Chapter 5 - The Newest Street Artist

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.

Anxious about his first selling-day as a street artist, Michael woke at an early hour and organized his supplies. At the very least, he'd need to bring a folding table, display cloth to cover the table, a hand mirror, and his enameled jewelry that consisted mostly of earrings, necklaces, and pendants.

 

The lottery for selling-spaces would start at nine A.M. in Aquatic Park, and Michael arrived a little early. His name and license number were first written on a small blue lottery-slip, then placed into a large green plastic bucket. And today, lucky to have his slip drawn early from that bucket, Michael would be one of the first to pick a selling-space. That meant he could get a prime spot to sell in, one that would provide a scenic view of the San Francisco Bay, Alcatraz, and the Golden Gate Bridge.

 

    Michael, waiting near the sign-in table to pick his space, spotted Randy Stone, the friendly guy he'd met during the craft-screening at the Arts Commission building. Catching Michael's eye now, Randy smiled and stepped over.

"Hey dude," Randy said, "so you already made it to the lottery, and even got a good number -- great! You should sell near me if you get the chance. You know, I could give you a few tips."

"Thanks. I'm still confused about The Blue Book and how this whole thing works. But I guess I'll catch on, eventually."

   

Many minutes passed, and the man assigning selling-spaces called out Randy's name and license number: it was his turn to choose a spot for the day. Randy picked space Beach-9, which was near the cable car turnaround in an area that received much foot-traffic.

Several more spaces were chosen, and it was now Michael's turn to make a selection. Noticing that a selling-space next to Randy was still open, he quickly picked space Beach-10. Then, to reserve that space, Michael walked over to Beach-10 and placed his folding table on the sidewalk near the curb, along with the lottery-slip that showed his selling-space assignment. As long as his folding table and lottery-slip remained in that space, he was free to leave the area for as long as he liked, and could set up later in the day. Since sales were supposedly slow in the morning, Michael decided to first run a few errands in North Beach. Then, around noon, he would return to Beach Street and set up his display when foot-traffic and business would start to pick up.

 

The list of craft categories represented within the Street Artists Program was immense. They were selling hand-painted t-shirts, beaded necklaces, silver and brass jewelry, prints of original art, sculpture, stained glass, leather belts, woodwork, CDs of their musical recordings, children's clothing, handmade kites, and more.

Though having little familiarity with the street artists program, Michael could, however, perceive what he didn't know; the scene was an enigma and incredibly counterintuitive. What had initially seemed like a band of laid-back artists now appeared as a composite of diverse personality types: some motivated by their art, some motivated by money alone, some motivated by the political activity of the program, and some without any apparent motivation at all who nonetheless showed up every day.

 

While some street artists might struggle to make thirty dollars in a day, others were collecting hundreds of dollars in a single afternoon. One jeweler was known to be making over a thousand dollars every day and had a monthly ad in Vogue magazine.

And there they were, every day of the year, bunched together on that crowded sidewalk with only eight feet to separate themselves from one another. So close were the selling-spaces that you could overhear your neighbor craftsman's conversation throughout the day, and with time, learn the intimate details of the other artists' lives.

How exactly, wondered Michael, will I eventually fit into this patchwork of humanity?

Having completed his errands in North Beach, it was a little past noon, and Michael had returned to the Wharf. Ready now to set up his table for his first selling day, Michael walked in a quiet traffic lane near the parked cars of Beach Street. He was searching for Beach-10, his selling-space for that day.

 

Each selling-space had its name and number painted near the sidewalk's curb, and Michael, walking westward down the street, counted those increasing numbers during his search. Being very long, the block held over forty-five selling-spaces, numbered Beach-1 through Beach-44. The spaces started at the top of the block near the cable-car stop, and continued westward toward the famed Ghiradelli Square, an old factory made of bricks now stylishly renovated with lavish restaurants and trendy shops.

But as Michael approached space Beach-10, he noticed something was wrong: his selling-space was occupied by another artist. Though his folding table and lottery slip were still placed near the curb -- reserving his selling-space for the day -- a slender woman with brown hair was selling bracelets in his space.

 

Increasingly nervous, Michael began to wonder if he'd made some mistake that caused his selling-space to be reassigned. Had he already lost his first selling day, even before it had begun? Now stepping forward, he drew the attention of Randy Stone, sitting behind his bead display at Beach-9.

"Well," said Randy as he smiled, "look who's finally decided to show up -- it's our newbie street artist, Michael Devlin."

And looking closer, Michael noticed that the slender brunette was none other than Suzanne Davis, the fiery political activist he'd seen yesterday at the Arts Commission craft-screening. S**t, he thought, if anyone knew a loophole in the law that might cause him to lose his selling-space, it'd be this woman; she had a mind like a showbiz lawyer.

 

Thoroughly confused, Michael began to contemplate his situation. Now, if he'd really lost his selling-space to Suzanne Davis, then Randy wouldn't be so upbeat during his arrival. Randy would've probably stood up for his right to sell there, since he'd picked the spot fair and square through the lottery.

Suzanne, now turning with a smile, said, "Hi Michael, I'm Suzanne. I was just keeping your space warm. I'll move in a minute so you can setup. You see, my display's on wheels, and it's easy for me to hop around to empty spaces in the morning when I can't get a good selling-space through the lottery."

Looking closer at her jewelry display, Michael noticed it sat upon a set of wheels -- kind of like a grocery cart's -- and would enable effortless movement down the sidewalk. Then she kicked a wooden wedge free, no longer blocking one of the wheels, and gave her four-foot display a little push to demonstrate its mobility.

 

Michael nodded as he smiled. "Very clever. Guess I'll also need to think about wheels at some point."

Closer to Suzanne now than he'd been at the craft-screening, he could see that her looks were stunning. Thick brown hair fell well below her shoulders, and its dark rich color accentuated the green of her eyes. And though she wore a floor-length dress, it's flimsy material did not conceal the youthful curves of her body.

 

Stepping closer to Michael, her smile beamed as she said, "Come on over, don't be shy -- welcome to the program." Then she extended her arms above Michael's shoulders and gave him a warm hug.

After several moments passed, she slowly released her grasp, coyly turned her head to the side, and brought her eyes to Michael's, saying, "Well... we'll just have to get to know each other better. You know, I have a good feeling about you. I remember you from the craft-screening at the Arts Commission yesterday. You paint enameled jewelry, don't you? Later on, I'll have to check out your work."

  

"Thanks. Suzanne is it?" said Michael, stepping to the front of her jewelry display, looking more closely at her work. Her jewelry was intricate, impressive, and precise. Fabricated from narrow square lengths of silver, her bracelets were skillfully welded together and then precisely bent to their shape. And though Michael had studied fabricated jewelry in college, he was still puzzled as to how she had created her bracelets.

 

"Damn," said Michael, "your bracelets are great. No casting, all fabricated. Where'd you learn how to do this?"

"Oh, took some night classes at San Francisco State, did a lot of reading, and spent lots of time talking to other craftsmen. I also sell at local craft fairs -- many street artists like to supplement their street-sales with the fairs, where you can make much more money in a single day."

Remaining seated, Randy twisted in his chair and said, "Don't let her good looks fool ya, Suz is a very bright woman. Get to know her, and you'll learn a lot about how to survive in the craft business."

Turning toward Randy, Suzanne smiled and in a friendly manner sat down in his lap, casually placing her arm over his shoulders and saying, "Why Randy, you're such a sweetie. Too bad you're a married guy with kids."

 

Michael nodded, "You've got it Randy -- looks like I've got a lot to learn. But at least people are helpful here, and there's lots of time to chat. Guess Randy will be my tutor for the day."

Standing now and moving toward her display, Suzanne said, "Yep, Randy's been out here a long time; he can show you the ropes. Look's like you got a good neighbor for your first day, some of the street artists can be creeps. But that's humanity for you; have to accept the good with the bad. Well, let me roll off to the empty selling-spaces at the end of the block, where sales are usually slow. But later in the day when some of the artists leave, I'll be able to roll back up here and sell till dark. Randy, will you let me know if anyone leaves early, okay? So I can get their selling-space."

"You got it, Suz."

Suzanne gave a small wave and started to roll her jewelry display down the sidewalk towards the western end of the block, past the crosswalks that diverted the foot-traffic of pedestrians to Ghiradelli Square.

 

Gazing at Suzanne as she walked away, Michael said, "Say, Randy... isn't Suzanne that political activist we saw at the craft-screenings yesterday? Didn't you say she also worked at Mitchell Brothers strip club?"

Smirking with a nod, Randy continued to string a necklace from turquoise stones. "Oh, so you remember that. Yep, she's also a stripper in her spare time. Think she's got what it takes?"

"Hell yes. Cute face, nice brown hair, and a sexy body. But I always thought that strippers were a lot older, and not really in great shape. Suzanne looks like she could play in the Olympics."

"That's the scene at Mitchell Brothers O'Farrell Theatre -- not at all like most strip clubs. The original owners were obsessed with erotic performance, not money -- they'd already gotten rich from their porn films, that is, before redesigning the building into a strip club. Anyway, most the girls there are college age, in great shape, and have cool personalities. Gonna guess you've never gotten a lap dance from a young dancer? Warning, they can be addictive."

"I guess, but I'm practically broke, and it'll take a while to get my jewelry business going. For now, it looks like the only club I'll be able to afford is that blues bar in North Beach, The Saloon. Most the time, they don't even have a cover charge."

Randy spun in his chair and looked up at Michael. "The Saloon -- great place! It's a legend in its own time. All kinds of famous musicians, like Boz Scaggs, James Cotton, Robin Ford, Nick Gravenitis, and John Cipollina, have all played there, despite its small size. We gotta go there sometime after work, being it's only a dozen blocks away."

"Definitely. Was just up there last week. In fact, it was while I got drunk in the place that I decided to become a full-time street artist. Never know where inspiration's likely to spring up."

"Ain't that the truth. San Francisco's a magical town, all right. Plan on getting lots of inspiration from its intimate little neighborhoods, old restaurants, and small clubs. These old buildings have seen a lot of history, and in the late-night hours, they might even tell a few tales."