Chapter 1 - Schemes of Late Hours

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.

                                             ©2019 James M. Carroll, All Rights Reserved

Impervious to his surroundings, Michael Devlin continued to stare downward at the rising bubbles within a half-finished glass of beer. The vibrant local culture of San Francisco, surrounding him now in this small historic bar, completely escaped him.

He couldn't notice that the club's large embellished hardwood bar was more than a century old and likely imported from overseas.

He couldn't notice that at the far end of the room, a young emerging talent was energetically belting out the blues.

 

He couldn't notice much of anything -- except the small bubbles of his beer.

Across a tiny table sat Ray and Hannah, his high school chums from back East. They had invited him to stay at their apartment while he searched for his first job in San Francisco. Just three weeks ago, Michael had crossed the country in a Greyhound bus, escaping the February ice and snow of upper New York State. Having just finished college, he was searching for a new life, one in a small but sophisticated city.

Hannah began to speak. "Look, Mikey, it's hard for everyone to find their first job in a cool city. You just have to give it some more time. And of course, you can sleep on our kitchen floor as long as you want. Just try to stop kicking the cat's litter box in your sleep."

"And forget about trying to use your college degree," said Ray. "Just grab the first minimum-wage job you can find."

 

Continuing to stare downward, Michael didn't raise his head as he replied:

"That's what I have been trying to do. Get the early edition of the newspaper every night, and go out early to any job prospects. But even if I get to a basic minimum-wage job, there's already twenty applicants by ten o'clock. Guess lots of people want to relocate to San Francisco, just like me. To be honest -- I'm terrified I won't be able to find anything, and I'll have to go back to the East Coast and beg for my old job at the college bookstore."

Hannah gently touched Michael's forearm. "Don't talk that way. Ray's parents will pay the rent while he finishes art school, and my job will keep us in groceries."

"Well," said Michael, "can't help but feel like I'm putting you guys out. Your place is small, and I've already been there for three weeks."

Ray straightened in his chair and said, "Look, Michael, it's not a big deal -- we enjoy having you around. Even Hannah's cat likes you."

   

Hunching forward, trying to make eye contact with Michael, Hannah said, "You know what might actually work out for you -- but I don't really know what it'd pay. Did you notice all the street artists on Fisherman's Wharf? Maybe you could sell your artwork down there?"

"Yeah, I saw them," Michael said, now raising his head. "But it looks like they mostly sell to tourists, and that means whatever you sell has to fit in a suitcase. There's no way anyone would want to carry a painting back home. And besides, all those street artists look like a bunch of broke hippies. How much money could they be making, anyway?"

 

Ray jumped in. "Not so fast, Michael. Every time I walk by, I see money changing hands. And did ya notice how they sell in one of the most popular areas of Fisherman's Wharf -- by the cable car stop -- and with that great view of the bay? That wide sidewalk on Beach Street is packed with people during most hours of the day. Just cause the street artists are wearing crummy clothes, doesn't exactly mean they aren't making some cash. Oh, and by the way -- now we're supposed to call them hipsters, not hippies."

Michael chuckled. "Actually, back in college, I took some classes in enameled jewelry -- now that's something they'd be able to carry back home. In fact, I was having a lot of fun working with enamels, especially grisaille. I even have some ideas for men -- this thing might even appeal to bohemian and surfer types." He touched a simple one-piece pendant that hung around his neck on a leather strap. Though elemental in its simplicity, the bright colors of the blended enamels were engaging.

 

"And since there's lots of jewelry out there," added Hannah, "it means there's a big demand for it. Why not give it a shot? Never know until you try."

Michael, now perking up, said, "You know -- you just might have something there. And at least being a street artist would be more fun than getting stuck in a minimum-wage job. Look, I gotta go drain the lizard. Do you know where's the bathroom in this place?"

"It's in the back, just beyond that small stage where the band is playing."

The bar was called The Saloon, its venue mostly blues. And despite the room's small size, over time, it had attracted many legendary blues and rock performers to its tiny stage. Boz Scaggs, Robin Ford, Nick Gravenites, James Cotton, and John Cipollina were just some of the famous performers who'd played there. At one time, Led Zepplin, in town for a concert, had attempted to enter The Saloon but were denied entry because some in their entourage were under twenty-one. The club's musical heritage was well known, and it was not unusual for famous musicians to drop by unannounced, and jam with the scheduled band during late-night hours.

 

As Michael slowly worked his way down the crowded aisle to the rear of the bar, he could hear the energetic voice of a young woman who was belting out the blues. Her voice was reminiscent of Janis Joplin, but with a Gospel flavor. Increasingly curious, Michael paused and leaned up against a wall at the right, to take it all in.

Closer to the stage now, he looked up and noticed that the singer's conservative attire seemed oddly out of place for this offbeat bar. Most of the performers at the Saloon wore denim, beat-up leather jackets, jeans, miniskirts, and flashy clothes that might be described as secondhand chic. But with a plaid wool skirt going below her knees and a coat that might've just come off the rack at Macy's, the vocalist's clothing was anything but bohemian. She looked like an office secretary waiting for a bus, or maybe even a choirgirl at a Bible prayer meeting -- but certainly not a blues singer in a funky bar. Stunned by her appearance, Michael had to wonder: where the hell did they dig up this babe, anyway?

 

But the young woman knew the blues, all right.

 

The band was playing Muddy Waters' old classic, "You Can't Lose What You Never Had." Her powerful voice had so much volume that the lyrics were hard to understand, almost sounding like a musical instrument.

Then the band launched into a guitar solo, but that did not quiet the young singer. For every new musical phrase that the guitarist played, she scatted a variation of that phrase with her voice, each time a little different. That performance technique, referred within the Gospel genre as call and response, was repeated throughout the guitarist's solo.

This was the real deal.

 

It was not your average bar-band, but a collection of seasoned musicians more consumed by musical exploration than pleasing an audience with a carefully planned performance.

And this was the real San Francisco; tiny local establishments in small neighborhoods where culture was continually being explored and reinvented. It was why he'd crossed the country in the first place: to find a community where people wanted to do something different with their lives, not merely follow in the footsteps of their parents. Since the Gold Rush days of the old Barbary Coast, San Francisco had been a destination that lured people thousands of miles from home with the promise of a new and adventurous life.

First to come were the gold prospectors of 1849, in search of financial independence. Later, during the 1920s and after the Great Earthquake, the Barbary Coast attracted musicians who were eager to delve into a new musical genre called jazz. Still later after World War II, the beat poets arrived and launched a new subculture that would explore literature. Then, during the 1960s came the hippies of the Vietnam War era, inventing yet another new culture and musical genre while questioning the rationale of a controversial war. And now, during the new millennium, Michael suddenly realized that a new generation, yet to be defined, would also launch a new culture within this town. He wanted to be a part of it.

 

After dealing with the crowded men's room, Michael began walking back to where Ray and Hannah were seated near the front of the bar. But something had happened back there -- maybe during that young vocalist's performance -- he was not the same.

 

Energized with a new determination, Michael was no longer depressed. The crowd seemed somehow different. Walking down the aisle, he smiled, looking eye-to-eye at everyone along the way, sometimes nodding to strangers who met his gaze. And after finally admiring the ornate details of that enormous hardwood bar, he caught his own reflection within its fogged and scratched mirror, and he saw a different person.

  

Getting closer to their table now, he noticed that Hannah was smirking while Ray's face held a look of curious surprise.

Hannah said, "Well, Mikey, feel a little better?"

Ray spoke with a playful tone. "Hmm... they must have a really nice bathroom here. You look pretty happy."

Michael nodded enthusiastically. "Damn right I'm happy. I'm in one of the greatest cities of the world, and I will find my West Coast adventure. First thing tomorrow, I'm going down to city hall and apply for a street artists license. Know I can find some way to make it work for me." 

True to his word, Michael boarded the Polk Street bus on the following morning, riding toward the office of the Street Artists Program at the civic center. After strolling past the classic architecture of city hall and now on Grove Street, he found the four-story building that housed the Arts Commission.

 

Now entering the street artists' office on the second floor, he saw a thin man in his late forties wearing a drab green-brown suit, maybe a size too big for his stature. Standing on a stool with his back to Michael, he meticulously rearranged the files of a bookcase.

 

After spotting Michael out the of corner of his eye, the man raised his hand, smiled, and motioned he should take a seat near his desk. Reminiscent of television's Mister Rogers, the man spoke with slow and cordial tones.

 

"Hi, I'm Milton Marks." Extending his slender arm, he delicately shook Michael's hand. "And I guess you're curious about the Street Artists Program?"

"Right," said Michael. "I called on the phone and heard I could apply here for a street artists license. Are they hard to get?"

Milton continued to talk in a slow and deliberate style; his words well-chosen. "No... it's not difficult or expensive, but there is a procedure you must follow."

"Okay..."

 

"Before you can get a license to sell your craft on the sidewalk," Milton said, "the Arts Commission has to verify that you make what you intend to sell. We do that with a public screening that's held every month. And at that screening, you'll have to bring samples of your art, some of its raw materials, and unfinished samples of your craft so the Screening Committee can see the various stages of your work. Sounds complicated, but it really isn't. It's all explained here, in this little blue booklet."

He placed a small blue softcover book into Michael's hand. "We call this The Blue Book. It tells you everything you need to know about getting a street artists license: what crafts are acceptable, what you'll need to bring to the screening to become certified, where you'll eventually be allowed to sell with a license, and much more."

"Right. I heard that the craftspeople are only allowed to sell in numbered, designated selling-spaces which are distributed on a daily basis."

"Good. So you already know a little about the program. Just make sure you study the Blue Book before you go to get screened. Now... I have a cancellation for this month's screening. Are you free on the morning of the 26th? I could get you screened then, and you could even start selling on the very next day."

Michael nodded, surprised that things would progress this quickly. "Great, sure! I can make it on the 26th. Oh, and it's enameled jewelry I'll need to get screened for."

 

Milton mustered a smile. "Okay, I'll put you down for ten A.M., and we'll see you then. So nice to meet you, Michael."