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Busking was a part of every major culture in the world since ancient times. In ancient Egypt and Greece, citizens entertained and passed a hat around for donations. During the Middle Ages, troubadours were the chosen personal performers of the aristocracy, while jongleurs brought joy and laughter to a multitude of common folk. It appeared that the torch had been passed down to the young man earning an honest living today. One of Ayren Belanger's greatest blessings in life had been his innate skill with the acoustic guitar and his pitch perfect vocals.<br/>
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The self-taught street musician was playing a midnight black Fender T-Bucket acoustic-electric guitar on the sidewalk near the corner of Frenchmen and Bourbon Streets. Placing the medium sized hard case on the ground, it lay open at his feet before Ayren shrewdly threw in a few dollars and pocket change as seed money. The Cajun boy swiveled the guitar case around to face the passing pedestrians as he started to play. Many passersby ignored him, jogging past with a preconceived notion that Ayren was just another homeless guy begging for pocket change.<br/>
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The one distinction separating Ayren from the homeless population was his confident flair of showmanship, the sharp attire he wore, and the spicy tones of his Louisiana Cajun accent. The blue eyed, flaxen haired male wore a mandarin-collared, graphite and black color-blocked shirt with a pair of black flap detailing shorts and matching high top leather boots on his feet. Luckily for Ayren, he was standing beneath an awning that protected his fair skin from the sun's harsh rays. Blonde bangs spilled from the front of a knit beanie Ayren wore, yet hid his gaze when he lowered his gaze to the strings. His charm had drawn the attention of a few pedestrians, who lingered to listen to the pleasant sound of Ayren's voice accompanied by guitar.<br/>
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Ayren had an amazing vocal range, a passion lurked within his aquamarine eyes as he maintained visual contact with the crowd without breaking tempo with his fingers on the guitar strings. Ayren’s voice had a soulfulness that was different as he sang a cover of the band, Green Day. Ayren was hopeful that the passersby would be generous today, their donations might allow him a decent meal and enough left over in which to find a place to sleep for the night. The song ended and those who stopped to hear him play, clapped their hands.<br/>
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"<i>Merci beaucoup mes amis. </i><b>Dat song ya heard was Wake Me Up When Septemba Ends, by Green Day,"</b>Ayren enunciated in a slow drawl. "<b>Got any more requests? dis Cajun boy takin' 'em!"</b> he called out.<br/>
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Besides the sound of money being tossed into the open guitar case, the rattle of a supermarket cart was shaking Ayren from his dream of getting a ham and cheese po boy with fries and a cola at the Praline Connection down the street. An old shopping cart, rusted and full of tin cans shook as it passed over the uneven concrete, a shrivelled old man behind it with a white beard travelling down a stained T-shirt. Ayren watched him for a moment, trying to get a bearing on his age, one year to a homeless guy was at least five for other folks, likely more. As expected, the man avoided Ayren's friendly gaze. The harshness of street life taught him very quickly to stay isolated in every possible way, even a stray glance could mean trouble he'd best avoid.<br/>
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<i>"Get out white boy! This my street. Take your skinny ass outta here!" </i>he yelled, not but two seconds later.<br/>
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His greasy grey mane surrounded his haggard face and intertwined with long grey whiskers protruding from his upper lip. He had a polystyrene cup just inches in front of his legs. It contained about two bucks worth of coins. He seemed eager to hear the gentle jingle of some stranger parting with their coin. Ayren had seen him around when he was busking, but he had to get to the hot spots fast before someone claimed the portion of the sidewalk where he could play without being chased off by someone that didn't want him playing there. To the passerby he yelled, “spare change!" The guy apparently was an alcoholic begging for money to buy a bottle of whiskey that could warm his chest and cloud his mind.<br/>
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<b>"Calm yo shit ole man, ah ain't dun nuttin to ya! It yo street awrite. It say NUMBNUTS on dat sign rite up dere, yeah."</b> he gestured, collecting his donations from his guitar case to a few titters of laughter from passersby.<br/>
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Ayren wasn't deterred nor intimidated at all by the homeless man's presence or his yelling. The old man eventually moved off and began to harass another busker, as he continued to entertain the crowd on his Fender T- Bucket cutaway acoustic electric guitar. The song he'd chosen was called <a class="link link--external" data-proxy-href="/proxy.php?link=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DlKKIE5JX1zM&amp;hash=6a6a48070c4f7362105a1f8e655846c5" href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lKKIE5JX1zM" rel="nofollow ugc noopener" target="_blank">"Ink,"</a> by the band Coldplay. The song was challenging because the finger placements were difficult.<br/>
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<b>"Got a tattoo said 'together thru life'/Carved in your name with my pocket knife/And you wonder when you wake up will it be alright/Feels like there's something broken inside/All I know/All I know/Is that I'm lost/Whenever you go/All I know/Is that I love you so/So much that it hurts/Got a tattoo and the pain's alright/Just want a way of keeping you inside/All I know/All I know/Is that I'm lost/In your fire below/All I know/Is that I love you so/So much that it hurts/I see the road begin to climb/I see your stars begin to shine/I see your colours and I'm dying of thirst/All I know/Is that I love you so/So much that it hurts/Oh yeah yeah yeah/So much that it hurts/So much that it hurts."</b><br/>
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As Ayren belted out the warm melody, his fingers twisted in all sorts of odd shapes to form chords around the maple wood fretboard. As Ayren immersed himself in the mood of the song, his booted foot began to tap and as his head bounced, his silky-straight, golden-platinum blonde bangs cascaded into his sparkling seaspray eyes and concealed their glimmer. Ayren's singing voice emanated a deep soulfulness, almost soothing as he dragged his hand across the higher frets. Musical notes flowed out of him like a audible picture of his soul. <br/>
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As his voice flowed gently against the ears of the diners on the patio of the nearby cafe', it left a sorrowful aching wave that rose to a crescendo. As his fingers slowed, emotion swelled up in his throat, projecting the feelings of a shared emotional connection. The strains of the acoustic guitar faded with the sound of his husky voice when the song ended. Ayren's fingers touched his heart as a gesture of thank you while taking a bow for the applause that the audience had given him in appreciation for the music. Ayren always appreciated the applause and hoped there would be a few generous folks in the crowd that wouldn't mind donating a few bucks for his efforts. <br/>
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<b>"Gal-ee! Dat song make me work up a sweat, yeah! Merci, mes amies!" </b>Ayren announced cheerfully.<br/>
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The joint always seemed to be jumping down at<i> The Famous Door,</i> a popular nightclub/music venue which had the distinction of once being a theater and a cabaret space as part of its history. The same rollicking theme evolved into the establishment becoming one of New Orleans’ leading spots for local and touring indie rock artists to perform their music on its three stages. The nightclub was located just steps away from where Ayren was busking in the historic <i>Faubourg Marigny/French Quarter distric</i>t, offering premiere live music six days a week. Ayren never had the idealistic vision that he'd one day play in a place like that for a standing room only gig. <br/>
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No, the Cajun boy from Houma, Louisiana just loved to sing, and he loved to play guitar. He could play the fiddle and other <i>Acadien Louisiane </i>musical instruments, but he had <i>mad skills </i>with that Fender. Even if he was out on the streets of Nawlins busking, he sang and he played as though he were at a music venue that actually paid him, and didn't expose him to the intense humidity and summer heat on a daily basis. As the song came to an end, his gaze locked on a man that seemed entranced by the music, but the realization that they'd met before didn't hit him just yet. The applause from the crowd made Ayren smile, and as donations were tossed he offered his gratitude.<br/>
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<b>"Haaaay dere homme. You lookin' lak you got anotha song f'me to play! Ah play sumtin' fo' you, me."</b> he smiled, picking Spencer out of the crowd and putting him on the spot for the next song.<br/>
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As he waited for the guy to speak up, Ayren grabbed a bottle of water out of the backpack beside him, taking a thirsty swig. <br/>
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