14th street and 7th avenue, close to midnight. I'm walking down the stairs to wait for the 1 or 2 or 3 train, and I hear him before I see him. He's playing sharp and fast on his old old old violin, and despite the late hour after a long day, I can feel myself grin from ear to ear. God I love the sound of the violin. He's an old cuban man, smiling back at me and leaning into the moan and wail of his music. And he's walking toward me as he plays. Damnit I shouldn't have smiled. He pulls the violin away from himself and tells me in a thick accent that I am new pupil. I blink. He sets this gorgeous old wooden instrument under my chin and tilts my head down toward it. He bends and unbends my fingers until I am holding it right, and I let him. He points to the bow and tells me it is a knife. I don't understand. He repeats it. I shrug okay. He points to the violin and tells me that it is a piece of kentucky fried chicken. I don't understand. He says, watch me cut my chicken, and begins playing the violin under my chin exactly as if if were a piece of chicken and he was an angry carver. The sound is beautiful. He hands me the knife and tells me to do the same. I'm too enthralled to be self-conscious, so I begin to cut the antique chicken in front of me. He claps and tells the other people waiting that I am a natural. He sets my fingers up and has me play for a few minutes. He won't take any money from me, but tells me to get a guitar or a violin and he will teach me to play for free. He lives for music. He looks for people that might want to learn to play instruments. I offer him some food from work. He thanks me but tells me that his wife has packed him dinner already. Get that guitar, he tells me. The three train arrives and I think I'll look into it.