I'm Major Jackson and this is the slowdown.

So get this, I'm walking down Second Avenue approaching St. Mark's Place in New York City.

It's a bright sunny day made even brighter by the Fulaminko costume couple up ahead.

They seem to be rushing to a rehearsal.

But out of nowhere, she stops breaking their joint strides and says, here, then drops

her portable parquet flooring.

In it instant, they are in a full-on performance.

He fingering the frets of a classical guitar, moving deep into a song full of moans.

And she clapping and circling her in promptive stage, like a matador studying the ball.

The clapping comes lightning fast, until she steps up and stomps into a patterned rhythm

right where her hands leapt off.

And she fans her fingers sinuously above her head, then dramatically snaps the ruffles

of her dress.

It is a public spectacle of such passion, a red wave of energy ripples through those

of us encircling them.

I was mesmerized.

They weren't busking.

I couldn't find a jar or guitar case to toss dollars, nor a sign with a hashtag Venmo

account.

Either, they were there to exercise that particular corner of New York City, because that was

how intense their outdoor concert was.

Or simply, they desired to create a happening, where the only admission fee was our attention.

...