Published: April 13, 2011

You must have noticed them. They seem to be on every street corner, showing off their talents for whatever money they can get. I guess the technical term for the act is “busking,” but to Americans, they’re more commonly referred to as street performers. Usually involving an instrument—sometimes many—and a vocalist (thanks, NYU), these people offer mini shows with an insane amount of variety, sometimes good (although they’re still not getting a dime from me) and sometimes bad.

Sure, I could sit here and regale you with stories of incredible street performances. Once, Central Park boasted an impressive three-man acrobat show, which captivated the middle-class tourists so much that they needed a duffle bag to hold all the money they raked in. In Penn Station, I saw a middle-aged band achieving a shocking level of sentimentality while overcoming the din of the venue, as apparently the best way to catch a train you’re late for is to scream and run in circles. And surely everyone’s heard those Caribbean drum-things and their rendition of Sebastian the Crab’s “Under the Sea,” right? Hearing that tropical sunshine on the subway platform the other week made my eyes glaze over just enough to not notice a bunch of rats attack a bag of Skittles, even if it was only for a moment.

But those aren’t the fun ones. True street performance is best served awful. Talent demands a few things from you: money, pity and a nagging feeling that these entertaining and skilled people must be the victims of some cruel injustice to resort to this day job. Terrible street performance only demands pity. I can live with that.

On another jaunt through the subway, I happened to cross an elderly Asian duo playing some music of their culture. The man was producing some sort of soulless screech with what could only be described as a stringy paddle, and the woman was releasing the Sixth Seal of the Apocalypse into a karaoke machine plugged into the wall behind her. The combined effect created an enfeebling wave over your whole body as if you were afflicted with the Rebecca Black Plague. I’d have given them the $1 I had been crumpling into my ears to staunch the blood flow, but they were on the other platform across three-too-many “DANGER: ELECTRIFIED!!!” rails, so, again, they didn’t get a dime from me. Pity…

Just the other night, too, I was feeling frisky and decided to try one of the street palm readers. Here was this rather social and una pequena loca woman with greasy, unkempt hair, a smattering of cold sores among a delicately furred upper lip and a ripped faux mink coat over a tank top held together with butterfly hair clips. I remember thinking something along the lines of “this looks legit” as I forced my friend to join me (she had a great two-for-one deal or something like that). I’m not sure how obvious it is already, but let me just come out and admit that this was a bad decision.

I’m glad she prefaced every heart-rending prediction with “I’m a straight-shooter” because that really softened every blow. Her diverse vocabulary consisted of the words negative, negativity, empty and vortex, and they were combined in all kinds of new and exciting ways throughout the whole reading. I’ve never actually felt my self-esteem dive-bomb in real time before. It was kind of exhilarating in a way, like watching someone you hate get covered in pigeon shit except you’re that person.

Now, I’ve been to other palm readers—ones with apartments and BMWs—who have all told me great things (the same things independent of one another, mind you), so Miss Dollar-Menu over here (you know it’s Miss) didn’t actually bother me in the long run. It was just an awful experience. My friend is now promptly traumatized regarding all things esoteric, too. Which is a bummer because now she might not come to my gypsy-themed birthday party I’ve already begun planning for October.

Regardless, she got my money. She’s the only street performer who could ever say that. She’s also the only one I don’t pity, as that feeling has been replaced with resentment.

I’m aware many are incredibly successful and earn great money doing this; thus, they’re not to be pitied, but I just can’t help myself. It’s the horrible street performances that catch my eye, every time. They’re impossible to miss and it looks like a genuinely difficult job. If anything, that Asian couple deserves their ubiquitous “A” for effort.