Finding the Current: The Story Behind Writing My Short, Busk

by Matthew R. Paden

Wednesday, October 28th 2026

Story Behind Busk

If you’ve ever spent an afternoon walking through the Country Club Plaza in Kansas City, you know the sound before you see it. 

The roar of the J.C. Nichols Memorial Fountain cuts through the hum of traffic, surrounded by terracotta roofs and sunbaked stucco. 

It’s a place bustling with energy, tourists taking photos, and people rushing off to their next destination. It’s also the exact setting where the idea for my short film, Busk, was born.

When I sat down to write Busk, I wanted to explore a simple, quiet question:

What happens to the art we put out into the world after we’ve forgotten why we made it?

The Birth of Harold and Penny

At its core, Busk is an interaction between two people from entirely different generations who share a deeply personal connection through a single 1979 song called "Paper Cups."

• Harold Whitaker (67): A weary, aging beatnik playing for spare change in the heat. He’s a former rocker who has resigned himself to the quiet reality that idealism doesn't pay the rent.

• Penny (30s): A grieving daughter holding onto a vintage vinyl record, carrying her late mother’s memories and a quiet mission to deliver a proper thank-you.

When Harold looks at his cracked guitar case and spare coins, he sees a life spent "trying not to let the instrument win."

But when Penny looks at him, she sees the man whose three-minute song kept her mother afloat when the rest of the world was suffocating.

Writing the Emotional Climax

The most delicate part of drafting this script was managing the shift in stakes. On the surface, it’s just a conversation between a busker and a passerby. But beneath the dialogue, it’s an emotional reckoning.

Penny reveals that her mother, Maggie—a woman Harold barely remembers from a loud, beer-scented gig in 1979—passed away three weeks ago. Suddenly, the song isn't just background noise for tourists; it’s a eulogy.

When Harold plays "Turn It Loose" at the end, he isn't playing for the coins fluttering into his case or the crowd gathering around the fountain. 

He's playing with his eyes closed, reconnecting with the spark he thought he’d lost long ago.

"She was right. You still got the current."

My favorite beat in the script comes after Penny quietly slips away into the Plaza crowd, leaving behind a small folded index card on top of her mother's pristine vinyl sleeve.

Artists spend so much time wondering if their work matters—if anyone is listening, or if the music just fades into the air like spray from a fountain.

The story behind Busk is a gentle reminder that even when we feel like we're playing for ghosts, the things we create with honesty stick around in ways we might never see.