- Joined
- Jun 2, 2013
- Messages
- 306
I meet a large and diverse number of people in my job, some are transient, simply entering and exiting without leaving a mark or memory of their passage. Some of these passers through stop long enough to form a connection and leave their mark, some larger than others. Then there are the regulars, people I see every day. Many of these are the usual, co-workers, tenants of the various retail stores, cleaners and regular customers who come every day, plus those few unfortunate homeless that practically live in the facility from the time it opens to the time it shuts.
One such regular and I have formed a strange bond.
When I first started my new job some eight months ago, I was assigned night shift, six days a week from half past two in the afternoon to eleven at night. I soon got into the routine, part of which was the seven oclock pre-lockup which involves me walking out onto one of the main malls to lose an outer set of doors. It didnt take me long to notice that there was an older Asian gentleman there at seven on the dot every day. He would walk to a specific brick in the street, set down a small case and withdraw his violin.
I am very fond of string instruments, being a singer and a guitarist, and I have a great affection for classical music. So naturally, when I saw this I stopped and watched. Every night it was the same, he would open the case lovingly and extract the worn instrument with something approaching religious fervour, then he would tune quietly, rube resin lightly over the bow strings, take a breath, and begin to play. This shabby old Asian gentleman, neat even though his clothes were old and worn, grey of hair and bent of stature, would set that bow to those strings, and angels would weep.
I wont deny I teared up, listening to the mournful notes swelling and flowing around him. The moment he ended his first song I dashed over and dumped a $20 note in his case. He looked at me quizzically for a moment before bending with grace and patience and returned the note to me. I was dumbfounded, he smiled.
Thank you for listen. He said, his English was broken and almost unintelligible.
From that night on we developed a routine. I would come for lockup, watch him perform his first piece, try and pay him and he would refuse. I dont know why I kept trying, though it was obvious he was poor, he always refused and thanked me for listening. I found out as the days passed that he lived alone in a small flat in a built up neighbourhood where he was no longer permitted to practise, so he took his violin into town to play.
Eight months on and every night shift I have worked he was always there, playing his violin. Some nights I would swing by later on my patrols and he would still be there, he stayed until eight twenty precisely and walked five minutes down the road to catch the eight twenty-six bus home. Some nights he would set down his violin and take out an extremely long Chinese pipe (for he was Chinese) and sit on the pavement and smoke.
A couple of nights ago I saw him sit down to smoke and as I watched he rapped the pipe on the heel of his boot, the floor, stuck a key in the bowl, and then grunted and tucked it away. I walked over and asked what was wrong.
Pipe clogged. He said simply. I asked if I could have a look, he handed it over. I took out my little Case CV peanut; my backup to the Tinker Henry gave me. Using the pen blade I managed to get the cake shaped and free up the draw hole. I hand it back, he gave it a quick test and smiled.
Thankyou. Even seated as he was, he still managed a bow, I bowed in return, not sure why, and Im sure I muffed it, 64 and built like a brick outhouse as I am. I had a sudden thought, and filed it away for later.
I sat down next to him, deciding to take my break right then, and we sat in companionable silence. I asked a few questions, most of which he didnt understand and those he did answer I couldnt fully understand myself, but I managed to get his name. Wong was all I got, so I told him:
From now on youre Mr. Wong He seemed to quite like the idea and smiled widely. He finished his pipe and picked up his violin, I spent the next twenty minutes listening to his music.
The next night I was waiting for him when he showed up. I let him do his usual setup and his first song, which was as good as ever, and when he set down his violin he looked at me.
You early tonight. He observed, I nodded.
Yeah, I was thinking about your pipe. He looked confused.
Pipe? I nodded again.
Yeah, you need a good knife for things like when your pipe clogs up, or you need to cut something. I pulled out of my pocket the only other peanut I owned, a queen peanut with wood scales. She just seemed to suit Mr. Wong, and I knew if Id tried to give him one of my bigger or more expensive knives, he would have refused. The little peanut was still in mint condition but for a little wiggle in the covers and was still shaving sharp.
He, of course, tried to refuse, but I wouldnt have it. At the end of a five minute argument, he smiled a little tearily and bowed so deep I swear his head touched the pavement.
Thankyou. I bowed, low as I could, and smiled back.
Just make sure you use it. He nodded and held his hand out, I thought for a handshake, I took his hand and came away with a dollar coin.
Never give knife. He said, and I shook my head, does everyone know that one? I thanked him and went on my way, as I headed back inside he struck up a tune, and it sounded bright and joyous.
I still see Mr. Wong every night shift I do, and every night he makes sure to clear out the bowl of his pipe with his peanut, and always ensures Im watching when he does.
So although we couldnt understand each others words, Im pretty sure we understand each other just fine.
One such regular and I have formed a strange bond.
When I first started my new job some eight months ago, I was assigned night shift, six days a week from half past two in the afternoon to eleven at night. I soon got into the routine, part of which was the seven oclock pre-lockup which involves me walking out onto one of the main malls to lose an outer set of doors. It didnt take me long to notice that there was an older Asian gentleman there at seven on the dot every day. He would walk to a specific brick in the street, set down a small case and withdraw his violin.
I am very fond of string instruments, being a singer and a guitarist, and I have a great affection for classical music. So naturally, when I saw this I stopped and watched. Every night it was the same, he would open the case lovingly and extract the worn instrument with something approaching religious fervour, then he would tune quietly, rube resin lightly over the bow strings, take a breath, and begin to play. This shabby old Asian gentleman, neat even though his clothes were old and worn, grey of hair and bent of stature, would set that bow to those strings, and angels would weep.
I wont deny I teared up, listening to the mournful notes swelling and flowing around him. The moment he ended his first song I dashed over and dumped a $20 note in his case. He looked at me quizzically for a moment before bending with grace and patience and returned the note to me. I was dumbfounded, he smiled.
Thank you for listen. He said, his English was broken and almost unintelligible.
From that night on we developed a routine. I would come for lockup, watch him perform his first piece, try and pay him and he would refuse. I dont know why I kept trying, though it was obvious he was poor, he always refused and thanked me for listening. I found out as the days passed that he lived alone in a small flat in a built up neighbourhood where he was no longer permitted to practise, so he took his violin into town to play.
Eight months on and every night shift I have worked he was always there, playing his violin. Some nights I would swing by later on my patrols and he would still be there, he stayed until eight twenty precisely and walked five minutes down the road to catch the eight twenty-six bus home. Some nights he would set down his violin and take out an extremely long Chinese pipe (for he was Chinese) and sit on the pavement and smoke.
A couple of nights ago I saw him sit down to smoke and as I watched he rapped the pipe on the heel of his boot, the floor, stuck a key in the bowl, and then grunted and tucked it away. I walked over and asked what was wrong.
Pipe clogged. He said simply. I asked if I could have a look, he handed it over. I took out my little Case CV peanut; my backup to the Tinker Henry gave me. Using the pen blade I managed to get the cake shaped and free up the draw hole. I hand it back, he gave it a quick test and smiled.
Thankyou. Even seated as he was, he still managed a bow, I bowed in return, not sure why, and Im sure I muffed it, 64 and built like a brick outhouse as I am. I had a sudden thought, and filed it away for later.
I sat down next to him, deciding to take my break right then, and we sat in companionable silence. I asked a few questions, most of which he didnt understand and those he did answer I couldnt fully understand myself, but I managed to get his name. Wong was all I got, so I told him:
From now on youre Mr. Wong He seemed to quite like the idea and smiled widely. He finished his pipe and picked up his violin, I spent the next twenty minutes listening to his music.
The next night I was waiting for him when he showed up. I let him do his usual setup and his first song, which was as good as ever, and when he set down his violin he looked at me.
You early tonight. He observed, I nodded.
Yeah, I was thinking about your pipe. He looked confused.
Pipe? I nodded again.
Yeah, you need a good knife for things like when your pipe clogs up, or you need to cut something. I pulled out of my pocket the only other peanut I owned, a queen peanut with wood scales. She just seemed to suit Mr. Wong, and I knew if Id tried to give him one of my bigger or more expensive knives, he would have refused. The little peanut was still in mint condition but for a little wiggle in the covers and was still shaving sharp.
He, of course, tried to refuse, but I wouldnt have it. At the end of a five minute argument, he smiled a little tearily and bowed so deep I swear his head touched the pavement.
Thankyou. I bowed, low as I could, and smiled back.
Just make sure you use it. He nodded and held his hand out, I thought for a handshake, I took his hand and came away with a dollar coin.
Never give knife. He said, and I shook my head, does everyone know that one? I thanked him and went on my way, as I headed back inside he struck up a tune, and it sounded bright and joyous.
I still see Mr. Wong every night shift I do, and every night he makes sure to clear out the bowl of his pipe with his peanut, and always ensures Im watching when he does.
So although we couldnt understand each others words, Im pretty sure we understand each other just fine.
