A Penny for a Hollow Tune

The wind coming off the Red River had a damp chill to it, even in late August. It carried the smell of diesel from the tour boat and deep-fried onions from a food kiosk. Mike felt the grit of the concrete plaza through the thin soles of his boots as he tapped his foot, trying to find a rhythm that wasn't there. His guitar, an old Yamaha with a crack running through the varnish, felt heavier than usual.

"Again," Darryl said, his voice flat. He strummed a brittle G-chord on his own guitar, a newer, shinier Takamine that Mike secretly envied. "From the top. And try to look like you're not at a funeral."

Mike didn't respond. He just started the intro to 'Northern Town', a song he’d written about leaving his home in Flin Flon. It was a good song. A sad song, but a good one. He poured what little energy he had into the lyrics, his voice rising over the chatter of tourists and the distant squeal of children on the playground. They played through the whole thing, their harmonies tight from years of practice, a single, aching sound against the backdrop of a busy Saturday.

When the last chord faded, there was a smattering of polite applause from a family eating mini donuts nearby. A father, coaxed by his daughter, walked over and dropped a toonie into their open guitar case. It landed with a loud, lonely clatter.

Darryl stared at the coin. "Two bucks," he muttered, loud enough for the man to hear. The father flushed slightly and hurried his family away. "Fantastic. That's a whole poutine for one of us in about three more hours."

"It's not about the money, Darryl," Mike said, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. He'd said them so many times they'd lost all meaning.

"Isn't it?" Darryl shot back, kicking at the leg of his stool. "My rent seems to think it's about the money. The hydro bill is pretty convinced it's about the money. It's easy for you to say, living in your sister's basement."

The jab landed. Mike flinched. "That's not fair."

"What's not fair is playing these dirges to a bunch of people who want to hear 'Wonderwall'," Darryl said, his frustration boiling over. He gestured with his guitar neck at the crowd. "Look at them, Mike. They're on vacation. They want something they know. Something happy. We could make fifty, sixty bucks an hour easy if we just played the hits."

The Sound of Selling Out

This was their oldest argument, the deep, foundational crack in their partnership. For Darryl, music was a job, a means to an end. For Mike, it was everything else. It was the only thing that made sense in a world that felt increasingly chaotic.

"I'm not playing covers, man. We're better than that," Mike insisted, his grip tightening on his guitar. "We write our own stuff for a reason."

"The reason being so we can make seven dollars an hour and feel morally superior?" Darryl scoffed. He started playing the opening riff to a ubiquitous pop song, a saccharine melody that made Mike's teeth ache. He played it loudly, sloppily, mocking it. A group of teenagers walking by hooted in recognition.

"See?" Darryl said, stopping abruptly. "Instant gratification. It's a business, Mike. We're providing a service."

"It's not a service! It's art!" Mike's voice cracked. He felt a surge of hot, helpless anger. "It's supposed to mean something! That song you wrote, 'River Trail Thaw', that means something! Are you just going to throw that away to play garbage?"

"'River Trail Thaw' paid for a tank of gas last month," Darryl said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous snarl. "I'm tired of 'meaning something', Mike. I'm tired of being poor and proud. I want to be comfortable. I want to not have to choose between new guitar strings and groceries."

A woman who had been approaching their guitar case with a five-dollar bill in her hand seemed to sense the tension. She hesitated, then veered away, pretending to be interested in a nearby sculpture.

"You never used to be like this," Mike said, the anger draining away, leaving only a hollow ache. "When we started, we had a deal. No covers. Just our sound."

"When we started, we were nineteen!" Darryl exclaimed, standing up so fast his stool scraped against the concrete. "We thought we were going to be famous. We thought we'd get a record deal and tour the world. We're not nineteen anymore, man. This is it. This is the world tour. A concrete slab in Winnipeg. And it's not paying the bills."

He crouched down, his movements jerky and aggressive. Before Mike could react, Darryl reached into the open guitar case and scooped up the handful of coins and two crumpled bills they'd earned that afternoon. The change made a pathetic jingling sound in his fist.

"What are you doing?" Mike asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Darryl straightened up, shoving the money into his jeans pocket. "I'm cashing out," he said. His face was hard, the familiar lines of humour around his eyes completely gone. "My half of the day's profits. I'm done. I can't do this anymore."

He slung his guitar over his shoulder. He didn't put it in its case. He just turned his back and started walking towards the parking lot.

Mike sat there, stunned into silence. He watched Darryl's retreating back, the shiny Takamine catching the afternoon sun. Tourists and families flowed around Darryl, oblivious to the small, private demolition that had just occurred. A friendship of twelve years, a musical partnership that had been the central pillar of Mike's adult life, was walking away over twenty-three dollars and fifty cents.

The wind picked up, blowing a food wrapper into his open, empty guitar case. The harsh lesson of the day settled in his gut like a cold stone. It wasn't about the money, not really. It was about the slow, quiet death of a shared dream. And he was now its sole mourner.