Ft Lauderdale Beach, FL
Left our oceanfront hotel this fine Saturday evening with two dollars and a ukulele, returned with six dollars and a wilted pink rose (the ukulele is also still intact).
But my Floridan story begins almost two weeks ago. Last week I found myself in Key West, paying upwards of $350 for the privilege of camping in what was forecast to be a weeklong torrential tropical downpour. After the lovely folks at the campground agreed to refund me the rest of the week I'd prepaid, I packed up my soaked gear, booked a cheap hotel room on the mainland, and drove northwards to Lauderdale-by-the-Sea.
For the geographically challenged, Lauderdale-by-the-Sea is just north of Ft Lauderdale, which is just north of Miami, which is just north of the Keys, which is just north of Cuba. For $50 a night I managed to get myself a room on the beach with a balcony overlooking the ocean for two nights, and though the weather was not conducive to serious use of neither balcony nor ocean, I definitely appreciated the contrast to my soggy camping hammock. I probably shouldn't have spent the money, but I needed somewhere dry to plan my next move.
It was a Saturday when I landed in Lauderdale-by-the-Sea, so I decided to go hang out with the locals, see what they called “fun” in these parts. Turns out the nightlife in LbtS is similar to a wedding reception: young and old alike all dolled up, dancing with each other to "We Are Family" and "Celebration." I had a fine time for a few hours -- receptions have always been my favorite part of a wedding.
After a short visit with other friends in the area, one week later I found myself in a much nicer hotel with the unsinkable Katie German. This particular evening she was off at her red carpet gala for the Ft Lauderdale Film Festival -- the fine sponsors of aforementioned hotel room thanks to Katie's involvement in the documentary "Scissors and Glue." Left to my own devices for yet another south Floridian Saturday night, I set off with my ukulele slung over my shoulder. I've neglected the poor dear for over a month, but I figured even if I didn't get a chance to play at least the case would make me look like a sophisticated violinist to the untrained eye.
Ft Lauderdale is a little more happenin' than it's northern counterpart. I ambled past the strip of bars and restaurants along the beach, winking at the lovely Latin men plucking guitar strings on open-air stages to tables full of tourists getting hammered on elephantine 2-4-1 margaritas. Still not my scene, but some fine musicians to be heard. I eventually came upon a couple of white dudes with guitars who had taken up residence on a short flight of stairs that led to a large shopping complex. One of them was banging away at his instrument, shirtless, beer-bellied, and likely bald underneath his skull and crossbones do-rag. I started chatting with the other fellow and his girlfriend – we'll call them Kasey and Shannon – who seemed to be simply taking in the scene. It turns out Kasey, a thickly built twentysomething with lanky waves of hair hanging about his face, is doing his thesis on buskers (street musicians), and having dabbled in music before he thought, what better way to complete his research than to actually experience it for himself?
Do-Rag finished his set abruptly and high-tailed it after a quick round of handshakes, leaving the three of us sitting on the steps. I followed Kasey on a few standard covers with my ukulele, “No Woman No Cry,” “Knockin' on Heavens Door,” and he followed me on “Folsom Prison Blues” and “Sympathy for the Devil.” During “Sympathy” we received a fitting tip – a couple dropped some good old-fashioned Jesus literature into the cheap top hat Kasey had placed in the sidewalk. Apparently it was the second such tip he had gotten that evening, and he squirreled it away in his bag as part of his “research” with a shrug.
After five or six songs two other musicians rounded the corner, a couple of young chaps with guitar and hand drum in tow. They seemed friendly enough and when they asked if they could join us we obliged and they sat down. They seemed ill at ease. When they told us they specialized in “praise” music, I knew why. But, prolonging the inevitable, I had them follow me on a few of my own songs. My voice blew out from belting it into the blustering wind, but not before I played a new, and admittedly sad, song I recently wrote – “Well I've hung up my hat in so many a town/and I've still never found me a home,” goes the chorus. As I sang it to the pre-proselytic rockers, I knew what they were thinking, and I was surprised it took two whole minutes before one of their friends started in. “That song sounds very sad,” he said. I think I let another sentence or two come out of his mouth before I politely but firmly asked, “Is this going in the God direction?”
“Yes,” he admitted sheepisly.
“I figured that. But my last name is Pontiff and I absolve you,” I replied, swiping the sign of the cross in front of his face and winking. I sat down again. “I appreciate that you care enough to try to tell me about God, but no thank you.”
He was either completely unprepared for this reaction, a polite young man, or just smart enough to know better, and dropped it, but poor Buddhist Kasey managed to get himself sucked into a religious discussion with the guitar player shortly thereafter. Five minutes later I left with a sigh before the “discussion” turned into a pointless and thoroughly frustrating debate. Though not before I scraped the bills thrown into the hat in our 30 minutes of performance. I walked away with $4 more than I had when I left the hotel.
The $6 I now had burning a hole in my pocket would barely have bought me a beer in this area. But unwilling to call it a night I slowly meandered back toward the hotel, stopping to listen to the lovely Latin boys and their guitars as I strolled along, still impressed by the level of talent and showmanship these performers had to offer. At the last stop of interest before my hotel, a rose seller of Island descent came by, unsuccessfully hawking his wares to the upscale couples in the crowd. He finally came to me. “Oh, you brought me flowers! How sweet!” I said.
After a few minutes' conversation I still couldn't place his accent, so I inquired. He said he was from England originally, but had lived in the Carribean, and then his family had brought him to Florida. Strangely enough, the “British” part of his accent didn't seem come out until he mentioned it. After this exchange of information he used the word “sussed” in a sentence and paused, looking to me expectantly as if those two syllables would confirm his British upbringing. Later I mentioned that I was writing a novel. “Oh, we should write a book together! I'm a great horiculturalist! I can see plants from California and tell people what's wrong with them. I can see plants from England and tell people what's wrong with them. I can see plants from Key West and tell people what's wrong with them! I want to write a book so I can leave behind a legacy – my kids just think I'm... y'know... but they live with their mother, so...” To his credit he had the good sense not to delve any further into his familial strife.
In the end, he did give me a pink rose, “The best he had to offer,” before going on his merry way. I got a better look at the rose on the walk back to the hotel, only to see that many of outer petals were brown and wilted at the edges. Another fine evening in a Day in the Life. The moral of this story? Remember folks, you can't hustle a hustler.
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