In Character

To supplement my earnings at Planet Care, I have resorted to busking. I paint myself gold and stand completely still on a box. When someone drops money in my tip bucket, I come to life and either do a little schtick or hand the tipper something that I obtained cheaply or for free. This is the business of living statue work. It can be lucrative when conditions are favorable.

I attempted to take advantage of the First Friday Indie Market in downtown Greensboro as a forum for my living statue work several times throughout the summer. On my first try, I was told by a police officer that I needed a panhandler's license in order to solicit money. So I was forced to stop prematurely.

I got my panhandler's license. It took longer than usual because of some mix-up and some renovation and so on. But it finally arrived and I was ready to give the Indie Market another go. Unfortunately, I caught a terrible summer cold a few days before the market. I opted to stay home and nurse myself back to health.

The day of my third try, I was filling in for one of the administrative folks at Planet Care and had to finish a certain amount of work before I could call it a day. My obligations held me there much later than I had hoped, causing me to arrive at the Indie market an hour and a half before it ended. However, my time there was fun and I made a substantial amount of money.

My fourth try came during the vicious heat wave. It was hard to imagine painting myself metallic gold and wearing clothing that concealed all of my body while standing still on a box in record heat. Again, I counted my losses and stayed home. Which brings us to the present: The Fifth Try.

I had been planning this day for a couple of weeks. I needed to make a certain amount of money so that I could go to the beach for a few days. I had my strategy in place and for most of the day today, I worked on the logistics of this strategy.

• I needed to be at the market by 4:00 p.m. to maximize the amount of time, hence the number of tips.

• I needed to have one personalized card with a pithy saying or wise crack for each dollar I wanted to make - assuming each tip is on average one dollar.

• I needed to eat well during the day and hydrate so that I could maintain my energy for five hours of standing on a box.

• I needed to start getting ready no later than 3:00 p.m. so that I could get downtown in a timely manner.

• I needed to head downtown early enough to find a parking place convenient to the Indie Market to minimize the amount of time that people would see me walking. I am a statue, you see. And once the make-up and costume are on and I am in public, I do not make eye contact with people, I do not talk to people. Unless they tip me.

All these bullet points were mapped out in my brain. I spent a good portion of the day making cards to pass out. I ate well and drank water. But as the day progressed, little things caused the erosion of my strategy: an errand here, lending a helping hand there, getting overheated/in need of hydration.

One little thing after another that I added on to my day put me two hours behind schedule. 'I'll get there when I get there,' is a mantra for failure.

I finally began the process of preparing to leave. This consists of dressing in my golden attire, painting my face gold and donning my golden boots. My apartment was so hot that the application of make-up without streaking was a challenge. I cut on the air conditioner.

I interfaced with my friend, the hurdy-gurdy player, via telephone. He was to join me in my busking endeavor but was also running late. We attempted to make a meetup plan. But as time continued to lurch forward, we left it at, "I'll call you when I'm there."

I packed my things - my box upon which to stand, a piece of fabric with which to cover said box, my tip bucket, my "Tip for a Tip" sign with my panhandler's license attached, a bottle of water for drinking once I'd completed my statue shift - into my car and proceeded downtown.

It was too late to park anywhere near the market but not too late to get a spot in a lot that was not inordinately far. I drove straight to that lot and had no problem finding a parking space. I got out of my car, opened the back door to gain access to all my stuff and began to put on my golden gloves when a woman approached me and began to ask me questions.

Let me again emphasize that once I am made up and dressed as a statue, I create a barrier between myself and people. I do not talk. I do not move. When I have to move from point "A" to point "B" - for example, from my car to the site of the Indie Market - I keep my head down and stare at the ground as I walk, avoiding eye contact.

When I was approached by this particular woman, I denied my impulse to keep quiet and just give a curt nod of the head. I spoke to her. And as I engaged in conversation, I closed my car door. And once its latch was shut, I realized that I had made a terrible mistake.

My keys, my wallet, my box, my tip bucket were all inside the car and each of its four doors were locked.

Terrific.

The woman left. I did not mention my predicament to her. Why should I? What could she do? My boyfriend has a spare key but he was at work. And I couldn't remember his phone number. In fact, I couldn't remember anyone's phone number. They are all stored in my cell phone. So what use would it be to borrow someone's phone? I had no money on me. Nothing but my golden attire and my golden make-up.

It began to rain. As I stood miserably by my car, I decided that I might as well seek shelter under a near-by tree to avoid making myself more miserable. So there I stood, a mock statue, just down the street from the real statue of General Greene, under a tree in the rain by the side of the road for motorists and pedestrians to observe. I couldn't solicit money because my tip bucket was locked in my car.

I have no survival instincts. When I am thrust into a challenging situation, I often just stare off into space for a good long while. And this is what I chose to do in this instance.

After a time, I decided to walk to the Indie Market to see if I could find my hurdy-gurdy friend. As we had made no definite plans other than "I'll call you once I'm there," I did not know where to find him. Remember: my cell phone was locked in the car.

I trudged along the sidewalk in my golden cowboy boots, keeping my face down. I am a statue. People aren't supposed to see me move. They cannot look into my eyes. I am a statue, dammit. What a fucked up predicament for a statue to be in.

I arrived at the market and found no hurdy-gurdy friend. I couldn't stand there and wait. Not without a tip bucket. I was attracting a lot of attention and did not know what to do about this. I could not talk to anyone. I am a statue! I turned around and headed back to the parking lot with absolutely no idea what I would do once there. I thought maybe my friend would magically be waiting for me and would know exactly how to break into my car and we'd be in business. But no.

I considered going into Design Archives where a couple of people I know work. What would I do once there? I'd have to explain my situation and try to get some sort of help. That would require talking in front of people. I just couldn't do that.

I am a statue! Dammit!

I leaned against my car, staring at the contrast between the gold of my boots and the rough gray of the asphalt beneath my feet. The air was thick. I was growing thirsty. I felt dizzy.

Oh god! I'm going to pass out! Breathe! Just breathe!!!

It occurred to me at that point that I should walk back towards the Indie Market in search of a police officer. Maybe a police person could help me. I found such a person parked right next to the Indie Market. I approached the driver's side of the police car. The window was down. A standard issue balding and mustachioed man with a pink face looked at me suspiciously. I leaned over and spoke very quietly so that no one around could hear. I told the policeman of my predicament and asked whether he could help. He said he might be able to open the door but wasn't making any guarantees. I thanked him and he invited me to get into the back of his police car. This is not the sort of thing I would voluntarily do under any other circumstances. But it seemed expeditious at the time.

The police officer drove away from the Indie Market and for a brief moment, I panicked. He could be taking me downtown for all I know! I mean, how bizarre is it for a golden woman to approach a policeman and say 'can you unlock my car?' Why the fuck should he believe my story? I do, after all, look more than a little odd.

Despite my rising fear, the policeman drove to the lot where my ridiculous pecan-bombed car sat. The kind officer asked what kind of tree I park my car under. "Pecan. Makes a mess, doesn't it?" Clearly, it arouses even more suspicion when you never wash your car.

The officer tried using a "Slim Jim" and then another device before he opened a big red bag that looked like it might contain some serious firearms. He pulled out a little inflatable device and a wedge and eventually pried my door open enough to fit a long stick inside. He used this stick to roll my window down bit by bit until there was just enough space for me to reach inside and unlock the door. All in all, this entire process took about 45 minutes.

I was grateful that I now had access to my things. I thanked the officer profusely and offered to show him my driver's license. He agreed that this might be a good idea. Fortunately for me, my driver's license, my license plate and my inspection were all up to date. I had no outstanding warrants for my arrest. So I was not hauled off to jail or anything comparably stressful. Had I found myself in this predicament a couple of years ago, things could have gone even further downhill. I have to count my blessings, here.

First things first: I called my hurdy-gurdy friend. He had driven back home to Julian (twenty-five minutes away) once it started raining, he couldn't find me and I wouldn't answer my phone. Because it was locked in the car. We commiserated with each other about the rotten luck and all. And then, it dawned on me.

The cards that I'd made to hand out to tippers were not in the car. I had forgotten them in the packing up process. I'd left them at home.

ARRRGGGGAAAHHHHH!!!!

It was like some bizarre journey into the Twilight Zone. How could all this ridiculous stuff be happening when I'd planned so carefully? I'd devised my strategy.

It was approaching 7:30. My tip sign reads "Tip for a Tip." I couldn't busk for tips without having a tip to give back. I sat in my car, the most miserable of miserable, and forced myself to start the engine and go home.

It was 7:45 when I arrived at my apartment. The Indie Market ends at 9:00. I could grab the cards, go back towards the Indie Market, park my car, gather my stuff and walk the few blocks to the Indie Market and probably arrive by 8:15. I could busk for 45 minutes. But by this time, I was completely disheartened. I had no more fight. The statue of General Greene would be disappointed in me, but I had lost the warrior spirit.

The best laid plans....fallen by the wayside.....dropped off a steep cliff, dashed against the rocks below, shattered into a million pieces.

And so I look for the lesson - the moral of this story. I cannot find one. I rant to my boyfriend who tells me that, "People like us, people who get distracted easily.....on days when we have important stuff to do - creative stuff - we need to clear everything else off our plates. We need to think about that one thing that we must accomplish that day and that one thing only." While this sounds like reasonable advice, it doesn't seem to comprise the lesson in its entirety. There is more.

I've been meeting with a naturopath to help me with a series of mental and physical maladies. In approaching these holistically, my naturopath assigns me certain tasks. It is my job to honor my healing process by undertaking these tasks. The task assigned me for this month is to schedule studio time for myself - time in which I am actively making art. I am to adhere to this schedule as if it were a work schedule. And I have not been doing this.

I realize that I had scheduled out my living statue day, but I did not adhere to the schedule. This is not merely a matter of being distracted. It is a willful insistence on not honoring my own creative life. It is a jab at my true nature. It is an insidious attempt to end my life prematurely. And it comes from within my own psyche.

I was angry and disappointed over my failure. I can forgive myself for locking my keys in the car. I can forgive myself for leaving my tip cards at home. But I find it incredibly difficult to forgive myself for willfully disregarding the schedule I'd laid out for myself in order to maximize my potential for earning money and having fun. But ultimately, forgiveness is needed in order to move forward - in order for the lesson to become fully absorbed by my self-sabotaging psyche.

Still, you have to admire my commitment to the character of statue. Despite all my difficulties, I remained faithful to the idea of being a piece of rock.