Boris

Boris kept his head down against the wind and drew his coat tighter at the collar. The strap of his guitar case cut through the thin fabric, aggravating the already raw flesh. It wasn't fit for a dog to be out in weather like this.

Rounding the corner on twenty third he nearly tripped over a pair of legs hanging out of a doorway. Boris stopped, and followed the legs into the shadows as they were withdrawn.

"Sorry, sir." The mumble came slowly.

From farther up the street the late night glow of a pub beckoned strangers in from the cold.

"Why aren't you up there, where it's warm. Maybe get a handout?"

There was silence for a while, and then the huddled man spoke. "I tried once when it was sleeting, just wanted to sit under the cover by the trash cans. The owner came out and kicked me in the ribs, told me not to hang around. A few weeks ago he sent the doorman to move me up here from a better doorway closer. Said I was upsetting his customers, that they didn't want to have to look at the likes of me."

Boris felt heat rising in his chest as the cold of the evening wind lost its power and fell away.

"Wait here," was all he said, "I'll be around at closing time."

Boris strode up the remainder of the street, crossing before the pub and not slowing until he'd put its heavy dark-wood door between him and the cold outside.

At the coat-check he left his coat, and removing a blue steel guitar from the case, left his case behind as well. The clerk opened and closed the cash register as if in a daze, and turned over a receipt without waiting for payment. Boris left her holding the slip of paper and moved deeper into the bar.

The room was packed with people with loosened neckties and overpriced drinks. Women held brightly coloured liquor in martini glasses while men clutched tumblers or Heineken bottles, everyone trying desperately to seem like more than they really were.

Boris pulled a stool noiselessly into the middle of the bar room floor, patrons giving way without seeming to notice him. He sat down, shouldered his instrument and brushed his fingers across the strings.

The effect was instantaneous. Though there was no amplifier, the sound seemed to permeate the entire fabric of the room. Conversations stopped, glasses stopped striking tones from other glasses, and people stood stock still. The strumming of the guitar kept a constant volume that only appeared to get louder as every other sound in the room fell away.

Boris played, soft chords giving way to manic and violent tones, the instrument screaming out in agony at the sounds he was forcing it to produce.

When he knew it was time, he simply stopped. The room watched him rise from his perch, slowly make his way to the coat check where his guitar case was at the ready and his coat was waiting open in the still dazed clerk's hands.

As he pushed back outside, he was aware of the slow procession of patrons that were falling in step behind him. He crossed the street, heading back up twenty third towards the corner, and as he passed the huddled mass in the shadows, he made a marked gesture of putting his hand in one pocket, then withdrawing it and casting down towards the sidewalk at his feet.

As he turned the corner, he could hear the sound of money falling, of the surprised mumbled thanks as patron after patron, glassy eyed and inexplicably teary turned out their pockets on the sidewalk before turning towards their own homes.

Boris felt the weight of his guitar, felt it bearing down heavier still. As he walked, he pulled his collar up tighter against the renewed persistence of the wind. It wasn't fit for a dog to be out in this.