By this time, you should already have guessed who the kid is. It isn't August.
After so many things that went wrong with his life, the soothing sound of a simple instrument was just enough to let him get by, at least for the night. Every now and then a kind schmuck would drop him a dime. Music was something he knew he was good at; some of his more regular acquaintances had dubbed him "The Wizard," given his almost magical skill with instruments. The harmonica in particular was among his favorites, and he's received praise from strangers on how beautiful he made it sound. It wasn't enough to turn his life around for the better (he's given up on that years ago), but it does help him get through the day somehow, content as he and others were on the enchantment of his harmonica.
Last night, however, someone had to hold the opposite opinion.
"Hey you, harmonica man!" Said a loud, heavily accented boorish voice from atop a nearby bar within earshot of Washington Square Park.
He looked up, tipping his hat upwards. The voice came from what appeared to be a young person (what his age was could not be ascertained; he looked like he was in his mid to late 20s, but his voice indicated otherwise).
"Ya tried actually doin' something else with that thing?"
"It sounds like a fecking car horn it does."
"Hey kiddo, let's see you do better!"
Everyone's a critic. Exactly how the in the world could they keep communicating like that without so much as attracting attention, he couldn't understand. But one thing's for sure; Maxwell Wallace does not back down from a challenge from Irish teenagers sitting on rooftops. Granted, this was the first time anyone has ever challenged him to do better with a harmonica… by himself… without an audience.
"I don't have a harmonica. Try playing something else."
And so he did. He picked a classic; the William Tell Overture—high brow enough to be a testament to talent while familiar enough for the common man to appreciate.
But not this kid. It apparently reminded him of a classic Western chase scene. He's doesn't seem to be a very big fan of Westerns, too.
"And wha' the feck are ya wearin', ya look like a cowboy. What are ya? The Texas Ranger of Manhattan?" The boy said, chuckling quietly (if "quiet" was the best way to describe it).
"I'll have you know—"
"Know what? That the Lone Ranger's gonna ge' me."
"Would you just stop it?"
"Eh, wha' are you gonna do about it? I'm up here."
"What kind of horrible person would pick on a homeless man?"
"I kinda figured as such. You don't look like ya took a shower in weeks."
"Get down here, Eurotrash, and face me like a man."
"I don't hit women."
"Neither do I; what's your excuse, little girl?"
"Yeah, you heard me, bub. You like a freaking girl."
"How can you tell?"
The Wizard didn't have a good answer for that.
"You gonna play or what?"
"Well what if I don't want to."
"Fine by me. I got you to shut up."
"I hate harmonicas."
Oh no he didn't.
Acoustics in a major city would probably make this scene a bit unwieldy and improbable in real life, but hey, so is the rest of the movie. As you may have figured by now, the teenager on the roof of the bar is Louis. I do not currently have the luxury of time to make this longer, much as I would like to, but this'll have to do for now. I will try to update this and the other August Rush fan fiction I'm writing as soon as I can.
Although telling people I don't own August Rush (until I actually earn enough money to invest in Warner Brothers, and even then…) is basically useless in a copyright sense, it is TRADITION; hence this.
I don't own either of the two characters or the movie they star in. If I did, Louis would be slightly funnier and Robin Williams would have free rein to ham it up.