If you just stand for a few extra minutes, you notice more things. There’s the banging noise–that’s what you notice first, still inside the station, and then you see the signs for the flea market, and the crowd, and the smell of marijuana. You see the skinny white dude with curly hair and a backpack banging away on a cowbell with the reverse end of a drumstick, bopping up and down. You see the old dude sitting a little apart from the circle, adding his own accents with his drum at the end of every measure. You realize that you can hear a western drumset, bass drum, hi hat, even though you can’t see it, and it must be behind a mass of people and those two concrete poles. You listen as the beat changes. It’s very subtle, and then it’s not subtle anymore, and suddenly they’re banging really hard on 1 and 2 and doing little cute jingly things on 3 and 4. And then a few more measures pass and it changes again. You wonder who leads the changes, how long they’ve been drumming, if the drumming ever stops or if people just come and go when they need a rest or need to go home or whatever.