On Giving Money to Buskers
It’s a nice thing to do.
On Sunday, my sister and I were on the subway when two young people got on the train and cleared some space. “Showtime! Showtime!” they exclaimed, as a group of commuters sitting on the bench in front of them tucked their feet under the seat and sat up a little straighter, making their bodies smaller as to avoid any potential collisions.
One kid had a boombox which he placed on the floor and turned on. The other child started dancing as the music begun, whipping his body around the poles and using the handrails as leverage to invert his body upside down. They traded places at one point. There were backflips and handsprings and then, to tepid applause, a Yankee hat passed around the car for money. The hat came my way, but I didn’t have any cash.
“I’m surprised you’re not giving them money,” my sister whispered to me as the hat came by. “You always do.”
“Always” is generous, but as a rule, I do tend to give money to buskers. There’s an old man who plays a plodding, slow dirge on the violin at my subway station and I give him a dollar if I have it. The same goes for the kid who plays classical music on an electric keyboard while his dad watches from the corner. Sometimes when I’m walking up the stairs to change trains, I hear an erhu playing something mournful; usually, I give that man money too. I don’t mind giving money to strangers and besides, busking looks like an awful lot of work. Why shouldn’t I reward that with a little something if I can?
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