...And He Sang to Me

"My name is Royal, you know, like a royal pain in the ass!" He winked and lit a cigarette. He was charming and I couldn't help but return his firm hand-shake.

He sang for his supper; so I fished my pockets for coins to toss in the can. I figured him to be in his 40's. He wore a faded t-shirt, his baseball cap backwards, jeans with holes and carried a mustache over his grin. What was not to like? He played the oldies on his guitar and his rough vocals made for great sidewalk entertainment. I asked him to play me another and he whipped out "Brown-Eyed Girl," just for me. In fact; he played "Brown-Eyed Girl" every time I walked by.

He loved playing on the streets. The view of beautiful Colorado Springs had a lot to offer. And a local cigarette shop let him use their window as a backdrop.

It wasn't an easy life, Royal admitted, but he was playing music and that's all that really mattered to him.

He went to the soup kitchen every day for a meal and just barely afforded a room at a small apartment near-by, that is, if he could make $12 a day. On a rare occasion he'd land a gig or two a local bar. It was the life he lived and he was ok with that.

Royal spent his early years in the military and had even spent time in a Community Corrections Facility. His on again, off again girlfriend, Kathleen, was a left-over hippie and played music on the street as well, usually just a few blocks away. They depended on each other and certainly did the best they could to survive.

Most days, his mood was cheery and welcoming. He enjoyed playing for the children that stopped to gawk. But often there was loneliness behind his eyes. It was sense of distance or perhaps misdirection. I asked him about it.

He told me that he had two daughters (ah...children of his own). They were grown, he said, he'd even raised them for several years of their life. They were both involved in music production of some kind. But yet; they never did look kindly on the lifestyle he chose. They rarely paid him mind. And he never saw them. Yet he could not justify leaving what he loved.

To most, Royal was exactly what they saw: a guy down on his luck hoping to get a little sympathy change. To me; he was the epitome of survival. He did what he enjoyed the most and he was willing to work hard for it, even if it meant being satisfied with little. He believed in people, even if they didn't believe in him.

I saw Royal just about every other day for a little over year. We were friends. Sometimes I brought him lunch and more often - we just sat and talked. I was his break either way. I played and sang with him a few times, helped him make a buck or two. I often wish I had pictures of him, but I don't.

I wonder where he is today, if he still plays in front of the cigarette shop or if his music still touches other people. I wonder if his daughters ever came to see him, just like he had hoped. I wonder if he ever made it "big," just like he dreamed.....