copyright @1973 by the New York Times Co.
as it appeared on the New York Times (October 6 '73)

IT IS rush hour in a New York City subway station, I careen through the closing doors of a graffiti-laden car to join the flourescent pallor of 40 fellow robots. Their faces hidden behind newspapers, they seem to plead only for anonymity. "Please don't bother us," they proclaim. "We're not really here."

I spot a space miraculously vacant, plop down and open my newspaper. My eye momentarily strays to the gentleman on my right. Now I know why the seat was empty: I am installed beside a certifiable weirdo. Physically he is unassuming--a portly, middle-aged man sporting an open shirt that shouldn't be and baggy pants long overdue for laundering. His garb is not the threat, though; it's what he's doing. He is grasping what appears to be an ordinary gray typewriter case. Painstakingly, he places it between his knees, balancing this apparent treasure with great deliberation. Finally satisfied as to the perfection of its placement, he pulls out an aging pair of drumsticks and gets to work.

Eyes focused on an unseen maestro, he plays that typewriter case with an enthusiasm rarely reserved for portable luggage. My initial reaction is to flee. (I long learned that it is easier to read about eccentricity than to sit next to it.) Besides, how dare he interrupt my gloom? Yet he holds me by his commitment and wins me by his style.

Not a student of percussion, but a confirmed pencil-thumper since birth, I quickly realize that he is good. Not just interestingly incongruous, but good. Rhythms fly. Tempos alter abruptly. Those thin sticks mercilessly flail that unassuming Samsonite. A stick is dropped. He picks it up, scrupulously searches for a structural defect. Finding none, he resumes the concert unperturbed.

What showmansip! A poor man's Liberace, with taste. Pounding away furiously, eyes closed, he sends first one stick and then the other high above his head. Surely this time he has overreached himself. No, he retrives them both with indolent ease, never missing a beat.

He is an artist, never questioning his gift, never acknowledging the presence of his captive audience. He solicits no money and receives none. This is understandable. Would you tip Leonard Bernstein?

Finally, I notice my fellow passengers. Robots redeemed! I see about me a carful of radiant, beaming human beings. Smiles on New Yorkers such as I've never known. Teeth for miles. Grins! Feet tapping, heads keeping time, we have become a community if only for a few stops.

Our nameless drummer has accomplished this transformation in less than five minutes. At 72nd Street he quietly gathers his possessions and departs, accepting my meager accolade with a dignified nod.

Eccentric? Crazy? A frustrated genius too poor to buy a drum? I don't know. I prefer to remember him as the Pied Piper of Seventh Avenue.

And my smile lasted all the way to 86th Street.(#)