He lives on the bottom floor, paying rent to his landlord and neighbor, Alfred the Slim, Slimmy, Slimy Al, etc. Mostly unknown to the Witness, he drops off an unmarked envelope through a rusted mail slot on the last day of every month, a money order for $736.42, as well as any illustration of the Park. It’s something he requires every month. The drawing can be as detailed or crude as the Witness pleases, either way it pleases Slimmy Slime Al.

    The Witness exits his aged abode. A multi-family home with an unfairly split level, but he doesn’t mind. With his daily walks, he tends to spend little time inside. The serenity of the outdoors, the presence of Mother Nature, fulfills all his needs for things such as meditations, making decisions, and most obviously; to see what poor, wretched souls the Park has enveloped.

    Walking the familiar, cracked pavement, the Witness admires the tumbleweed bushes lining his path. Gusts of wind bring the sweet scent of rose hips and dewy grass. A grounding experience, a reminder of what was and what is and what could be and could’ve been. Surrounding lush trees form an impenetrable canopy, leaving very little room for glimpses of the Sun’s rays. The Witness begins his daily stroll.

    A decent saunter to start, no doubt, but don’t mistake this enthusiasm for nothing more than an undying and relentless boredom felt by the poor creature. With not much to do at home, no kids, no hobbies to be found or enjoyed. It seems that the only pleasure that the Witness yearns to feel is that of being acutely aware of the world around him.

    Cracks and blemishes, generally the pavement’s unruly condition is consistent throughout the Park, running like veins and arteries, bringing what life it can into the collapsing maw, it’s obvious the decades of neglect has dealt irreversible damage to its integrity, and reputation. Tree canopies, no matter how magical, are not soundproof (to the Witness’ dismay) to the surrounding city’s unnatural and unpredictable noises. Hundreds of thousands of footsteps, vapid conversations, motorized beasts, crashing and screams of said beasts, manholes flatulating, steel masons and stone crafters slam their tools. All of these sounds, and many more unmentioned, form into a sonic dome, surrounding and suffocating the Park; leaving it on its own, no one to look over, or even care about the doubtless crimes and misdeeds. Rows of seven foot high ivory bricks embody the mentioned aural protection.

    The Witness walks along this wall daily, looking for loose bricks to peer into the otherworldly Metropolis, though these damages are repaired seemingly overnight, he can be lucky enough to get a few quick glimpses. A pile of forgotten, mortar lays solidified on the pavement, sparkling in the morning sunlight, standing out compared to the black and broken sidewalk. He turns a corner keeping up his decent pace as dead pine needles lightly cover the walkway and dull the sounds of beautiful music playing in the distance.

    Dancing his hands along the sickly straight surface of the wall allows him to feel the divots and slight imperfections of the Babylonian structure hiding his beloved park. Nothing more than some rhetorical ammunition for when he finds the bastard responsible for the construction of the ugly wall. A cool breeze rushes over his naked head, getting a real sensation around the temples of his oversized glasses. “One foot past the other” he enthusiastically mumbles, “what a beautiful day this is starting to be…”, he smirks.

    Traces of street music bleeds into the Park’s natural ambience, with each step the music gets closer. Lured like siren-song, he follows a rough path just off the sidewalk, tumbling over exposed, reaching roots and branches to find the source; an acoustic guitar. Strumming with precision and discipline, the rhythm is seductive; an undeniable beauty that drives all genus of life to observe and listen. After the confusion fades, he finds himself in a perfect pine tree grove with a willow tree gracefully growing from the center of the clearing. Like a hand reaching up to the heavens, each branch grasping at what little light it can get from the omnipotent canopy above. The silky strands of the willow droop down to the browning crabgrass, a curtain for the mysterious performer. A dirty looking man continues to strum, sitting on a post-neon blue plastic milk crate, leaning on the trunk and not noticing the Witness’ presence. 

    Music roars from the instrument, memories from Albert King, Johnny Copeland, sprinkles of Chuck Berry and others start the performance. “Oh me, ooooooh my!” he gracefully grooves into his rhythm. 

    “What have we seen with….” 

    “These busted ol’ eyes!”

    An impressive solo begins to possess the figure, each note purposeful and methodical, yet he plays with such ease and natural reason.

    “The man approaches close.” 

    “…But chooses to act like a ghost.”

    “What really hurts the most…”

    “Don’ know who’s gone n’ past this ol’ post!”

    Taken away again by God himself, pure bliss and passion implodes from the old man, quickly ending in a sigh of relief. He kicks open a battered guitar case laying in front of him. Sadly empty with a few greasy, crumbled napkins (used for a hearty lunch no doubt.) Flattening and holding one of the napkins reveals tiny scribblings.

“I’m blind :(, please donat…” The rest has been torn into unrecognition.

    The Witness stays silent and takes in what the musician has to offer.

    “What? I ain’t allowed here neither?” As he sips from a dented copper flask, followed by a wheezing cough, wiping his hands on his lap. Running his hands through his gray, coiled hair, beads of sweat form on his brow. Temperatures are rising, along with the squirrels, titmice, chickadees, and groundhogs bring life to the still grove, practically surrounding the musician.

    “I don’t mean for my silence to offend you, sir. You play beautifully, something like this is a rare occurrence, I hardly have a reaction prepared. Speechless you might say. Don’t let me put an end to your art.”

    “Thank ya my friend, this one is for you! Voluntary compensation is at your discretion.” Before he begins to play, he tightens the loose dirty scraps around his calloused fingers. The Witness gives himself a seat, gets his palm sized sketch pad from his back pocket and listens to the rest of his piece, drawing the winsome man.

    Dying leaves blow through the wind, wafting an earthy smell mixed with body odor to his nostrils, from the Busker, no doubt. His khaki windbreaker flops loudly, disturbing the serene pine grove, the white, raised reflective seams flash like a strobe. Before the Witness takes his leave, he drops a few silver coins into the Busker’s guitar case, the least he can do. The payment landed around variously sized acorns, tree nuts, seeds and leaves. Mother nature is a better audience than the lonely, awkward man he thinks. 

   Exiting the Grove, he grips his quick graphite sketch and continues on his way. He has much more ahead of him.