Fiddler on the tracks trying to earn a living, playing the classics for nothing, or a dime if you will. A protege gone bad, or maybe a struggling student, fiddling on the tracks. An honest buck in troubled times. The commuters at Park Street station gather all around. Reeled in by the fiddle's harmony, they forget their worries for a while, and open their hearts to the music. In building his feverish pace the fiddle becomes warm to the touch, as if baked in the Fourth of July sun. The heat radiates through the crowd warming their senses to the beat. His pace quickens as the approaching train's hollow echo engulfs the narrow platform. The wheels lock on the steel track producing a deafening pitch. The pale light of the Green Line's lead train is barely visible through the black haze. His audience will soon depart, so he begins to build his final crescendo. The notes cut through the tunnel's dry air like a musketeer's lance in a challenge of honor. Defying the screeching brakes of the approaching Symphony-bound train. And rewarding in a trail of green. As the train pulls out his fingers ease off the neck. A deep breath, a swig of joe, then back to the music, that pays his way home.