Dundee

“Looking sharp. Street Sheet?”

I knew the routine: compliment and then ask for money. In this case, ask to buy a Street Sheet, a local paper focusing on homeless issues and written by the homeless that started, oddly, at a Phil Collins concert. The Phil Collins bit is a great anecdote – one that I drop liberally anytime the homeless is mentioned.

It was only a dollar but I was in a hurry and I definitely didn’t want a paper full of bad Tenderloin poetry. I nodded, said thanks and moved on. Sometimes I give, sometimes I don’t.

As I passed him, he abruptly crouched down, palms to the sky, like a meteor was fast approaching and jokingly said, “Watch out for the quicksand!” I nodded, forced a smile, not knowing what the hell he meant. It was common.

I was looking sharp. My reflection in the storefront windows of The Metreon confirmed this. Even though my burgundy jacket was a tad dirty and wrinkled, and my matching burgundy pants reflected significant wear to the front, it didn’t matter. People would only see me from afar and the distance would iron the wrinkles and clean the dirt. Distance does wonders for your self-esteem.

Glancing up at the face of The Metreon, 4 huge banners hung, displaying portraits of 4 middle-aged professionals in casual tech attire. I had no idea who they were, but I assumed they were 2^nd tier tech giants. It was the Salesforce convention. Regular techies in Salesforce polos, fleece vests and athletic jackets, accessorized with Salesforce bags and hats, were everywhere. Amongst them were paid employees in matching t-shirts, dispensing directions and information to the convention goers.

With my guitar in my left hand and gig bag in my right, I continued down 4^th, making a left at Howard. Howard was blocked from 3^rd to 4^th streets; steel bomb-blast barriers and armed guards with assault rifles bordered the streets. The new normal for public events. I was to meet my bandmates at 3^rd and Howard, across the street from SFMOMA.

A narrow, public walkway ran parallel to the gated event on Howard. Guards were posted at every opening. As I walked across, I thought about the quicksand comment. What the hell was he talking about? What did he mean?

Lev was sitting on the bomb barrier at 3^rd, wearing the exact same outfit as I had on. I sat down next to him, tucking my guitar and bag under my feet, and told him about the homeless man’s comment.

Without skipping a beat, he said, “Crocodile Dundee. He thinks you look like Crocodile Dundee.”

“Really? Dundee? I look like Dundee? Seriously?”

As with all comparisons, I was a little indignant. In the past 2 years, homeless people have compared me to Frankenstein (amended to Einstein), Hitler and called me a “little gay boy,” but this Dundee thing was different. I was wearing a burgundy suit, dammit!! Dundee does not wear burgundy!!

Lev could see me processing what he said.

“It’s the hat,” he said.

“You think? Dundee wears a leather hat, though.” I replied.

Granted, I was wearing a flat-brimmed beige Stetson western hat. I wore it for gigs to hide my balding dome. It allowed me a little more confidence on stage.

“I mean, doesn’t Dundee wear leather chaps, a leather vest with no shirt and a leather cowboy hat?”

“Dude, he’s homeless.”

Jim and Tom approached, guitars in hand.

"Do you guys think I look like Crocodile Dundee? Some homeless guy said I look like him."

“Nope.”

“Nope.”

I nodded and mumbled, “Fuckin’ homeless dick.” He obviously struck a chord.

Our handler arrived and directed us to our backstage room. He gave us laminates and said he'd be back to get us 15 minutes before we went on. We played the event every year so we knew the drill. We settled in and talked about music, as we always did.

  

*

In-between sets, I ventured out into the event looking for a bathroom, leaving my Stetson hat on my amp. The theme of the party was national parks or something like that. There were lots of rented trees but no bathrooms. 6000 people and no bathrooms? Where were they?

In my quest to urinate, I wandered into an adjacent building and asked a guard the whereabouts of a bathroom. He pointed up the stairs and to the right. Up the stairs and to the right? Where the hell was everyone pissing? Usually, at these events, outhouses were disguised but abundant.  I was losing my piss-dar.

Unable to find it, I spotted another guard on the second floor and he gave me better directions.

In the harsh light of the bathroom, I looked in the mirror after washing my hands. The overhead lighting exposed my balding pate and slept-on hair. I stared at my worn face. My eyes were droopy and my 6 months old grey beard was full and unruly. At this range, the lapels of my jacket were noticeably stained and the jacket looked like it was pulled out of a laundry pile. My pants were no better. I didn’t mind, though. I only had to look presentable at 30 yards, which I did, I thought. This was my look, my style.

Outside the bathroom, 5 men were waiting for me – two of them were the guards that gave me directions to the bathroom, the other three were obviously plainclothes private security -- ex-military or cop. Most big tech companies have extensive security.

Standing in a “V” position, the man at the point, dressed in khakis and a black polo with a 2-way in his left hand, asked me, “What are you doing?”

“I was looking for a bathroom. I couldn’t find any down there,” pointing to the main area of the event while simultaneously holding up my laminate.

“That’s the wrong color to be in this area. Where did you get the laminate?” he responded.

“Well, I mean, I don’t know what to tell you. Our contact at Salesforce gave us this. I had no idea it was specific to a certain area. I’m in a band, we’re playing over there.” The second-floor windows offering an unobstructed view of the stage.

It was obvious what had happened: The two contract guards told private security that a homeless man in a burgundy suit was in the bathroom and was wearing a stolen laminate.

“I can show you the person who gave me the laminate. He’s next to the stage, probably.”

Seeing I was clear-eyed and somewhat articulate, they knew I wasn’t homeless but they were not sure if I belonged.

The two guards that gave me directions went back to their posts, leaving the three guards to slowly follow behind me, down the stairs, out the glass doors, and across the fake grass to the stage. Winding around beanbag chairs, and convention goers playing Ping-Pong and Cornhole, the stage came into view. Lit in red, blue and white, with a large LCD screen behind our equipment advertising upcoming events, our promo photo appeared on the screen. In the photo, we’re wearing our burgundy suits and I looked exactly the same: full beard, droopy eyes and somewhat disheveled. There was no mistaking that I was the man on the screen. I stopped, turned around and pointed to the screen.

“See. That’s me. I’m in the band.”

All three looked at the screen and then looked at me. Looked at the screen and looked at me. It was obvious.

I continued walking to the stage and they returned to their rounds.