Gigantic.13

On Broadway

Back in NYC, I’d started attaching odds-and-ends from Canal Surplus to safety pins. Looked good on my jean jacket, obviously Seattle would be clamoring for it.

I made a handwritten sign that read Jewelry You Die For. I arranged my creations in a vintage suitcase which I propped open on Broadway, the main street on Capitol Hill.

A passing cop slowed and stopped in front of me.

“You can’t sit on the sidewalk.”

No sense arguing with the man. I started packing my stuff.

“No, you can stay, you just can’t sit right on the sidewalk,” the cop amended. “Squatting is okay.”

Back in business. But this was not going to be an easy day for my knees.

That first afternoon, I sold a dinosaur-shaped pin for exactly one dollar. Part of the problem was this girl stopped to talk to me. And talk and talk. She wouldn’t stop, scared away all my prospective customers. I cut bait for the day just to get away from her.

Next day, I tried heading up to the U. District, maybe I’d have more luck selling to college students. A little camping chair was now part of my gear, but there were other complications.

Two bums and their dog set up shop right next to me. They weren’t actually selling anything, just asking for money. With no warning, the two of them got into a full-on fistfight with each other for no apparent reason. The dog started barking.

While they were still fighting, a dude wearing all-white sports gear and a Sony Walkman appeared and started doing a breakdancing performance, right in front of us.

This was too much for the bums. They stopped fighting and disappeared down the street with the dog, but the guy in the sports gear continued doing his routine.

A German woman stopped to look in my suitcase.

“Vat is this?”

“It’s jewelry,” I said.

“Yes, but this sign, Jewelry You Die For, are you supposed to kill people with this jewelry?”

“Lady, it’s just the name of my company.”

“You should get a different name.”

She didn’t buy anything.

A group of skateboard punks appeared, eyeing me with malicious intent. Their leader, who said his name his Billy, wore jewelry that did, in fact, look like you kill someone with it.

“We hang out here,” he informed me.

“Oh yeah?”

I’d thought the streets belonged to everyone, but between the bums, dancing dude and these guys, it occurred to me I was muscling in on pre-existing territories.

Billy asked a few interrogating questions designed to mess with me, then decided I was okay. His buddies still looked like they wanted to kill me, but figured they’d rather sit in the shade anyway and headed across the street.

One final “customer,” a dude in a corduroy hat, took a cursory glance at the jewelry, handed me a filterless Pall Mall, and invited me to grab a cappuccino.

I packed my goods and fled the scene. We sat outside a nearby cafe. From his interactions with regulars, I deduced he was a dealer. We had an interesting conversation anyway, and he didn’t seem too bothered to have bought me a cappuccino without gaining a new client.

The sun was out for a change. Heading back south, I looked up and was dumbfounded.

“What the fuck is that?”

Dwarfing the entire city of Seattle, Mount Rainier introduced itself like the massive spaceship above Devil’s Tower at the end of Close Encounters. It had been waiting, shrouded in fog, the whole time I’d been in Seattle, I just didn’t know it was there until this moment.

It made me wonder what else I’d been missing.

I decided to stick with Capitol Hill for the jewelry business. Since my previous attempt on Broadway had been sleepy, I brought a guitar. At least I could practice while sitting on my camping stool, hoping for customers.

Steve had lent me a Gibson hollow body which I’d taken a liking to, it was easier to play than the acoustic I’d bought at the thrift store. The Gibson was a real beauty, impressive to gear heads, so a few sub-pop-looking dudes stopped to admire it, even if my playing was less than stellar.

“You’re missing an E string,” more than one commented.

“I know,” I responded.

“You should fix that.”

“Yeah.”

What was I supposed to say, I haven’t figured out how to do that yet?

After sitting out there sort-of strumming for maybe an hour, I was focused on the fretboard when someone tossed a quarter into my open suitcase.

“Hey!” I yelled, initially offended that someone had defiled my jewelry collection by chucking something into it.

Then I picked up the quarter and took a long look. It was more than I’d made all day trying to sell jewelry.

The next day I was out on Broadway again. I brought the Gibson, the camping stool, and the empty suitcase with a few bucks seed money.

I left the jewelry back at the apartment.

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