l'accordeoniste

the accordionist plays every day at civic center BART with his dog. his shoes and the dog's kerchief will often match. the dog has a blanket on which he lays, alternately attentive to his master, to the world around, or playing dead — on his back with his paws splayed out in the air. sometimes, the accordionist will have drawn a red heart on the center of the dog's chest. his repertoire ranges in style and tone and i can only rarely name the songs, even if i vaguely recognize most of them.

in the paris metro, the halls catch the sounds and funnel it, turning it through the cylindrical tunnels out onto the cavelike quais. here, the room is vast, less a product of art nouveau and absinthe than the fifties and power suits. sheer grey walls and the dull shine of the escalator rising three muscular stories.

the sounds of the accordion do not twist all the way downstairs, they don't even make it to the first level. but they rise through the atrium of the station — over the dog and his splayed leg and the red fur on his chest, over the slicked black hair of the accordionist which falls in a lank shock over the right lens of his glasses, over the heads of the sleeping crust punks in their pile, over the suited commuters, the women in skirts and nikes, the polos and the pleats, the sweatshirts, an errant couple, and me, as I take the stairs by twos out into the sun on market street.