The Continuing Trials and Tribulations of a Living Statue

I have a long history of problems with police. And I have a relatively short history of problems doing my living statue in conjunction with the Indie Market on First Fridays in downtown Greensboro. So as the October First Friday rolled around, I found myself committed to doing my living statue for the sake of earning bread money. However, the desire to avoid any roadblocks to my creative fun time manifested as a lack of motivation.

Adding to my lack of motivation was the fact that I had been invited to go to a music festival in a bucolic setting with a left wing activist group. I could be outdoors on one of those beautiful near autumn days, enjoy a variety of music for free and talk about revolution: three of my favorite things to do. Yet I returned to the awareness that I needed grocery money for the coming week. And after a conversation with a good friend upon whom I rely for reality checks, I decided I would remain in town, do the living statue but focus on having fun, not making money.

I decided that since it is October, I would create a witch character and hand candy to anyone who tipped me. I bought a ton of cheap candy, made a witch hat, painted an old cauldron-looking pot and ladle gold to go with my color scheme. I applied make-up, dressed, donned my wig and hat, double checked to make sure I had my panhandler's license, tip bucket, candy bucket, back-up candy supply, gloves, keys, driver's license, cell phone, water bottle, and glasses. And I proceeded downtown.

I found a parking spot very close to the Indie Market. I double checked to make sure I would be parking legally. The sign read "2 Hour Parking from 9 a.m. til 6 p.m." It was 5 p.m. After my two hours had lapsed, it would be past 6 p.m. and I could remain in that space indefinitely - until 9 a.m. the next morning, I suppose. But that wouldn't happen and I would be fine.

I had checked in with the folks at the Indie market in advance. They told me that there was no room for me inside the Indie Market but they would love for me to stand outside the market - as long as I have a panhandler's license. Which I do.

I felt like all my bases had been covered. So I proceeded to the Indie Market and looked for a good place to set up: a place that would be highly visible to passersby and was the required - as per the regulations of panhandling - 20 feet away from the entrance to the Indie Market. I found my spot, set up my tip bucket, my sign with panhandler's license affixed, my crate and I assumed the position of a statue.

Roughly half an hour after I arrived, two cops on bicycles began circling me. One approached me and asked me if I had an arrangement with the Indie Market to be there. Staying in character as much as possible, I pointed to my permit. He said, "Yes, I saw your permit. I need to know whether you've arranged to be here with the Indie Market." I looked him straight in the eye and said, "Yes."

"Well then, if you want to go set up inside the Indie Market, that will be fine. But you can't stay here." I told him I did not understand why. He said, "If you want to set up inside the market, you can stay. But I can't let you stay on the sidewalk. If I were to let you stay here, I'd have to let other panhandlers stay here, too. You know - the ones with the signs?"

Right. The shabby-looking riffraff that frighten or disgust the beautiful people - you know, the ones with money.

I told him that I thought I was operating within the constraints laid out by the panhandler's license. I told him that the person at the Indie Market with whom I'd exchanged emails had told me that there was no room for me inside the Indie Market but that I was welcome to set up outside the market. He told me that I could not stand 20 feet from a parking deck. I had to leave.

I looked at the cop who was speaking to me and I told him that I had reviewed all the regulations prior to coming downtown and that there was nothing about parking decks. Could he please clarify. The officer told me that the regulations had changed. He pulled out a copy of the amended regulations and read the pertinent passage aloud. I asked him what constituted a parking deck. He pointed to the parking lot in which the Indie Market was set up.

"That's a parking deck?"

"It's a surface parking lot. The regulations apply to surface parking lots as well."

"Even if it isn't being used for parking?"

"Yes."

At this point, the cop was clearly not into the idea of making me leave. Or else he saw the red flames of hatred blazing in my eyes and was afraid for his life. You see I've been watching way too many videos of police attacking peaceful demonstrators in the Occupy Wall Street movement recently. And I'm a little bit edgy. Plus, this dude was fucking with my plan to have fun while making grocery money. These are two crucial elements to my survival. I was pretty damn furious.

The cop, seeing this, or sensing the ridiculousness of the situation, suggested I simply move twenty paces from the edge of the parking lot. He paced it out for me and showed me where I could stand. Right beside the road, about eight inches from the curb.

At least he's not making me leave. Fucking cops.

I hauled my stuff over to the side of the road, climbed back up onto my crate and stood still. I was less visible than before. But once people noticed me, they felt more comfortable stopping and staring at me than they did when I was in the middle of the sidewalk. So it seemed like things had actually changed for the better.

People came and went. Some tipped, some didn't. Some completely enjoyed my schtick. Others seemed a bit annoyed. One woman in particular stood with her three children and watched me, repeatedly asking her children whether I was a real statue or not. The children all believed I was. She said she didn't think so. She thought I was just a person painted up to look like a statue. She commented on the fact that I had a beggar's license. "Why would she have a beggar's license if she were a statue?" I'm thinking, What the fuck, lady? Yeah, ok, I'm a beggar. I'm a beggar dressed as a statue. Let your fucking kids have a little fun, how about it?

The mother and her three gaunt and mousey but well-dressed little children observed other people drop money into my bucket, at which point I sprang to life and offered them candy. Gasps and giggles ensued. People were having fun.

This phenomenon was apparently alien to the three model children. They were lured to this "fun" as a moth is lured to the flame. They asked their mother if they could drop money in my bucket. The mother asked, "Why?" The children were as perplexed as I was by this question. "We want candy," they said. "I don't want you to have candy," she said. Yet they continued to stand there staring at me with their hollow eyes.

Eventually, the mother relented and gave her spare change to each of her children. They eagerly approached my tip bucket and deposited their quarters, nickels and pennies. I guess the mom reserved her paper money for the family's fine clothing. I blew each child a kiss. I squatted down as I reached into my bucket and handed them each a plastic ring with a spider or bat on it, thinking I was doing a good thing by not offering candy. The children thrust their hands into my bucket and grabbed candy anyway. They groped around inside my bucket as if they would find a life for themselves in there. When they seemed satiated, I blew the mother a kiss and thought everyone would leave happy.

From that point on I had a lovely time messing with children and startling grown-ups. And then another cop approached me. He told me that I didn't have to break character by talking to him - which I thought to be an astute thing for a cop to say - but I would have to leave. His supervising officer said so. I drew in a deep breath, feeling this was not worth fighting for. But then, the first cop reappeared and approached the second cop. The first cop said to the second cop, "I've already talked to her. She moved 20 feet away from the parking lot. She's fine." The second cop said to the first cop, "You need to check in with *insert supervising officer's name here.* He said she has to go."

I waited. Unmoving. Unmoved. Cops talking to a statue had attracted a bit of attention. People stood around watching and wondering what was going to happen. One man approached the second cop and said, "You know, people really enjoy what she does. Kids love it. It's really a lot of fun to watch her stand still and then suddenly move. I don't see that it's bothering anyone." Nice man. The second cop did not say anything. Because at this point the first cop reappeared and told me I had to go. It was after dark.

"Any person who begs or solicits alms for his or her own personal gain after sunset or before sunrise is guilty of a misdemeanor. "

Without a word, I climbed down off my crate, threw everything into it, picked it up, put it on my hip and walked away. I looked at no one. I looked at the pavement in front of me. When I had to cross the street, I barely looked to see whether cars were coming. Let them fucking come. Let them hit me. Fuck them.

Fortunately for me, my car was close by. Fortunately for me, I live close to downtown. Fortunately, the time that lapsed between being asked to leave and my arrival home was minimal. So I didn't have to wait very long to unload my tears of rage and frustration.

I am a beggar. Not an artist. I am an undesirable element that must be hidden from the patrons of shops and restaurants, clubs and coffee houses downtown. I dirty up the streets. I frighten and repulse good people, people with grocery money. I am little more than a criminal. But no matter. I have always known I belong somewhere else. This incident merely reaffirms my belief.

Maybe someday I will find my home on this planet.

Tonight, I am so filled with negativity that I feel polluted. I suppose the thing to do is to flip this around and focus on the positive.

My car passed inspection today, thanks largely to my boyfriend, who disconnected the battery last night and re-connected it this morning so that the "Check Engine" light went off. Otherwise, it would not have passed. Otherwise, the car guys would have told me I'd need to spend $1500 to replace the "carbon canister." My boyfriend saved me a good deal of angst.

I had a hilarious exchange with a worker at the Dollar Store over candy. Bags of candy have serving sizes listed on the back. The serving size of mini Tootsie Rolls, for example, is six pieces. Six mini Tootsie Rolls constitute one serving of Tootsie Rolls. How is it we were never taught this in nutrition class?

Despite attempts by Greensboro police to prevent me from doing so, I managed to earn a little money tonight. I will have to watch each quarter, nickel and penny carefully. But I should be able to last until payday.

And despite the fact that I was in Greensboro fomenting revulsion rather than revolution, it was a beautiful day.