Roaming the streets of San Francisco with Gui on a sunny Friday, I feel lucky and young. As if we have returned to our high school days in Beijing.
Our day started with something really amazing.
We both took public transportation and arranged to meet up in San Francisco Main Library, Chinese section. She was there first, and when I walked up along Larkin, I saw her sitting on the steps in front of the library.
I sat down next to her, “Decided to enjoying the sun?”
“Well, the library won‘t open till 12. Besides,” She looked to my left and whispered, ”I’m enjoying a personal concert.“
Only then did I notice the music coming from our left. I looked over. A young guy in his late twenties was also sitting next to us holding a Guitar, and he was playing a Spanish Classical Guitar piece. His music was mesmerizing. He was wearing a short sleeve orange colored shirt. A long and complicated tattoo on his right forearm was visible. His rapidly dancing fingers looked almost like growing out of those mystical looking tattoos instead of from his hand. If that was true then it might have explained why he could be so good.
“He was playing non-stop for the past half an hour ever since I arrived.” Gui whispered to me, ”Isn‘t he amazing?!“
I nodded and looked at the Davis Symphony hall across from the plaza. Before I was able to formulate some kind of speculation on his musical origin, a couple of young punks sat down next to the Guitar player and they chatted with him.
I couldn’t help eavesdropping.
Guitar Player: “I‘ve been playing punk rock all my life, men! Just started getting into this Spanish shit last year! Holy shit! Men! I can’t go back after that!”
Young Punk A: “Yeah! I hear ya, Men! This is the real shit!”
Guitar Player: “Totally!”
Young Punk B: “...”
Guitar Player: “I stay in the shelter at night and play Guitar all day. Pretty cool! I’m just here (pointing at the library behind him) to check out some old recording shit.”
The library opened then, we walked in. Gui got an art book and I got some audio books. As we walked onto the sunny but windy street again, we were still marveled at what we heard earlier on the steps of the library.
“He plays so well and he lives in the shelter! Imagine that!” Gui exclaimed incredulously.
I glared at her with a sneer, “Told you! There is no justice in this world.”
There is no justice that he lives in the shelter,
or there is no justice that he plays so well?
There is no justice that he is happy even though he lives in the shelter?
Or there is no justice that he is content with his life while we are not?
Could we be content to live like him if we were as gifted?