by Bob Thurber
Every morning I saw them on the platform. The same boy and girl. The boy held a guitar but he didn't strum it. He stood beside his empty guitar case, weeping. Crowds gathered to watch the girl move her hips and wiggle her torso. She had a nice shape, a nubile body. She swung her hair around, smiling. She may have been the boy's sister or his girlfriend. No one asked why the boy was crying. Occasionally someone dropped money into the case. Only then would the boy stop, but only for a moment. I never gave a nickel, not to him. My wife says I have no compassion for true suffering, but the truth is I'm no fool when it comes to money. That weeping boy was no more a guitar player than I am. And that wild dancing girl, well she earned what I gave her, every cent.
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