Harmonica
There is an overhead pedestrian walkway that straddles the north and south sides of Queens Road in Central Hong Kong. The walkway is very broad, the equivalent of 3 driving lanes. It is sheltered by a gazebo-like fibreglass top, and the design is chrome/metal/glass hi-tech.
The walkway is the main thoroughfare for people that exit the MTR station at Central, to work in one of the cubes in one of the many ant farms that comprise the financial district of Hong Kong. Everyday, it is an overwhelming tide of average Hong Kongers sweeping along with their own irresistible drive to get to work, finish work, then sweep back into the MTR stations and go home. This ebb and flow of the Hong Kong econo-crat is so basic and fundamental to life here, sometimes people don't notice what the tide has left behind to dry and rot on the streets of Hong Kong.
Like the old man that plays the harmonica. His home is dead center in the middle of this walkway. He is a decrepit old man, waxy skin burned to a dull brown, wrinkled and hanging off his bones like dirty laundry. He alternates between hunching over a little dish made from folding a few magazine pages together, and leaning up against a gleaming pillar that holds up the overhead walkway. His hair is white, stubbly, uneven and shows patches of insect bites on his scalp. His face is gaunt, with surprisingly well-defined browbones that hinted at smart features during his better days. I estimate he is in his early 70's, which pegs him as a man who has been through at least one world war and several revolutions (I assume he is Chinese).
Everyday, he blows on a little steel harmonica. Puff puff, wheeze wheeze. He doesn't make any tunes, there is no melody. Just staccato bursts of discordant noises, getting louder to drown out the leather pumps and wingtips soles clinking their way to and from work. He rocks to his exertions - forwards when he puffs out, backwards when he breathes. If he is sitting on the floor, his newspapers (forming his bed at night) crinkles with his rocking to provide an unusual accompaniment to this "music".
His eyes are pools of whirling sorrow. They are clouded by cataracts, but he still looks at you keenly, begging for a penny or two, while beads of sweat break out on his forehead as he puffs away at the harmonica. The cataracts may be invisible at certain angles, I'm not sure. The clouds in his eyes part occasionally, I see into the depths of those black orbs as he rocks forwards and I am ashamed by the naked beseeching poverty hiding in his eyes.
I avert my eyes from his face and turn to walk away - joining the millions of others that walk by him each day without noticing. Or maybe pretending not to notice - it's hard to ignore the tuneless screeches of his harmonica. The cuff of my pants sweep against his little paper begging tray, and the coins in it jingle.
The jingle wakes me up - reminding me that this is a life wasting away to nothing while around him others are trying very hard to not waste their time. I rummage in my pocket for some change and drop into his tray. I stride away quickly, face somber, head high, back straight. I am cringing inside from shame, that I am not doing anything more.
As I walk further and further away, I am surrounded by more and more people heading home after a day's work. The dull roar of conversation, clackety-clack of heels and the disembodied MTR public announcements are muted - over them I still hear the screeching sounds of a cheap harmonica.
P.S. As of this morning, Harmonica Man is no longer there. I think the police moved him someplace else.
The walkway is the main thoroughfare for people that exit the MTR station at Central, to work in one of the cubes in one of the many ant farms that comprise the financial district of Hong Kong. Everyday, it is an overwhelming tide of average Hong Kongers sweeping along with their own irresistible drive to get to work, finish work, then sweep back into the MTR stations and go home. This ebb and flow of the Hong Kong econo-crat is so basic and fundamental to life here, sometimes people don't notice what the tide has left behind to dry and rot on the streets of Hong Kong.
Like the old man that plays the harmonica. His home is dead center in the middle of this walkway. He is a decrepit old man, waxy skin burned to a dull brown, wrinkled and hanging off his bones like dirty laundry. He alternates between hunching over a little dish made from folding a few magazine pages together, and leaning up against a gleaming pillar that holds up the overhead walkway. His hair is white, stubbly, uneven and shows patches of insect bites on his scalp. His face is gaunt, with surprisingly well-defined browbones that hinted at smart features during his better days. I estimate he is in his early 70's, which pegs him as a man who has been through at least one world war and several revolutions (I assume he is Chinese).
Everyday, he blows on a little steel harmonica. Puff puff, wheeze wheeze. He doesn't make any tunes, there is no melody. Just staccato bursts of discordant noises, getting louder to drown out the leather pumps and wingtips soles clinking their way to and from work. He rocks to his exertions - forwards when he puffs out, backwards when he breathes. If he is sitting on the floor, his newspapers (forming his bed at night) crinkles with his rocking to provide an unusual accompaniment to this "music".
His eyes are pools of whirling sorrow. They are clouded by cataracts, but he still looks at you keenly, begging for a penny or two, while beads of sweat break out on his forehead as he puffs away at the harmonica. The cataracts may be invisible at certain angles, I'm not sure. The clouds in his eyes part occasionally, I see into the depths of those black orbs as he rocks forwards and I am ashamed by the naked beseeching poverty hiding in his eyes.
I avert my eyes from his face and turn to walk away - joining the millions of others that walk by him each day without noticing. Or maybe pretending not to notice - it's hard to ignore the tuneless screeches of his harmonica. The cuff of my pants sweep against his little paper begging tray, and the coins in it jingle.
The jingle wakes me up - reminding me that this is a life wasting away to nothing while around him others are trying very hard to not waste their time. I rummage in my pocket for some change and drop into his tray. I stride away quickly, face somber, head high, back straight. I am cringing inside from shame, that I am not doing anything more.
As I walk further and further away, I am surrounded by more and more people heading home after a day's work. The dull roar of conversation, clackety-clack of heels and the disembodied MTR public announcements are muted - over them I still hear the screeching sounds of a cheap harmonica.
P.S. As of this morning, Harmonica Man is no longer there. I think the police moved him someplace else.
posted by tygertyger at 2:37 PM
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