I applied for the Ignite Arvada Arts Grant, because, let’s be honest, most performing artists are way underemployed of late (and for the last six months, and for the unforeseeable future).
I got an email from the grant committee this morning. Apparently a major Spanish speaking news station was doing interviews with candidates who spoke Spanish. I noted I speak Spanish on the application, on occasion. I guess they were calling my bluff. I decided immediately an interview in Spanish sounded terrifying and closed the email. Then Danny said he had to work all afternoon and I was bored, so figured “what do I have to lose?” I did some research on the key phrases and said I’d show up and bow out gracefully if it turned out I was out of my element.
Several hours later I found myself teetering on stupid platform shoes down the Main Street in Old Town Arvada wearing a bejeweled mask, polka dotted pants, a swishy deep green blouse and a fedora. I figured at least I could try to look the part even if I butchered the interview.
I was out of breath because I’d ran from the parking lot and back to check, when a parking attendant drove by and I realized she’d probably sting me for parking an hour too early in an investment banker’s reserved spot. I know from experience it’s Quite Dear when you get towed, and no amount of screaming at the impoundment guy with the vicious barking dogs will get you your car back without paying the criminally bloated fees to get your car out of jail. After running back, I’d discovered all the spots were reserved for one company or another so I had to take my chances.
It turned out the woman who was meeting me was also out of breath. She’s just been redirected from picking her daughter up at DIA, who’d just arrived from Cal Poly, and this woman was supposed to be meeting me and another interviewee to let us know the reporter had been pulled off to another breaking news story, and would not be able to make it. The other interviewee also did not show up. The woman apologized profusely for the last minute change and asked if I would be willing to do a zoom interview at 5:30 pm which was an hour and a half away. I agreed, and said I’d just play for some patrons in the street while I was waiting. It seemed a good opportunity to do my first street “busking” mission ever.
I got set up in the closed off street and several dogs at a restaurant started barking shrilly at me. The manager came out and told me they had a band playing in two hours, for my reference. He did not invite me to play on his tiny outdoor homemade stage fringed in giant lights (note: these will become important to the story). I began playing and a few restaurant goers clapped. One woman asked where my donation cup was, and I said I forgot one, but what I really meant was I was too chicken to raise the ire of the restaurant manager again and ask for one and it was bloody hot so I couldn’t use my hat as I’d intended because I needed it for shade.
I noticed I was playing in front of a business in an old Victorian home that had just relocated from Denver where I had performed previously for them twice in an old Victorian mansion. I thought I might move onto their patio for the interview, since sitting in the street might just make it impossible for me to do an interview in my halting Spanish with all the background noise, but it might be nice to be in a “Live” setting. Just as I was about to pack up, I saw a text from the reporter. He said he had wrapped up his Breaking News reporting and was ready to call in. I was just about to write back when my phone died. Arg!!! Just then, the new owners of the business for which I had played previously came out to introduce themselves. They had been listening from their upstairs Victorian window and wondered if I might play for their Grand Opening.
I quickly offered them a discounted Covid rate (which is ironic because I haven’t been bringing in cash for months but then again, neither have many businesses) and asked if I might use their internet and their patio to do my interview, which was tacky, but it had only just occurred to me that I would need Internet to do a Zoom call and I was desperate. Then I said I had to run off to charge my phone. Fortunately my car had not been towed, however the phone, though it had been recently fully charged, was inexplicably and maddeningly completely dead. The car couldn’t provide enough immediate charge to restart it. I rustled around and found an external charger with one battery light left, and a wall charger. I raced back (when I say “raced” I mean teetered in my stupid platform shoes that were giving me blisters and I was now becoming hypoxic behind my stupid bejeweled mask that apparently doesn’t prioritize Breathing oxygen in it’s design) to where I’d left thousands of dollars of IPad and harp paraphernalia not so hidden in a bush. I got the phone to turn on long enough to get the reporter’s number as my texts weren’t, for some reason, coming through on my iPad, and right as I texted my email through for the zoom link, my phone died again and I realized I desperately had to pee. So I teetered over to the ice cream shop, stashed my phone in an outlet hidden behind a couch, and snuck into the bathroom. I left the phone and teetered back to my harping encampment. Just as I was about to call into the interview, an inebriated man wandered past the giant stage lights and, feeling inspired to execute some mid-afternoon vandalism, kicked out one of the lights, glass shattering all over several tables. The manager quickly called the police who were apparently nearby because five police officers arrived within minutes.
The officers corralled the man, where else, on the patio where I was trying to start an interview, and a lively “discussion” ensued. Then a guitarist five restaurants down the street cranked up his amp so that it was becoming clear the idea of a “live” setting for an interview was a very bad one. It seemed nothing would be improving any time soon so I called into the interview.
The reporter was having different but similar difficulties. He couldn’t find a hot spot with good coverage and was breaking up. I figured there was nothing more to lose, so I started jabbering in Spanish since I could barely hear him over the din surrounding me. He was very forgiving and after I played him a Latin riff, seemed interested in hearing more harp. Since neither of us could really hear each other, we rescheduled. And now I’ll be brushing up on my Spanish verb conjugations this weekend, of which I remember very little. I realized, it was lucky the interview didn’t go down because I was calling in on the only device that held my sheet music, so Improv Latin harping probably would not have sealed the deal.
As I teetered on the uneven cobbles carrying my travel harp over one shoulder, wearing my seat backpack, and saddled on the other side with my accessories and stand bag, I attempted to gracefully step up on the sidewalk and instead rolled my ankle and ended up on my ass, the harp grounding first with a resounding bang. Two kind passersby looked horrified and asked if I needed help. At this point, I was having a renewed appreciation for the bedazzled mask, as maybe I was unrecognizable. I said, “No thanks. I think I’ve quite got Finishing off this day with a bang covered!”
When I got back to the car and my phone finally rebooted, I discovered RBG left us. It is sure she wouldn’t have thought twice about stepping out, into an unfamiliar world and sharing her views, in Spanish or otherwise. It’s also a guarantee she wouldn’t have worn stupid platforms. And I’m guessing she wouldn’t have left her phone settings on “never auto-lock” after locking it out to follow the banana muffin recipe. It’s also certain she would have asked that manager for a donation cup to get paid, or she would have thought ahead, set up in the shade, and used her hat to collect gratuities. In fact, she probably would have convincingly passed it, until her audience truly believed in equal pay for equal work. We can’t all be RBG, but at least I’ve left plenty of room to aspire to improve.
