Death of a Street Artist

Chapter 1 - Schemes of Late Hours

                                   ©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."