A bar near a college campus would be incomplete without a row of pinball machines lining the wall.  Many people come to play, not drink, their eyes focused on the silver ball as they stand in front of the machines.  The silver ball darts around, the player's fingers poised over the flippers on the side of the machine.  The players pay one quarter after another for the pleasure of a free game or a million points.  When the player's coins are gone, there is another machine nearby to exchange bills for quarters.

I saw a young, blind banjo player in Boston last summer.  He sat in front of Woolworth's with his blank eyes looking at no one.  His damp hair stuck out from under a red headband.  The adept musician entertained the crowd until his hands became to sweaty from the city heat to play.  After wiping his hands, he leaned back with the banjo across his lap.  He began to sing ballads in soft and low intervals of melancholy on that bright Boston day.