The time was approaching midnight.  I sat on a brick wall in the middle of Central Park.  As I placed my case on the ground and opened it up, I took in the scene around me: homeless men, women, and children behind every post, holding signs and begging for just a coin or two.  Then, there were the hundreds of thousands of other people, their pockets jingling with so-called “arbitrary” coins that they had no intention of using.  The cold air felt heavy with the smell of gasoline and sewage.  Through my ripped gloves and light jacket, I could feel the sting of the approaching winter.
     I took my dull golden trumpet out of its torn case.  It used to shine under the bright city lights when it was new.  Over the years, though, I had worn it out.  I buzzed my lips against the air and flicked the frozen valves to prepare myself for the coming hours.  Then, I took a deep breath and blew into the horn.  An ugly honking noise was the result.  I should have known ten degrees and snowy wasn’t good for my instrument, but what choice did I have?
     I blew more and more air through the trumpet and in return was met with more and more honking sounds.  Eventually, I realized that getting a beautiful noise out of my horn was a lost cause.  I would just have to work with what I had.  I took the hat off of my head, inviting the chill of the wind to make me even colder than I had been.  I placed my hat on the ground, hopeful that I could get a few dollars tonight.  Then, I brought the mouthpiece to my lips and began playing an unpleasant rendition of Louis Armstrong’s “What A Wonderful World”.  I was embarrassed by the blatting sound coming from my beautiful instrument, the way that I couldn’t hold out a note long enough for anyone to enjoy it, but I kept going.  It was the only way I had of making any money tonight.
     Stranger after stranger passed me by without a glance.  I don’t blame them.  Their busy lives couldn’t wait for a poor, freezing trumpet player like me.  Occasionally, someone would look my way, but no one stopped for even a second to listen or to drop a quarter in my sad looking hat.
     About halfway into my song, a group of young people passed me by.  They were loudly discussing the Broadway show they had just seen.  A rich looking man in the group called out to me, “Air support, dude!”  They all laughed.  I didn’t.  They kept walking, and I kept playing.
     This encounter shouldn’t have affected me as much as it did.  That man didn’t know the first thing about me.  He didn’t know why my trumpet playing wasn’t up to par tonight.  He didn’t know how hard I worked for my money while he had the world handed to him on a silver platter.  And yet he had the audacity to insult my playing.
     I couldn’t let a the opinion of a stranger - a stranger who probably didn’t know anything about music at all - keep me from doing my job.  But I did let it affect me, and I did stop playing about a minute after the man walked away.  Then, I took my battered old trumpet and put it back in its case.  I knew that I should be above listening to the petty comments of strangers, but I couldn’t seem to shake this one.  I finished packing up my trumpet and put my empty hat back on my head.  Another night, another disappointment.
     I walked down the paths of Central Park, wondering how people could be so rude.  All I was trying to do was provide them with a little entertainment and, in turn, provide myself with a little cash.  I knew that I wasn’t playing my best tonight.  Anyone could tell that I was a bit off my game.  But what did they expect from me?  Playing trumpet in the snow in the middle of the night with my lips nearly frozen to my mouthpiece was not an everyday occurrence.
     I continued to walk past groups of oblivious people.  I would get the occasional awkward glance, but I was used to that.  People with money would prefer not to see those of us without money.
I walked down Seventh Avenue, trying to shield myself from the crisp winds of December.  I saw other homeless men and women begging for change from underneath blankets so small they could hardly cover a man’s legs.  I wished I had some way of helping them, but I needed to help myself first.
     As I made my way downstairs into Penn Station, I could feel the cold winds slowly dying off as a gust of heat approached from inside.  All I could hope for was a nice warm area where I could sleep… and maybe the kindness of a stranger or two.  As I lie down in front of a pizzeria, the delicious scent of Italian food filled me and made my stomach growl.  I knew that I could easily sell my trumpet to a passerby and provide myself with food for a week or two, but I couldn’t bare the thought of parting with my beloved instrument.  It was all I had left.  Not once did I consider giving it up for a slice of pizza or even a blanket.  One day, my trumpet would make me famous.  One day.