Inside the theatre, the touring acts had lighting plots, riders, and fees that could cover rent for a month. Outside, he had plastic, a pair of sticks, and a spot near the door where the crowd had to pass whether they wanted to or not. He started playing before the doors opened. Not politely. Not as ambience. He played like he meant it. Patterns that looped and collided, accents that made people turn their heads, rhythms that suggested something was happening now, not scheduled for later. People stopped. At first a few. Then more. A loose semicircle formed. Phones came out. Someone laughed at a particular flourish. A child tried to copy him with two pencils on a railing. Inside, the opener began.

A guitar, a voice, the shape of a song competing with air conditioning and glass. The buckets did not compete. They occupied. Coins started to land. Then bills. Small at first, then less small. The case filled in a way that felt less like charity and more like admission. The theatre doors opened again as latecomers arrived. They paused, caught between ticket and impulse. Some went in. Some stayed. Some did both, drifting out again at intermission to check if the sidewalk had changed. It hadn’t. He was still there, moving through variations as if the buckets contained more options than they appeared to. He had no setlist. He had attention.