Twice.

The train came to an abrupt stop as we approached the platform. We grabbed our bags and adjusted our coats. Everyone walked like zombies. The smell of rot and urine was apparent as we made our way toward the exit. The whole depressing scene was interrupted by the magical sound of a cello echoing through the cavernous underground structure.

The turnstyle set us free and we saw a busker in the distance. He was dressed well and played with his head down. I noticed an impressive collection of singles and random change in his instrument case and considered making my own contribution but we were running late. Onward.

Halfway up the stairs we heard a furious howl as the music stopped, “motherfuckers, fuck you, that’s the second time today.”

The busker had been robbed. Again. Something tells me he won’t be going back to the 16th street station again.

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