Congratulations on Taking That Magical Hobo's Advice!

He’ll be rummaging in some dumpsters outside of your stock exchange, which is a socially acceptable means of getting what people refer to as a “power lunch” in this economy, when you first meet him. You’ll see him closing in on a hot dog and you’ll have a roll of quarters ready in your hand so that you can sock him one good and claim your reward, but when he sees your eyes and the violence in them he’ll just smile a toothless grin and say “No worries, son. I’m only here for the puddin’.”

You’ll laugh out loud because that’s what you do in awkward social situations and he’ll laugh back even harder.

“You’se a good kid. I’ll give ya that there German cock for some o’ them quaties.” You’ll look at him skeptically. Negotiation, after all, is the bastion of the weak, negotiation with the homeless doubly so. He’ll spot your hesitation and, seeing an opening, present a counteroffer. “Give you some advice, too. A real pager turn.”

His folksie nonsense will sound about right to you and you’ll acquiesce, tossing him the roll of quarters. He’ll nod, pull one off the roll and bite it with his gums as if to test the nickel. You’ll wince, thinking of the places that quarter has been.

He’ll smile his big toothless grin at you and say, in his trademark folksie fashion, “Buy you’m some o’ them there bio techies, one o’ the ones in genetic member nearing. It’ll work you out real good.”

You’ll smile a big white toothed grin and say “Thank you, magical homeless man.” Then he’ll nod in response and his huge black friend will grab you from behind and run you into the ally. Then the magical homeless man will punch you in the face repeatedly with the quarters. He’ll be surprisingly strong and you’ll lose consciousness quickly.

The next two hours will consist of scattered bouts of agony as you come to and find yourself being raped in turn by the homeless man and his large African companion. When the two finally finish and abandon your prone body to the elements you’ll rest, gather your strength, devour the hot dog they discard on your body and drag yourself back into the stock market. Once inside you’ll buy around fifty thousand dollars of stock in a genetic engineering firm. In the hour and a half before closing the stock will skyrocket due to a late day bidding war between two larger firms interested in buying them out. The money you’ll make in that short time will more than cover your medical bills, and the money to come will one day still your ire and keep you from seeking revenging on that magical, advice giving, rape happy hobo who had a key part in forming the cornerstone of the investment empire that will become a major part of your life.

Congratulations on Taking That Magical Hobo’s Advice!

Congratulations Coltrane!

“Hey, fuck off Isaac Hayes!” the children will shout.

You’ll be hurt, not by their sentiment, but by their ignorance. You don’t croon or use your deep, seductive voice (which you have, sort of). You blow your soulful horn into the night air.

For the last three years you’ve lit up Newbury Street with your songs, from the area just outside of Sugar Heaven to area immediately around the Copley T stop, but every time someone fails to appreciate your craft it still stings.

Luckily you’re a strong soul and instead of letting it grind you down you’ll take all that negative energy and make it into some positive music.

It’ll be all for naught, though, because you perform exclusively on street corners. Or so it will seem.

After the children have finished ridiculing you and gone on to buy discount candy and air guitar to classic rock outside of the store a man dressed in rags will shamble up to you. He’ll look like life has just ground him down to a nub, so you’ll blow your horn twice as hard for him, knowing that if you do it just right you’ll make his night.

At first he’ll just sway back and forth to your music, smiling all the while. After the second song he’ll be dancing in gentle circles, occasionally sipping from a paper bag. By the end of the night he’ll be working the crowd for you, collecting tips and chatting people up, getting them into the mood.

By the night’s end the two of you will have earned almost two hundred dollars. Not too shabby for one night’s work. You’ll thank him and offer him half the pot as a reward, but he’ll shake his head and push it back towards you. Then he’ll introduce himself.

“Son,” he’ll say in a thick, drunken Irish accent, “Me name be Seamus O’Tannery-Flannery.”

Your eyes will go wide. Seam O’Tannery-Flannery, famed homeless soul music producer and all around bon-vivant, just spent the night traipsing with you. He’ll smile at your shock.

“I see ya know me then.”

You’ll nod emphatically, excited to be standing in the presence of such an incredible character.

“Well ‘n.’ How would ye like to spend the night in me recording studio?”

You’ll do your best to ignore his leprechaun like speech and follow him to his studio, where you’ll have the night of your life. Except for the part where he gets a little bit too drunk and tries to rape you. But these things happen in the music industry, especially when you get hobos and booze involved.

Just try to be cool about it and enjoy the start of your new rise to fame as a musician.

Congratulations Coltrane!