Maybe I’ve been going about this all wrong.He slurped up the rest of his lunch and swallowed half a bottle of water.I’m concentrating on the wrong demographic.
After scrolling on his phone for a few minutes, Sean found what he needed and jumped up, reenergized. He hopped on the train at Columbus Circle, got off at 72nd Street, and walked up a few blocks. No other street performers around, and he found the block with the Upper West Side Senior Center as well as several of the large, prewar apartment buildings and a small playground. Little children ran all over the place, watched by their parents or nannies, and elderly people sat with their caregivers or by themselves, enjoying the pleasant afternoon.
“Well,” he muttered. “Here goes nothing.”
Sean had always loved big-band music and decided to begin with popular songs from that era. He found the musical accompaniment on his iPhone and put it on. Strains of “Love is Here to Stay” came on, and he began to sing.
A few curious people stopped to listen and then left without a word. Sean continued to sing, choosing “You Made Me Love You” next. Several people who’d been sitting in front of the senior center left their chairs to come and listen. He heard murmurs of “He’s very good,”and, “Who knew young people liked that kind of music?”
The longer he sang, the more people crowded in front of him, and soon people began to toss bills and coins into his basket. When the song ended and he stopped for a drink of water, the audience of fifteen people clapped.
“That was wonderful,” a man around seventy called out. He wore a bright-pink shirt and white pants and beamed at Sean. A tweed cap sat at a jaunty angle on his head.
“Thank you. Thank you, everyone.” Sean took a little bow. “My name is Sean, and I was a singing waiter at Dough Ray Me in Times Square before I was laid off. I lost my apartment in that huge storm a few months ago, and I’m trying to make a living singing for my supper, so to speak.”
“Aw, how sad. You poor thing.”
Several women dug into their purses and put more bills in his basket.
“Thank you so much. I know that many singers choose popular music, but I also love older music, so if you have any requests, I’m happy to oblige.”
“Will you be here tomorrow?” an older woman asked. “My sister is coming to visit, and she loves listening to music.”
“If you’d like me to. This is my first day, but I’d love to return to sing for you all.”
“You should go by the school on Seventy-fourth and the playground on Columbus. Lots of people there for you. And if you know children’s songs, even better.” This from a tiny, impossibly red-haired woman with a bright-blue sweater and huge, black-framed, tinted glasses. “My granddaughter listens to that Baby Shark song so much, I pretend to have a headache and tell them to leave.”
Sean snickered. “My little nieces love it too, and you’re lucky they don’t get angry at you for that.”
She brushed him off with a chuckle and a wave of her hand. “Honey, I’m old. I can say and do whatever I want. I’ve earned it.”
He joined her in her laughter, able to feel as though he might finally found his place and have his feet under him.
Chapter Ten
“And you can see, Mr. McDermott, that the bedroom is cozy.”
“Cozybeing the realtor’s buzzword forbarely enough room to walk?” Hard as he tried, Tristan couldn’t help the sarcasm. He’d seen four apartments that day, and none were remotely worth the price. He wasn’t asking for much—a bedroom where he could turn around without bumping into himself, a kitchen with more than six inches of counter space, and a bathroom where the tile had been cleaned since the end of World War II.
The broker gave him a frosty smile. “Right now, this is what’s available in this neighborhood. If you were willing to look in Queens or farther into Brooklyn…” She lifted a shoulder, and Tristan deduced she’d already written him off.
“Thanks.”
“Bye,” she answered him absently, on her phone, presumably setting up her next appointment.
Tired and discouraged, Tristan decided a cup of coffee was needed, and spotting a diner on the corner, he crossed the street and found a booth in the back. The waitress approached, and Tristan ordered coffee, water, and a salad.
The waitress frowned, obviously disappointed with his choices. “You sure, honey? That’s a real sad meal.”
Cracking the first smile all afternoon, Tristan handed her the menu. “I ate an entire pint of ice cream last night by myself. It’s all good.”
“You can afford it.” She eyed him. “You a cop?”
Startled that she’d made him so easily, Tristan huffed out a sigh. “Not anymore. Private security.”
“My husband’s a corrections officer. You all have that look. I’ll bring your coffee.”
“Thanks.” He gazed out the window, his thoughts not on the search for an apartment but on the tidbits Sean had let slip. He sipped his water, acknowledging the server placing his coffee in front of him with an absent smile.
