Original Stories Fan Fiction ❯ Fret ❯ Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Awoken by an enormous crow paired with an enormous set of vocal chords, Josh promptly swore at to start his day. He engulfed the slightly bitter persimmon, and pulled the raw pasta out of his backpack and tried to chew on it. He was frustrated, angry, hungry, tired, and had a cramp in his neck from his books in his backpack.

“Busking's always a good way to make money,” he whispered silently to his infuriated half. “That's about all I can do…”

Making sure he was forgetting nothing at the park, he walked over to a 7 Eleven. Six Cliff Bars were bought for a few dollars. Instantly ripping the wrappers off violently, Josh wolfed down two Cookie Dough bars. He savored the sweet energy that the food had released through his body, and he analyzed his situation. The best place by far to busk would be a high traffic tourist area. Respectively, an extremely touristy and semi-close area was San Francisco.

He remembered something about a train that ran through the whole Bay Area, called BART. As he was buying his tickets, he suddenly realized that San Francisco was a huge place with a multitude of places (a fact he had known, but not quite realized in its entirety). The person in front of him was almost done buying her ticket to San Francisco, and he tapped her on the shoulder.

“Excuse me, but where in San Francisco can I get cheap food? I'm new to the area.”

She smiled as wide as her cheeks could go, and she started to develop an excited bounce to her stance as she placed her hands wide on her hips.

“Well, I love the Mission district because you can get fantastic food really cheap! It's also really pretty and diverse and cultural!” Ominously, she set her bag down, and started to gesture with her hands. “I just love it there, it's so wonderful! You can see and feel the culture as you walk down the streets.” She flourished, waving her arms around energetically and oozing enthusiasm.

Josh smiled weakly, and backed away slowly in case she was thinking about attacking him again with her happy cheerleader-like advice.

“Thanks,” he smiled warily, and fed a few dollars into the machine to buy his ticket. With nowhere to go but the Mission district, he chose that as his destination and waited a short while for BART to arrive.

As soon as he walked into the Mission district, the bright murals that the girl had so avidly revered were popping out at him from the walls and building. The scents of the baked goods and roasted meat drove him wild. After five minutes, he finally caved in to his instincts.

He entered a particularly aromatic restaurant called Abuelita and ordered beans, tortillas, and rice. For only six dollars, he was confronted with platters that intimidated even the teenage male's ability to eat. A mountain of steaming, fluffy Spanish rice with minced pine nuts and golden corn kernels sat next to a bowl filled deep with thick adobe colored beans. Two inches of slightly lopsided tortillas were letting out such an enticing aroma that he couldn't resist the urge to seize one and crumple it into his mouth.

A flying sensation hit his inexperienced taste buds as he tasted a tortilla unrivaled to any tortilla he had ever had in his life. He took another, and shoved it into his mouth, with a scoopful of beans along with it. The beans add a rich meaty flavor to the buttery tortillas, and he grabbed some rice and dropped it on the next bean-tortilla combo. The flavors set each other off perfectly. Time lost its meaning, and mouthful after mouthful of the hearty, delicious food was taken.

Walking down the street with a newly stretched out and extremely filled stomach, he went towards the area with the Golden Gate Bridge. He reached a square where there were already a couple of buskers playing on opposite sides, a guitarist like himself and a violin. Not seeking competition, he set up near the violinist and started to play. Instantly, he gathered a group of six people and about twenty dollars. He smiled and started to move his fingers faster and faster into elaborated versions of popular songs as he sang along, sometimes just scatting to the music he had heard.

Then suddenly, from behind the shoulder of a cheerful redheaded toddler, a serious looking man in a navy blue uniform started to stride over towards him. Quickly, he packed his guitar, waved at the disappointed crowd, and made of down a side alleyway. Seconds later, the violinist joined him as they jogged down the twisted alleyway, pursued by rapidly moving by the police officer. As Josh made the action of turning right, the other busker tugged at his sleeve and beckoned him down a smaller, darker alleyway. Josh hesitated, and the man dragged him into the alleyway. He fought, but the busker was fit and kept a hand over Josh's mouth as the cop passed them by. The cop passed them again without seeing them, and he started to amble back towards the busy square. A few minutes later, the busker released him and spoke to him.

“Blast it, the bloody awful bobby came at the wrong time. A lad was about to grace me with a five,” he spat out disgustedly with a thick English accent.

Josh knitted his brows up as he tried to decipher both the comment and if he meant any harm.

“I meant… oh, how d'you say it in bloody American!” the violinist exclaimed vehemently and Josh's eyebrows arched and Josh quickly scanned the man. His expensive looking silver college ring set with a deep purple stone told Josh that he went to SF State. For some strange reason, it was paired with an array of thrift shop clothes and a clean looking college sweatshirt. He cleared his throat and attempted his sentence again, “That um… officer came right as I was about to get five dollars. Do you understand that?”

Josh sighed in relief. This was just one musician helping another. Josh bobbed his head vigorously. “I'm Josh. Thanks for that. At first, I thought you were going to mug me.”

The busker laughed. “Nah, you don't even look worth it laddie. Unless of course if you had a bit of brekkie to spare.”

Josh shook his head slightly at the violinist, once again thoroughly befuddled by his last comment.

The busker sighed, looking slightly put out by Josh's lack of English dialect. He started to speak slowly and use hand motions, as if Josh could barely understand English. “Let us,” he motioned back and forth between them, “start this again, eh? My name is Emerson, but please call me Emmett,” he pointed to himself, “and I'm a freshman at SFU. I an't from around here, obviously, I'm a Brit. Moved here last semester. I was just playing,” he mimed a violin, “for a little extra cash. Board here is expensive,” he finished and he rubbed his middle fingers and thumb together, holding it up to his face level.

Josh smiled sarcastically, and then replied. “My name is Josh,” he said, pointing at himself. “I'm from southern California. I go to high school down south,” he pointed down, “and was going to Canada. But now I'm not,” he shook his head, “and I need money to get back home,” as he drew a house in the air with his fingers and rubbed his fingers together the exact same way he did.

Emmett stared at him with a gaze void of any expression, then burst into hysterical laughter and patted him on the back. Josh stiffened, surprised, but he continued to stand there. Then, all of a sudden, something inside him clicked and they were both rolling on the filthy alley floor, so choked with laughter that they hooked their arms around the tops of their heads to try to help them breathe.

When Emmett was finished wiping the merry tears from his hazel eyes, he put his arm around Josh's shoulders and exclaimed loudly, “You're a pretty good bloke. Let us go bask in the joys of music together.” Josh could not agree more.