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.

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.