This is a story about a bass player named Ben. Ben lived in a tiny apartment on the top floor of a crumbly old building in New York City. It was winter, and Ben was broke. So broke that if he wanted to rub two coins together he would have had to borrow one of them.

Being a musician, Ben was used to hard times. So he stayed home and practiced, improvising melodies while he waited for the phone to ring. It never did. It was disconnected. And sometimes, when he played especially well, Ben would imagine he could make leaves appear on the bare trees across the street.

Then came the day when there was no beer and no bread in the fridge, and nobody to tap for a loan. So Ben decided to do what he'd promised himself he'd never do. He decided to hock his bass. He packed up his gear and carried it downstairs. He was wheeling his bass down the block, headed for the subway, when what should come around the corner but a Checker cab.

Now a Checker is the only kind of taxi into which you can fit a bass fiddle and Ben decided to take this as a sign that he should ride to the pawnshop in style. He got in and told the driver his destination. And then he sat back and closed his eyes. He wanted to blot out the whole world.

Ten minutes later, when he opened his eyes, he didn't see Times Square. He didn't see the pawnshop. What he saw was the river. Ben wasn't surprised to be kidnapped by a cab driver, because people in New York have their own way of doing things. But a few minutes later, when the taxi headed across the bridge, Ben leaned forward and yelled, "What the hell is going on?"

The driver's answer was to pull over and slam on the brakes. Then he gave Ben a long searching look. "I seen a lotta guys like you," he said. "If you hock your bass, you're gonna ruin your life. You'll never make enough money to redeem it. You'll probably start drinkin'. As far as I'm concerned you might as well get out. Jump off this bridge right now. Get it over with!"

When Ben heard these words, something inside him snapped. He got out of the taxi and told the driver, "I'm sorry, I can't pay you."

"That's OK said the driver, I can wait."

Ben climbed up on the bridge railing with his wife, (that's what he called his bass,) and he thought how easy it would be just to let it all go. And that's what he did. He jumped off that bridge.

Ben entered the water feet first, and as he plummeted down he was filled, of course, with a tremendous urge to live. He began to struggle upwards and after an eternity he reached the surface. When he took that first breath of air it was like waking up from a dream. The whole world looked different, yet somehow the same. He managed to swim to shore, where he passed out.

When he came to, his first thought was for his bass, which he was sure would be floating halfway to Brooklyn by now. But there it was, laying on the beach beside him. He opened the case and inside he found a million fragments.

Ben thought he must have been delirious with all the river water that he drank, because as he watched, the pieces of his bass began to shift form, until they became a band of five miniature musicians. And as if that wasn't enough, they played him a song.

When the music ended, Ben walked home. He couldn't get the tune he'd heard out of his head. And then he got an idea for a composition of his own. He used a neighbor's phone to call a friend of his who was producing a play and had asked him, months ago, to audition some material for the score. No, it wasn't too late - they were still open to possibilities. He made an appointment for the next day.

One year later Ben is playing his music on Broadway every night for sold out, enthusiastic crowds. He's in heaven. The show runs for three years and gradually he forgets the unpleasant way in which his fame and fortune came about. Still, every night, when he takes a cab home from the theater, something makes him take a close look at the driver.

On the night the show closes, Ben comes out and there's a Checker cab, waiting with the door open. In a flash he remembers everything that happened. He gets into the taxi, sure that it's going to be the same driver. And it is.

"You have no idea what you've done for me. I owe you everything," Ben tells him.

"Well maybe not everything," says the driver, "but I did wait, like I said I would. The meter says you owe me two hundred fifty thousand dollars...and 29 cents."

"I can't pay you!" cries Ben. "I spent it all - taking my friends out to lunch, buying CD's and stereo equipment, paying off my bills."

"Ain't that just like a musician," complains the cab driver, "no respect for tomorrow. I'll tell you what though. Because I like a survivor, I'm gonna give you another way to pay me back."

"Sure, you want a favor, I'll give it my best shot," says Ben.

"There's this plum tree in Morningside Park," the driver informs him. "It blooms every year in May and I've heard it's a magnificent sight. The trouble is, I'm never here to see it because I'm away, taking my vacation in the Virgin Islands.

All you have to do is to play your bass so beautifully that the tree decides to bloom in February, when I can see it. I'll give you three chances, once a year for three years. If you succeed, I'll forgive the debt. If you fail, you'll have to get a day job and pay me back the hard way."

"No problem," says Bill, figuring he has nothing to lose. "Making trees bloom is something I do all the time."

"That was before you became a big shot," says the taxi driver.

On the last day of February, Ben walked to Morningside Park to play for the tree. Logic told him he was attempting the impossible but his heart insisted that he give it a try. He played a piece he had written especially for the occasion, one that he felt captured the essence of Spring.

It was a good performance, but it wasn't good enough. The tree stood there, bleak and bare. Ben wasn't discouraged. "I can do this. I've brought tears to the eyes of some hardcore NY audiences," he told himself. "I just need to find out what makes this tree tick."

That year he started reading books on consciousness and meditating. He decided that the way to make the tree bloom was to improvise, to allow the present moment to guide him to the notes that would inspire the tree to bloom.

But in spite of his passionate improvisation, the tree refused to bloom.

The third year, Ben started losing weight and was gripped by despair. He believed in his failure now just as much as he had once believed in his success. He played whatever jobs came his way but not longer practiced or composed.

When the time came for his final attempt, Ben walked to the park as slowly as he could. It was a sunny day and the faint promise of Spring was in the air. He felt a stirring of hope, but it was an illusion, because when he arrived at the park he found that the plum tree was gone. It had been chopped down and only a miserable stump remained.

His first reaction was anger that all of his efforts had been wasted. He was sure he would have succeeded if the tree had not been destroyed.

And then a thought came to him. "It's sad that I never saw the tree bloom in May, at its appointed time. It must have been a lovely sight."

He unpacked his bass. "A tree as beautiful as you deserves a farewell song," he said. And he played one, very simply.

When he was done, he stood very still, staring at the ground. The next thing he knew he was in the grip of a bear hug. "Thank you," says the taxi driver.

"What are you thanking me for?" asks Ben. I failed."

"Perhaps," says the driver, "but why not take a look around anyway?"

Ben looked up. The plum tree was still gone, but all around him the park was in bloom.

"My work is done here," says the driver, " and now I can leave for the Virgin Islands a happy man. And since I won't be coming back, you can have my taxi. Paint it any color you like and use it to carry your bass. I have a feeling you'll be needing it."

The taxi driver was gone before Ben could find the words to thank him.

The next day, the buds on the trees all disappeared and people spoke of a false Spring. Ben played his bass and looked out the window. For him it was the truest Spring he'd ever known.