eyes as he continued to croon. He knew that his voice wasn’t perfect, but here in the strange lights, amongst these few people, it was enough. When he opened his eyes again, Marty scanned the small crowd in the café. There were never more than ten people there at one time. It was a wonder he hadn’t been fired, but who else would play for twenty-five dollars a weekend?

            His black hair concealed his face as he bent over the guitar strings. The music removed him from this setting, and for the briefest of moments, he forgot his own lyrics. If he could sing the way he played, he’d have left this joint long ago.

            At four in the morning, he finally escaped from the smoke filled room, into the early morning air. Even at this early hour, the city was roaring. Its cars and trains and frantic people made a music that was all their own. A melody to which he didn’t even attempt to know the words.

            Marty’s one room apartment was just as cold and empty as he’d left it. He climbed into bed waiting for the few hours of sleep he allowed himself to come. Marty could never really remember the dreams he had; they were void of any meaning, whatsoever.

            At seven fifteen, his alarm shrilled, dragging him out of the light sleep. Was it possible for him to sleep more than three hours at a time? Marty smiled at his reflection in the dirty mirror. He could stand a shave, and maybe his hair should be cut, but he still had his brown eyes. Marty had once read a magazine article that said people with brown eyes were more likely to write a hit song than people with green eyes. It was probably crap, but he believed it. He needed to believe it.

            Emptying the garbage cans in Washington Square Park wasn’t the ideal job, but he couldn’t complain. Occasionally, Marty would rescue a long forgotten object from the metal cans. A bicycle spoke, a beret, once, even a twenty dollar bill. But nothing compared to what he found today. Today, there was a woman in there.

            “Hello,” she said in an undeniably raspy voice. “Am I in your way?” Marty was shocked into silence.  “I was looking for a book, you see. Someone threw out Leaves of Grass. Isn’t that terrible?” She shook her head as if it were the most dishonorable thing in the world. “I positively adore Walt Whitman, don’t you?”

            “Actually, ol’ Whitman gives me indigestion.” Marty lifted his eyebrows. “He makes me feel like I’m choking on leaves of grass.” He smiled as he helped her out of the garbage can. Her dark eyelashes fell across her cheeks as if to caress them. Her features were birdlike—small lips, sharp nose, rather large eyes—but she was beautiful in a strange way.

            “Oh, he isn’t that bad.” She admonished. “Evie St. James.” It took a moment for Marty to realize she was announcing her name.

            “Martin Gersky.”

            “You play at the Red Drum, right?” Evie’s voice was deep and raspy.

            “Why, do you listen?” Marty beamed.

            “No, I see the poster and promise myself that I’ll go in there one Friday.” Evie leaned closer. “But I never do.” She pursed her lips to stop the oncoming smile.

            “Come in sometime; I’m really not all that bad!” He called over his shoulder. There were plenty more cans to empty.

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Author Guidance for This Story

So, I got this idea from an interview I saw with one of Bob Dylan's old girlfriends, and another one with an old girlfriend of John Lennon's. The story idea is pretty simple. Evie is Martin's muse, and through her presence, Marty is thrust into greatness where he soon forgets her existence. As long as it falls into that basic storyline...

updated Dec 26, 2008 by LaineGrey