In my first year as a street performer, a lot happened. I was 21 and I lived in four cities doing probably close to 1000 performances.
Being a nobody, convincing people to stop walking by, proving myself and eventually gathering a crowd of 200 people that paid me was incredible. I established so much identity and understanding and confidence through these primitive performances.
New Orleans in the summer was rough. I went to Nashville to make some money doing whatever. Boston streets were gentle and beautiful. People would wait 45 minutes for a show to start. I got a lot better there and started making money on shows, but I was nothing. I realized I was nothing when I arrived in San Francisco.
There’s a mall on Pier 39 in San Francisco popular for street shows, but I would need permission to perform there, so I went to Pier 41 – a public amazing place.
It’s a big circle for pedestrians. It sits there and whispers “I’m a stage.”
I went to the center of that circle, set down my suitcases, and started to set up. There were no Boston-style lookie-loos. I told some people walking by that I was about to begin and they said they’d catch me on the way back. I kept telling people.
One guy seemed pretty interested — a gravely voiced 25yo on a BMX bike. He asked me about what I do in the show. He was impressed by how experienced I was. He reacted amazed when I told him I just drove from successful shows in Boston.
He had to leave and I went back to talking to people who didn’t give a fuck. Maybe a couple hours of making announcements, trying to quickly show off a trick, talking to people individually, and making jokes to passersby all amounted to squat.
While the area looks great for gatherings, there are some real challenges with the spot.
- When a tourist is there looking in either direction, it seems like there’s a lot to do (there isn’t but it looks like it)
- Daytime weather can inspire shorts, but nighttime wind and fog brings regret
- There are some criminal type people out there
I was not in Boston anymore.
He came back. The guy on the bike, but it was not to see my show. He was dragging a big trunk. He set it down by one of the benches. Smoked a cigarette watching me not entertain anyone. Patiently finished the smoke and asked if I was done.
I laughed, gestured at the empty spot. I was exhausted and didn’t know how what I was doing could in any way inspire the same. It was obviously a bad night to do shows. I was the guy from Boston! I was great! I said, “you can try if you want.” I packed up my stuff and dragged it to the side – confused by him, but also grateful to not be alone.
If it wasn’t magic, it was perfection. He slammed down his case, rolled his bike to the center. Flopped open the lid of the case and had 15 people watching. In twenty minutes, it was a comedy club. He had a full circle of people who didn’t have any original intention to be there. They were glued and growing. It was a bad night for a show, but not for a miracle. He killed for 300 people, collected cash.
Moved his stuff out of the way so that I could do 20 more minutes of nothing with strangers, then I forfeited again to him to watch more genius. This was Chris Karney. He was not impressed with me. He was not amazed that I could juggle. I was arrogant and he was competitive and it was funny.
The only thing that was right about my perception that night was that I was not alone. We ended up trading off on that spot for years. Watching hundreds of each others’ shows. Going to bars with our cash for late dinners. We were sweaty and dirty and enamored with giving more to a crowd – with being undeniable.
I was a Christian, virgin vegan. He was a drunk-driving, cussing hustler. We didn’t get each other in so many ways, but there was one way we got each other. That way was the most important way for both of us. Our insane desire to connect with audiences made that friendship a perfect one.