The Strike: Jimmy profits from your misfortune

The Ministry of Finance says that this strike is costing France 300 million euros a day, which I don’t doubt. But for me and Buddy, the past week has been our most profitable since our arrival in the Hexagon.

I have no profession or occupation and no particular calling, talent or skill to speak of, but as some of you may know, I earn my keep by busking on the Metro. I spend anywhere from two to ten hours per day playing harmonica for strangers I usually never see for more than three minutes at a time.

I don’t descend into the Metro for purely pedagogical purposes, but can say that I’ve learned a thing or two while down under. Most importantly, I have discovered that my earning capacity is a function of three criteria: (i) number of riders, (ii) number of competing musicians on any given Metro line and (iii) the ambiance and attitude of the passengers. During the strike, these three criteria have conspired to fill my hat with other people’s pocket change.

First, the number of potential patrons per platform is dramatically higher during the strike. Since it takes any given passenger two, three or even four times as long as it usually would to get where he or she is going, I get at least twice as long to convince them to fling a euro in my direction.

Second, since the platforms and trains are so crowded during the strike, there’s almost no room for any competition. Most Metro musicians play guitar, which there is literally no room for these days. Then I show up with a simple harmonica and have all the space I need, even if I have virtually no space at all.

Third, as you may have noticed, the strike brings out the best and worst of the riding public, which demonstrates equal parts anger and sympathy, fear and patience, rage and compassion. Lucky for me, the anger, fear and rage are reserved for the bullies pushing their way onto overstuffed sardine-can Metro trains, while the sympathy, patience and compassion are reserved for fellow sardines, children and the handicapped and me, the humble harmonica hobo.

The result is a sort of camp ambiance, where people who may not have known each other before are thrown into close surroundings and, without speaking a word, find a common bond against the bears, tigers and lions veiled in the darkness. Into this setting strolls a lone hobo, as if he were pulling up a crate at a campfire in a hobo jungle. I play as softly as possible and then hear one voice after another fall quiet as a silencing blanket envelopes the train car, like a midnight snowfall absorbing the night’s noise. The riders hush and lean forward, hanging on my every note, absorbing the only Metro music they’ve heard in days. And even if many can’t even reach their pockets, let alone my outreached cowboy hat, I end up with more to show for one Metro ride than I normally would in an hour.

Vive la grève.