No money, no ATM card — definitely no credit card. That was what I had decided for the trip. I felt like I needed the challenge. Hitchhiking to Montreal every couple of weeks was starting to feel routine. The adventure was wearing off a little. I decided I would bring only my guitar and clothes. If I was going to eat, I had to play my guitar – busk – for it.

My destination was Montreal, but on the first day I left so late I only made it to Moncton, a two hour drive away.

It was about seven p.m. when I got dropped off in Moncton. I walked down Main Street to an underpass, where the down town seemed to fade into residential, then back to where I started — the restaurant with the big lobster in front. There wasn’t much going on in this town. It looked like it might be a difficult night to busk, and I thought about the possibility of a hungry night without dinner. Was it a bad idea not to bring money? I was starting to doubt my adventurous side.

I sat on a rock wall in the busiest section of the street (which was far from busy), and people-watched, until the darkness brought a little nervous energy to the street. More people started walking by, and a hotdog vendor even showed up to set up shop near where I was sitting. He asked me about my guitar: “You gonna play that thing, or just sit there doin’ nothing?” My body language must have given away my reluctance to play. I pulled out the guitar and asked him what he wanted to hear. “Play some Guns and Roses – something off the Illusion albums.” I opened up my songbook and played a poor rendition of Don’t Cry, with the vendor joining me on the chorus, and mumbling through the rest. I stopped after the second chorus and he seemed pleased with my playing.

“Not bad. Name’s John. Here, have a hot dog — on the house.” Grateful for the free meal, I thanked him, and told him about my plans to go to Montreal and how I left too late in the day to get any further than here. “Bad place to get stuck in, Moncton… But — it is Friday night, and they got a big concert down the road there” he said as he pointed to a road that went down to the river. “So come midnight there’ll be quite the buzz downtown.”

John was probably around 35, stocky build, dressed in a Toronto Maple leafs jersey and sweat pants. He had a uniqueness about him that sometimes showed confidence, and other times timidness. Like he had been very confident, but was humbled by something and hadn’t quite recovered.

John and I had a pretty good setup. I would play a song, usually something he chose, and a few people walking by would hum along and slow down just long enough to ponder how good John’s hotdogs smelled. He would reward me with another hotdog whenever I took a break.

At about 11:30, sure as John had said, all the people we had seen driving down the side street near us a few hours before, suddenly appeared. Traffic was wild, and the streets were suddenly filled with people. Most of them drunk. That suited me just fine, people were dropping in loonies, toonies — even an occasional fiver into my guitar case. I gained confidence, especially when people saw my song book, a compilation of lyrics from songs that friends had asked me to learn in the past few years. I started telling people who stopped that I was hosting street karaoke — “I play, you sing!” It was great. A twenty-something couple did Mr. Jones by the Counting Crows – his singing was in key, hers was more like a dog’s squeaky toy, but they had fun. Three college guys did a great job of a Blue Rodeo song, Five Days in May and each threw in toonies and thanked me.

Why had I been scared to get started? Business was great. A few people had gathered around – some buying hotdogs, and others looking through my songbook for a song to sing next. I started into one of my favorites, while I waited for the girls to pick the next song..

I played the opening chords to Bobcaygeon by The Tragically Hip. “I left your house this morning….” and I happened to see something out of the corner of my eye. A girl crossing the street. Not just any girl, she had an energy about her walk — in her eyes — that hit me hard. I choked out the rest of the first line as she approached the group “…about a quarter after nine…”

The girl was smiling — not really with her mouth, more with her eyes. She was staring at me, not dropping her eyes for a second, as she walked through the semi-circle of music fans. I didn’t dare break eye contact. She stopped less than a meter away, now face to face, and sang a beautiful harmony on the second line: “could have been the Willie Nelson… could have been the wine…” I don’t remember anything about her clothes, only that her eyes, her smile, her voice, were the most fascinating things I had encountered in my 19 years.

The rest of the song passed like a split-second, and I don’t think we ever lost eye contact. It was like we were both in a trance. I didn’t have to think to remember the lyrics like I usually did, they just came out when I opened my mouth. It was like the song was just flowing.

Went back to bed this morning

and as I’m pulling down the blind

The sky was dull and hypothetical

and falling one cloud at a time

Then it was over, the last line of the song: “Cause it was in Bobcaygeon… where I saw the constellations….
reveal themselves, one star at a time…” Our eyes still on each others, she smiled a nervous smile as I ended on a resonating G chord.

The crowd clapped. She looked shyly at the ground. I had been lost, looking at her eyes, and my face turned red when I suddenly realized there were other people watching us. It was like we had shared an intimate moment, and then found out someone had been watching through a keyhole. She looked around at the people watching, looked back at me quickly and then to her wristwatch. “I… I’ve got to go…” She said. “Thanks… for that.” and she walked quickly past the watchers. I stood speechless as she picked up her pace to a hurried walk down towards the underpass.

John walked over quickly from his hotdog stand. “Man! That was some chemistry – I’ve never seen anything like that! Did you know her? Why didn’t you say anything to her?!” I stuttered. “No, I don’t know her… Man… What just happened?” I was still confused. John grabbed my guitar. “What are you doing? Go after her! At least find out her name!” Startled, I walked off quickly the way she left, before he finished his sentence. I picked up speed, but could hear the small crowd talking to John as I walked off, “man, that was the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen on the street…” and “What a beautiful song… they must have known each other …”

I walked faster, my mind racing, doubt creeping in. What was I going to say when I caught up with her? What if she told me to get lost? What if we fell in love?

I stopped. I looked around, down the side street that I thought I had seen her turn down, away from the river. Nothing. I looked quickly further down Main Street, and couldn’t see her. I ran down the sidestreet, and yelled “wait!” An older couple turned and gave me a look like I was crazy. She was gone. Disappeared.

I turned and walked back to the main street. John was there, talking with a happy young couple, who looked like they’d had a few beers, putting ketchup on their hotdogs. As soon as he saw me he ignored them. “Guitar Guy! Mike! What happened? Did you talk to her?”

I kept walking and sat on the rock wall beside him. “She was gone. I don’t know. I should have said something… Anything… Damn.”

John finished serving his customer, walked over to me and sat down next to me on the stone wall. “Man. I don’t know what to say. I’ve ever seen anything like that in all my days of selling hotdogs. She was something else, that one.”

“Yeah” was all I could say.

Sometimes I imagine relationships to be like a collection of vases. I imagine a small room, and all the walls in the room are shelves. Each relationship I’ve been in, from a one-night stand to a long-term commitment, is a vase on the shelf. Some vases are bigger, and easier to reach, some are high up on the shelf and each one is different. Others are just cracked pieces on the floor. The vase for my Moncton girl is alone on a high shelf in an empty corner of the room. From where I’m standing, it looks small and perfect, but I can’t really tell from so far away. It looks from here like it’s painted with little intricate designs in dark blues and rich reds. The other vases I can take down and look at, but not this one. I can’t reach it.

When I arrived in Montreal and told the story to my friends there, they said I should put an ad online or in the Moncton paper, so she might see it and we could meet. I never did. I think I just like having that one perfect vase, up on the shelf and no ladder to ever reach it.