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At the age of twelve, <a class="link link--external" data-proxy-href="/proxy.php?link=https%3A%2F%2Fi.pinimg.com%2F564x%2F27%2F3d%2F98%2F273d981ad676f84626fd8f1e79baf556.jpg&amp;hash=e4505d524190c431e786e2544c85d51c" href="https://i.pinimg.com/564x/27/3d/98/273d981ad676f84626fd8f1e79baf556.jpg" rel="nofollow ugc noopener" target="_blank">Ayren Stéphane Bélanger</a> didn't know the full story of his best friend's cousin, but always felt that whatever led Spencer to come live with his friend's family had to be worse than just a fire in his home. He could tell there was some kind of horrific scene that played out over and over behind the reclusive teenager's eyes whenever Ayren was caught staring at him from across the room. Words formed questions that were left unspoken, at least until Ayren formed them into lyrics and sang them into existence.<br/>
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Whatever song it was that Ayren sang, the words seemed to speak to the mind of a very troubled Spencer and form a parallel with his own tragic story and bind it to Ayren's. The message Ayren imparted was that he wasn't alone in this, that he had a friend that cared and was going through the same heartache as he was. Music was the unifying factor that provided a universal healing to everyone that listened and was going through a hard time, especially Spencer. What Ayren couldn't ask Spencer about his troubles, music shattered the barriers between them and brought a smile to his face.<br/>
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Ayren could never forget the way the teenager smiled when he played his guitar and started singing. Up until this point in his life, Ayren's family had been the only people that appreciated the musical gift that he had, and their home had always been full of laughter and song until his father remarried Denise. She forbid his guitar playing and his singing until the house became a crypt for dying souls. Ayren's will could not be broken no matter how hard Denise hit him, or punished him. His will to survive was so much stronger than she could have possibly imagined.<br/>
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He'd been beaten and starved by his stepmom, and raped by his step-brother on numerous occasions until he was old enough to run away and leave the horrors behind him. Ayren never sang about that kind of darkness, but overcoming it and moving on with his life. He was homeless, but looking at him now no one would ever be the wiser. His clothes were spotless and ironed, his skin and hair clean, teeth brushed. Ayren was a street busker, a squatter that lived in empty dilapidated buildings and warehouses damaged by Hurricane Katrina.<br/>
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Leaving the shelter of the bayou meant that his street smarts had to become honed. He'd been arrested once, because he pulled a knife on another homeless person that tried to steal his gear. His guitar was his bread and butter, and without it Ayren would have trouble surviving on the street. He would have had to resort to pimping himself out for money, or selling illegal shit in order to make a living. All he had was six strings and his voice, and using anything other than those two things --he felt was beneath him.<br/>
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In order to get a real job, Ayren would have to have a permanent address, and he didn't. Squatting in storm damaged dwellings wasn't pleasant, and he was wary of the New Orleans Police Department because they could arrest him for trespassing on private property, so he alternated where he laid down his head at night just so people wouldn't notice a transient taking up space in a forsaken place with tree branches growing through an hole in the roof. No one knew his business, except for Ayren, because he didn't dwell on what he didn't have.<br/>
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He focused on what he did have instead, and right now it looked like he had about $300 bucks in his empty guitar case from donations from the passerby. <i>Well make dat $350, thought Ayren. </i>The cute guy that made the song request, had extended his hand forward to offer a handshake and a little extra that couldn't fit in his guitar case. Balancing the base of his guitar on the toe of his black boot, the Cajun turned into the handshake with a firm grasp of the other man's hand. Ayren stared at him long and hard, still feeling that strange sense of familiarity that he couldn't pinpoint.<i> Its dat smile, he look so fa'milya, thought Ayren once more.</i><br/>
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<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#99ccff">"Tank you, cher fo' de tip. 'Preciate it!" </span>Ayren replied gratefully and in earnest, drawing out the affectionate term, so it sounded like shaaaaaaaa.<br/>
As he was pocketing the $50, the generous patron continued talking. <br/>
<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#99ccff"><br/>
"Naw ah s'pose ah was ah bit eaga' to play,"</span> he laughed and froze when the guy finally gave Ayren his name.<br/>
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<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#99ccff">"Spence?  Hold on..whoaaaooo! Yo name...Spencer?" </span>Ayren inquired, trying to connect all the dots when their conversation was interrupted by another guy in the crowd.<br/>
<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ff4d4d"><br/>
<i>"Magnificent! You, Sir, have a promising talent. Tell me, do you have an agent? Have you ever performed in front of a real crowd?"</i></span><br/>
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"Watchu tawkin' about homme? Ah jus' performed in fronta<b> dis</b> crowd. Dun need no damn agent fo' dat. Ah got a busker license. Wat you? Po-po?"</span> Ayren asked the man, suspicious of his intent.<br/>
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<i><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ff4d4d">"What's your name? Do you write your own songs?" He drew a card from his blazer, thrusting it between Ayren and Spencer as if Spencer was invisible.</span></i><br/>
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<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#99ccff">"You de one dat need to be showin' dey identity, ah ain't tellin you mah name! Ah dun even know you homme you axin' me all dese questions."<br/>
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<i><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ff4d4d">"Mateo Arios, but please just call me Mat," he rolled his tongue with a flair as he announced himself. "That talent of yours is going to waste here on the streets, believe me!" Spencer hated this man already. "I can get you into the front door, onto the bottom step of the stairway to fame."</span></i><br/>
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<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#99ccff">"De fuck you tawkin about? Ain't a damn thang bein wasted 'round here 'cept the air flappin from yo mouth. Mebbe you shoulda started wid a propa intra'duction foist. Mais la! You sum kinda hustla aintcha? You a pimp MAT? Ah'm not in'trested in all dat shit. Who you to come at me tellin' me ah'm wastin mah time here?"<br/>
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"Eu un sacré nerf d'agir comme vous me connaissez!"</span> Ayren spouted off angrily in French, then switched to English again.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#99ccff">"Boy you dun know me lak dat."<br/>
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<div class="bbCodeBlock-content">Got some damn nerve to act like you know me</div>
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Apparently Mat's interpersonal communication needed some work, because he'd completely gotten off on the wrong foot with Ayren. The Cajun flicked the man's business card away from him, and it landed inside his guitar case without his even looking at it.<br/>
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<i>The front door? Maybe Spencer was no talent-scavenging agent, but he could get Ayren a gig at The Door easily. Maybe he was still unheard of, but with a voice like that, he doubted it would matter. "Of course we'll have to negotiate a contract-"</i></span><br/>
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"Ain't signin' mah name to nuttin! You sum kinda couyon, you? Passe'! Go make de misere somewhere else, MAT." </span>Ayren declared.<br/>
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<div class="bbCodeBlock-content">couillon/couyon: fool, idiot; Passe' : go away; make de misere: cause trouble</div>
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<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ffcc99"><i>"I can get him a gig at The Door without a contract," Spencer offered smugly, eyeing the look of distaste on this Mateo's face. "I work there." He turned to Ayren now, gauging his reaction, if the blond was even interested in performing anywhere else. If this is where he preferred to play then it was no one's place to stop him. "It's no trouble at all for me to pull a few strings, if you'd like that."</i></span><br/>
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Ayren was immediately reminded of the conversation with Spencer once he started speaking again, but since the shit had been stirred up between Mat and Spencer, he was planned to move to a better side of the street.  Ayren crouched down to count and stow away the cash he'd collected after singing his short set of songs. He hadn't looked up at Spencer just yet, because he didn't want to lose count, but he was listening to the two men debate between themselves. <br/>
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"Awrite, how you gonna do all dat? Ah tried dere a month ago, dey wasn't hirin' street singas last time ah checked. Yo name mite as well be Jesus, gonna make a miracle happen?"</span> he said offhandedly, then placed his guitar tenderly into the case, casually regarding the strange business card laying its the velvet lining.<br/>
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Rising to stand, he was trying to gauge exactly what the hell was going on after reading the business card.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#99ccff"> <br/>
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"Wait...hold on. You ain't a pimp, yo ain't po-po. But you sho as hell a poor judge of characta an offensive as all gitout, homme. Jus' cause ah'm out here on de street don' make me less of a person, ya feel me? Ah'm proud ta sing on dese Nawlins streets." </span>Ayren replied in a more calm tone of voice, as he informed Mateo that he wasn't diminished by his current state of affairs.<br/>
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Then he turned to Spencer. <span class="fixed-color" style="color:#99ccff">"You sumthin fam'il'a cher. You kinfolk to Blaise Guillory, Ah rememba yo smile."</span> Ayren grinned.<br/>
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<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#99ccff">"You know where to fine me, if you lookin fo talent, homme."</span> he said to Mateo, as he picked up his guitar case.<br/>
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"As fo you... We got sum catchin' up to do, us. Mind if we pass the veiller? It time to take a short break from dis, yeah." </span>Ayren turned, checking Spencer out. "You sho lookin dif'rent since last time we seen each otha. Fo sho." <br/>
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<div class="bbCodeBlock-content">Spend some time talking, chit chat</div>
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Ayren flipped the fringe of his bangs out of his eyes as he offered Spencer a compliment. <span class="fixed-color" style="color:#99ccff">"You look damn good ac'tually."</span> he laughed. <span class="fixed-color" style="color:#99ccff">"Ooo-wee! So...where  goin?"</span><br/>
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