Written by Dave Rowe – Hello readers, I’m Tommy Wilkens and what I do is sit on a bench on the Atlantic City boardwalk playing my guitar and singing in hopes that people will stop to listen, then drop money in my case.
So look, here comes a middle-aged couple. He’s in Bermuda shorts, she’s in pink slacks, it looks like they’re gonna stop. They do and the man says, Look Margaret, we’re face-to-face with a busker.”
“A busker – what, honey, is that?”
“That’s someone who plays music out in public places in order to make money.”
They spectate as I do “It Ain’t Me Babe.” When the song ends the guy drops two dollar bills in my case. I say thanks and they walk off. I set my guitar down and light up a cigarette; a generic. It comes out of the half-pack the guy at the shelter I stay at gave me; it’s harsh, but adequate. No one else this afternoon stops; the sky is turning orange; it’s time to pack it in. I follow my usual routine which involves walking down off the boardwalk and onto the sand where I take my shoes off and walk up to the water. The foam as always feels good on my feet. Sometimes I think about stationing myself on the beach, but I always talk myself out of it – the girls in the skimpy bathing suits would be too much of a distraction and hey, why mess with the music of the waves?
From the beach it’s on to the main drag and up a side street to Hospitality House where I’ve been the past six weeks. Greeting me at the door is Alice, the cheerful, somewhat chubby house manager. “So,” she says with a smile, “how did our roving minstrel boy do for himself today?”
“Not good –a little over four dollars.”
“Well, there’s meatloaf in the refrigerator and baked beans on the stove – they’re Bushes, the best. Console yourself with some good food.”
So I go in the kitchen and eat my fill, then hit the couch in the front room, the place where I sleep (the eight beds upstairs are all taken. Alice is sticking her neck out letting me stay here; violates the city code). A reality show is on the TV, within several minutes I’m fast asleep.
So it’s the next morning and I’ve reclaimed my post. Things start off slow, then someone stops – someone female, young, attractive. She has blond hair, tight white shorts and a New York Yankees t-shirt. “Oh,” she says once I finish the Grateful Dead song, “Ripple.” “You play and sing so well – could I sing along with you and harmonize?
“Yeah, why not?” I say. “What song do you want to try?”
“The Beatles’ song, “Blackbird.”
“Well, I can’t play it the way McCartney does, but I guess we can give it a try.”
We do and she chimes in sweetly above my melody; the same thing happens on “Here Comes the Sun.” “Fire and Rain” goes equally well. That one ends and I set my guitar down and extend a hand. “I’m Tommy,” I say, “and you sing very well.” She caresses my palm. “I’m Chelsea and I’m totally enjoying myself.”
I smile. “You know what would be REALLY enjoyable? You and me on the beach tonight drinking wine, watching the tide roll in and out.”
“That DOES sound nice, but there’s a catch.”
“A catch?”
“Yes, my husband.”
“Your husband – so where’s he at now?”
“He’s in the casino. He’s an accountant so he figures he knows all the angles. Well, I better be going.”
With that she turns and I watch her sadly as she walks off down the planks.
The next person to stop this morning is short, beefy and wearing a blue uniform. “So, son,” says the officer of the peace. “Do you have a permit to be sitting out here polluting the air with your noise?”
I set my guitar down and fish it out of my pocket, the piece of paper I stood in line for at the City Hall. I hand it to him; he looks it over and says, “Huh, well I guess you’re legit. Now just don’t be too loud or get obscene on me, ya hear?”
I tell him I won’t and he leaves. Things go uneventful for a while, then a college-age kid, skinny with big glasses, stops. “You sound good, “he says. “Do you mind if I sit here with you and watch the people pass by?”
“Suit yourself,” I reply.
After a while, the kid – he turns out to be named Roger – says he’s in college studying something called sociology. He wants to know if he can stay out here with me to get material for a term paper.
“Sociology sounds pretty highfalutin. I guess I can help you out, but it’s gonna cost you something.”
“Cost – what kind of cost, sir?”
“A McDonald’s coffee, a large.”
It’s about 20 minutes later and he’s back with the coffee along with a big yellow legal pad. Through the course of the afternoon, he hears about all of it – the up and coming band in Baton Rouge that split up due to the big egos, the misleading info that there are good construction jobs to be had up here, the proverbial girl left behind. Roger scribbles it all down and as evening sets in says, “Thanks a lot Tommy. Can I buy you a hamburger?”
I say “No thanks, I’ve got a supper waiting on me.” He leaves and I set my guitar in its case. As I close the case, I feel sort of naked. I walk down the planks, onto the sand and up to the water. I lean over and splash some of it on my face – cool, refreshing, cool, cool, cool.
Dave is a native Clevelander who moved here about 12 years ago, taken by the scenic beauty and the eclectic lifestyle. He’s worked as a journalist and as part owner of a janitorial business and now concentrates on music and once again, writing.
