Chapter 2 - The Lottery

An art student joins the veiled culture of San Francisco's Street Artists Program, only to later obsess over a coworker's death while conducting his own murder investigation.

As the morning summer fog burned off and retreated behind the tall red towers of the Golden Gate Bridge, a pair of tourists walked hand in hand alongside the San Francisco Bay. But the intimacy of their romantic stroll was soon interrupted when they spotted a multitude of people clustered ahead, upon the sidewalk of Beach Street, just across from Ghiradelli Square. The strange gathering appeared to be conducting some kind of mysterious activity. Diverse in both age and attire, the crowd was also a mix of cultures: not only Caucasian, but Hispanic, African American, and Chinese.

Speaking first was the male tourist. "Look, Janet -- wonder what's going on over there? What the hell are they doing, anyway?"

Just then, a tall blond man holding a green plastic bucket gave a loud shout to the crowd. "Okay... the lottery is just about to begin. Does everyone have their name on a blue slip? Better hurry up."

  

Snuggling aside to her partner, Janet spoke enthusiastically. "Look, Robert, some of them have little pads of blue paper, and they're writing something down on those little slips of paper. Didn't someone just say the word 'lottery'?  Could they be giving away something? Like free cruises on the bay?"

Robert's eyes narrowed before he responded. "Maybe, Janet. But those people don't seem at all like tourists. Just look at them. They're dressed terribly; they look more like hippies than tourists. Oh, what the hell, let's go over and see what's happening."

Walking closer to the diverse gathering, the couple noticed that in front of each person with a pad of blue paper, stood a small line of people who were each holding a little plastic card -- kind of like a driver's license, but different.

Increasingly curious, Robert approached a bearded man on the periphery of the group who wore a red paisley shirt. Robert cleared his throat and said, "Uh, say... what's going on here?"

  

The man turned toward Robert and calmly replied, "Oh... it's just a small murder."

 

That remark drew a few giggles from the crowd, but then an attractive young woman with shoulder-length brown hair quickly approached the bewildered tourists. She first faced the bearded man in a paisley shirt and began to scold him.

 

"Gosh, Yoshi. Try to be nice! Don't wanna scare these poor people on their first day at the Wharf."

 

Now turning toward the tourists, the young brunette, wearing a long print dress, smiled warmly and continued. "Hi, I'm Suzanne, and this is a lottery for street artists -- so they can pick their selling-spaces for the day."

"Oh right," said Robert, "the street artists! We saw you guys out selling your wares last evening when we got into town. We wondered how that worked. You mean, you guys just don't show up and sell wherever you want?"

Suzanne gave a hearty laugh. "Hardly. Each one of us has to be licensed by the city's Arts Commission."

 

She held up a small laminated card that contained some text and her photo. Atop the card, it said: "Certificate - Art In Public Places - Arts Commission of San Francisco." And further down on the certificate was her name, Suzanne Davis, and below that was her license number, 214.

  

Suzanne explained, "And we can't just sell wherever we want; we can only sell in areas that are designated by the city. See all those numbers painted on the sidewalk?" She pointed down toward the words Beach-34, which were painted in white upon the sidewalk, near the curb. And ten feet to the right of that lettering was another marking painted Beach-35.

 

"The painted numbers mark the legal selling-spaces where we're only allowed to sell. And since they're many more street artists than good selling-spaces, we have to share our opportunities by picking new selling-spaces each day, through this daily lottery. See how each person has their license number and name written down on a blue slip? In a few minutes all those slips will go into that green bucket, that tall guy will pull them out one at a time, someone will number them in the order that they were drawn, and then the artists whose slips came out first will be the first ones to pick a selling-space for the day."

Putting his arm around Janet, Robert chuckled. "Damn, that's complicated. But I guess it's as good a way as any, to share the better selling-spaces."

Suzanne gestured with her hand. "It was a big political battle for us to get the Street Artists Program's law passed at city hall. The local merchants did everything they could to prevent us from getting licenses and all these selling-spaces along Fisherman's Wharf. But we organized, gathered signatures for a petition, and got our proposal on the municipal ballot. The voters approved the street artists' legislation, but only with the provision that we make what we sell -- commercial items can't be sold out here. And in order to get a street artists license, you have to first show your work before a screening committee at the city's Arts Commission. That committee will then determine if you really did create what you intend to sell. No imported or manufactured stuff is allowed. You can't even sell handmade items that might have been made by a friend -- everything must be your own work."

Janet smiled as she nodded. "That's really great! Getting to see handmade crafts is one of the things we love about Fisherman's Wharf. That's crazy that the merchants would want to fight you. I'd guess that the crafts-people help bring lots of customers to the Wharf."

"Exactly," said Suzanne. "But municipal politics is never simple, especially when it involves commerce. We have to hold monthly meetings with the Arts Commission, just to help maintain the integrity of the program. Luckily, many of the street artists will volunteer their time to show up at Arts Commission meetings, and make suggestions to the members of the Arts Commission on how to best run the program."

Another young man, sunburned and wearing an old sweater, joined in. "That's right. And Suzanne here always has her big toe in the program's politics. She's probably at every one of the Arts Commission's meetings."

"Well," said Suzanne, "my parents always taught us that if you aren't politically active, you can't expect to hang on to your liberties. If you want opportunities in life, then you have to stand up and fight for them."

Several minutes later, the tall blond man, placing his hand inside the green bucket, began to stir and mix all the little blue slips of paper. Then he shouted to the crowd, "Okay? Is everyone in? All right, here we go."

After no one replied, he closed his eyes and reached in, pulling out the first blue lottery slip. Then, to the anxious crowd of artists, he read aloud the slip's name and license number: Riccardo 3345. He continued to randomly draw more slips from the bucket while announcing the new results. And to his immediate right, another artist was numbering each slip with the order it had been pulled from the bucket. Still further over was a folding table where yet another street artist helped people, whose slips had been drawn, select selling-spaces for the day.

   

Meanwhile, Robert and Janet slowly stepped away from the gathering of street artists. They continued on their way down the sidewalk of Beach Street, toward the shops at Ghiradelli Square.

Janet began to laugh. "Now that, was interesting. Never thought that selling artwork on a sidewalk could be so complicated."

Robert smirked. "Well, just try selling something that you made on the sidewalks of our town -- the cops would probably arrest you in a heartbeat."