It was cold outside and warm inside and it made him feel sleepy. He had air around his knees, around his ankles, there was a flow close to his skin and it cooled him, too much. And now, a blanket and some tea, the small confines of an empty bus, he wanted to pass out.
He'd gotten up early, played outside on the sidewalk for three hours, playing his music and spreading the word. He left his guitar case open, put in a few of his own dollars. It was a trick his mother had taught him with pistachios. Always put a shell in an empty bowl, then everyone knows what to do. But the streets were not a party and he had less than fifteen dollars.
The seats were gone. Some blankets, a couple mattresses, some battery-operated lamps and lights strung up. He fell onto a mattress, sheets kicked off the edge, and covered himself with a quilt, patched together from old high school T-shirts. He had no idea how many people would be there tonight, but he had just enough time to rest, heat up some soup, and give whoever showed up a good show.
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