Royalty for a Downtown Clown
'Men work together,' I told him from the heart,
'Whether they work together or apart.'
Robert Frost, 'The Tuft of Flowers'
(May, '03)
Missing from the annual Memorial Day Weekend Buskers' Festival at
Faneuil Hall Marketplace was one of the most prominent, both beloved
and notorious, street-performers in Boston--and Cambridge and
Provincetown. Perri David Rlickman was one who could delight
young children with animal-shaped balloons one moment and infuriate
local merchants with caustic satire the very next.
He first came to my attention two years back when The Boston
Globe ran a photo of a woman walking downtown, shopping bag in
one hand, cellphone to ear in the other, followed by this clown, a
regular busker at that spot, mimicking her walktalk. The
caption observed that he frequently did this to the delight of
onlookers and so increased his tips.
My eyes grew quite large at this.
All last year I had that clown's picture in mind everytime a
cellphoner yapped into my hearing. I learned years ago quite by
accident that I, a street piper, could gain attention, laughs, and a
few tips with "Thank you" and "Hello," or an unexpected
"Nice Hat" or "Nice Shoes" in mid-song. First happened
when I couldn't help but laugh at a wrong note only to realize that
the laughter had effectively covered up the wrong note. So
that's why Tull's flautist makes all that noise!
Thus, I learned to unleash "yap-yap-yap" while keeping my eyes on
the sheet music--no matter if I wasn't reading. Invariably
the target is oblivious, which is, pointedly, the anti-nature of
cellphones. But there are always on-lookers, especially older
folk, who get the joke. Near the ends of songs, or between
them, I wait until a talkwalker passes in front of me and then follow
holding a soprano recorder to my ear, mimicking posture, motions and
gestures.
Draws a lot of laughs, occasional applause, and no few people wanting
to shake my hand with heartfelt gratitude for reasserting the concept
of public awareness over privatized self-absorption.
Eventually, I hoped my gratitude would find that clown in Boston,
clipped to a note: "This is not a tip. This is a
royalty." However, with all due respect to the Father
of all New England clowns, way often does not lead onto way,
and I never visited Boston's Downtown Crossing last year. It
already has more than its share of buskers, after all.
And so it was that my eyes grew large again this spring when the
Globe ran the same photo. For an obituary. That he
was found in his apartment at age 51 just weeks after I turned 52
made me wonder--still makes me wonder--if street-performance is some
subconcious effort to bring back the Sixties, to breathe life into
such obsolete and discredited ideas as: Yes, we can talk to
strangers; yes, we can make eye contact; and, oh yes, there has to be
some meaning in the first word of the phrase, public place.
But mostly I was making an effort, for a much longer time than I ever
intended to be sitting over coffee that I always crave but never
need, trying to keep my eyes focussed so I could read tidbits of his
life, a warm tribute from the owner of the Cambridge restaurant where
he both performed and bussed tables in return for meals.
Text moved on the page. Letters kept changing. His
headlined full name looked like typographical errors, and so I was
content to remember him--to so many people from here to Seattle, to
Italy and to Costa Rica, who had heard and read my account of the
photo two years ago--by his character name, Perri the
Clown.
And that name, too, ran down the page like a tear down a cheek onto a
small memorial ad that may not have been there at all, but which
said, no matter how many times I rubbed and reopened my eyes:
Jest in Peace.
Yes, may we all jest in peace...