WILTON, zachary vincent

[jessie3]

-- Zachary Vincent Wilton. 17. Junior. Photography.

For the majority of the time, Dylan played in Central Park. That was where he slept, that was where his “home” was even though you really could not call it a home. There were certain times when Dylan would wonder toward Broadway and out beside the mass of passing people and just play. Dylan knew every part of New York City, and he knew the areas where he could make the most profit. Central park was one, outside of queens was another, and right around Broadway. Dylan could always make a well enough profit to buy himself enough food to live off of so that he was not starving and buy cocaine from a inside gentlemen so that he could calm his demon. The majority of people in passing would completely ignore Dylan’s existence, some would look down on him as if he was scum, and others would just stare. There were those that saw that he had a talent, homeless or not. With that said, Dylan was intelligent enough to know if he played long enough he would make enough money to get through another night.

The winters were always the most difficult for Dylan. Virgin snow would begin to fall and once the sun faded and darkness creeped over the city the temperatures became frigid. Dylan did not really have the proper clothing for such weather, and when you are spending every waking moment outside, with no heat, everyday, it begins to affect your body. Dylan had a hard time playing cords when his fingers would go completely numb. He had enough experience that he would manage, but he sometimes would hit the wrong cords. He would always look up, and hope no one else realized his mistake. His hands also often trembled from the addiction and the weather making it only another obstacle for Dylan. Dylan knew though, if he did not play he would not survive. He had no connection besides his dealer, which means he had no way to find food. Dylan was also not sure if he could withstand his body’s reaction to more than a day without cocaine on top of his poor health. Dylan may be strong mentally and physically, but there was only so much one person could take. Dylan was well aware he was not invincible. Money was always tight for him. Somehow he played enough that he just managed to get by, but he was not sure how much longer that would last. He was becoming somewhat desperate, he would never dare admit that to a living soul, but he knew as much as he loved playing, he needed to find another source of income to survive. As much of at peace Dylan was being homeless, there was a part of him that still wished he did not have to worry about if he was going to get by another day. He never was bothered about sleeping under a park bench, but to say being homeless did not sometimes physically and mentally drain him would be a complete lie. At the end of the day, however, he was still happy.

Dylan was closing in on Broadway now. His face felt completely numb along with his fingers. It was going to another challenging night of playing. Many nights his fingers would even bleed, but he still would play. He continued to maneuver his way through the crowd. The one part of New York City Dylan would always enjoy was it never did sleep. The night life was as congested as during the day. Some people eyed him suspiciously, as if sending him a message that they knew he was homeless. As if they felt he was a threat. He did what he has always done, ignored them. He stopped slowly as he came to his usual spot in front of a light post but off to the side enough that he was not blocking people’s path. He set down his guitar case and cupped his hands, blowing into them and then rubbing them quickly. It at least helped them stay warm for a moment. Quickly, he sat down and opened his guitar case, grabbed his guitar, and positioned it neatly on his lap. He slowly pushed the guitar case in front of him and tuned the guitar before playing. Anytime he set up before singing, some would slow down to see him in curiosity. Rubbernecks you would call them. Dylan just gave them a friendly nod now, and began to go into this first cords as he sang. His voice was deep and raspy. He was never sure exactly how he sounded to others. He watched now as a lady reached into her pockets and dropped in a handful of change. Dylan continued to sing but smiled at her to show his gratitude. He looked back down at the guitar now, not allowing the crowd of people forming around him to distract himself from his music..

Jessie. 18. Eastern.