Scooby Dooby Doo

Generally I pride myself on being very pragmatic and immune to anything that could be remotely described as woo-woo or unscientific, but the secret truth is that I believe a little, little bit in karma: in the idea that what you throw out to the universe comes back in some unspoken, sometimes incomprehensible way. Of course, the pessimist's definition of karma is: you get what you deserve, but I don't even mind this, as I like the idea, however far-fetched, that goodness breeds goodness, even if the theory offers no explanation for all of the badness that goodness breeds too.

Anyway, that was a rambling and not entirely well-suited introduction for my little story, although maybe it will make more sense when I read it over tomorrow. Today, on our way home from her first day of a week-long camp at her new school, Lily and I rode the subway downtown in the middle of the day, when traffic is light and you can almost always get a seat on one of the benches. We got one, and just a few minutes into the ride a man stepped onto our car with an electric guitar hooked up to some kind of a portable battery, which Lily immediately noticed and was intrigued by. And then, he started to sing. He had a pretty voice, and he didn't sing too loudly, in spite of the electric guitar, which I appreciated. As frequent subway companions, Lily and I have come to an agreement regarding those asking for money below ground, or above. Although the socialist in me wants to give a dollar to every soul who asks me for money, the capitalist--or perhaps the pragmatist--in me, has decided that if somebody is performing, working in some way to earn the money they are asking for, I will give it to them. 

This situation qualified, but for some reason, probably because I was so tired, and so distracted by other things--Lily's experience with all of her future classmates, the afternoon meetings I had stacked one right after the other--I sat tight, even as Lily smiled at the performer, and I too admired his voice. And then, as he walked past us toward the end of the car, Lily looked at me with a question in her eyes, although she didn't ask why I wasn't giving her a dollar, as I usually do, to give to the singer. Quickly, now not sure I even had any cash on me, I rummaged in my wallet and found some, stuffing it in Lily's hand. She jumped up and handed it to the man, who took it with a smile, bowing to her in thanks. By this point he was standing at the door, ready to push through and sing for the next car on the line.

Instead, he turned on his guitar again, strummed an opening chord. "This one is for the little lady," he said, and Lily looked at me, eyes huge, as though she'd just been announced as the winner of an Academy Award. And he played and sang the entire original theme song from Scooby Doo.

After the first bar of music, I recognized it; how could I not after so many early Saturday mornings sunk into the rust-colored couch in my parents' den, eating cereal from the box with my sister, as the gang rode around in the mystery van? And as Lily laughed, I watched pretty much everyone on our subway car realize what he was playing with such reverence and start to smile too, perhaps remembering their own Saturday morning cartoon experiences, or just enjoying the incongruous act, the spontaneous expression of fun.

Karma? Who knows. But a good moment just the same.