Jonas coasted through the early evening traffic, through the tourists and buskers crowding the sidewalks downtown. He adjusted his balance to accomodate the weight of the banjo strapped to his back.
At the river he popped off his skateboard and carried it beneath the bridge to his spot on the concrete. He took his instrument out of the case, closed his eyes and rested his left hand on the fret board until his fingers started finding their way around the neck, his right hand tapping out rhythms.
He played the whistles of old steamers, the sound of laughter echoing off alley walls, he played the drunkard’s tears, the rusty stairs and crumbling bricks, he played the smear of lingering blue, the stain of green, the umber, the ocher. He played for the broken girl and the quiet boy, the memories cast in shadows on the river bank. He sat for a moment listening to the water lap at the rocks below his feet and bent to pick up his board, shouldered his case and walked toward the neon where he played for the money.