As tourists line up to catch the Ghirardelli Square cable car, which will escalate them in a timeworn trolley into the surrounding neighborhood, the sound of a soft acoustic guitar and a gentle voice fills the air. Ramon Perez stands at the front of the line. He is draped in a dirty t-shirt, wearing cut-off shorts and sandals, and singing one of the fifty cover songs he has perfected. Today is just another day in the life of a street performer, according to Perez, and he’s hoping people will be generous.

He has made it to San Francisco from Iowa, where he grew up. Perez says he’s trying to earn enough money for a plane ticket or a boat ride to the Big Island of Hawaii, where his friend owns a commune. Like many in San Francisco, he hopes his talent will get him through the day.

“It’s been so hard lately,” he says in a mild voice, his soft blue eyes standing out in contrast to his unshaven face and thick dreadlocks. “People can be reluctant to help someone out.” Though he plays mostly cover songs, Perez is a songwriter. Reading
from a small black pocket-book, he refreshes his memory of his lyrics before he plays and then holds out a small satchel to snare dollar bills from onlookers. He has traveled the country relying on his talent and the generosity of others to keep him going, and he hopes someday soon he will get to his coveted island destination. It’s nearly impossible to avoid getting trapped by watching Escapeman.

After being bound in a tattered straight jacket and chained to a light post in Ghirardelli Square, Escapeman starts his act. With a crowd of perplexed onlookers wondering what he’ll do next, he raises his hoarse voice and begins the struggle. He twists and contorts his body, screams and groans, then jumps about trying to shake the restraints. His goal is
to escape in two minutes, a mark he has gotten good at achieving in his twenty-year career as a street performer.

On this warm afternoon, tiny sweat beads line his forehead after his first performance of the day. He cools down with several friends at a bench next to his stage—the cable car station on the corner of Hyde and Beach Streets—and other street performers come over to chat with him and his partners.

His entourage consists of “Spike the Wonderdog,” a beloved brown mutt that encourages him with cheerful barks, and “Nick Broccoli,” an associate that ties him up for his act. The trio sits on the bench, waiting for another crowd to gather at the cable car station. They pass a concealed can of Steel Reserve and chat while they catch their breath. “I’ve got a wild-ass family, homeboy,” says Escapeman, referring to the friends he has made as a street performer. “You should see the limbs on this tree.”

The sounds of a metallic grinding whistle and the robotic movements of a pair of silver street performers distract tourists, especially children, taking a walk along the waterfront on Jefferson Street. Covered in shiny paint and standing stiffly on a blue crate, Ernest Pitre and Vaughn Davis attract crowds of passersby who take turns dropping dollar bills in the men’s clear cups.

“We need to be in the Guinness book of Records,” says Pitre, while taking a lunch break
later that afternoon and stuffing his pockets with lollipops and candy for the children who drop money into their cups. “We make more money than anybody down here.”

Though they don’t have an official title, most people refer to them simply as “the Silver Men,” or something of that nature, due to their appearance and performance. They come to Pier 39 and other downtown areas three or four days a week during favorable weather to perform their show for tourists.

They’ve been partners for twenty-one years, meeting after Davis moved to the West Coast from Indiana. On sunny days it’s not uncommon for them to do their act for nine or ten hours, pulling in hundreds of dollars from the passing crowds.

“On a day like this we clean up,” says Pitre, looking up at a cloudless blue sky. “Days like these come around, like once every three months.”

“We’re a traveling blue grass band folks! That’s right, a traveling blue grass band—here for your listening pleasure, folks!” Ain’t Dead Yet, an energetic trio from Victoria, British Columbia, which has ventured to California to escape the bitter Canadian cold, begins their performance with the shout-out.

Comprised of Tommy Terrell (guitar), Pete Reid (banjo), and Mack Johnson (fiddle), the group has been on the road for five months, traveling south through America looking for warmth and an empty stage. “It gets so cold up in Canada,” says Johnson, sucking on a Camel cigarette and leaning against a green fence on Jefferson Street. “We wanted to find someplace warm.”

Crammed in an ancient GMC Safari, the band pulled into San Francisco in mid-February, and flocked toward roaming tourists. Playing a hybrid of country, bluegrass, and rock, they rake in the donations from impressed visitors. San Francisco’s Pier 39 has been a particularly lucrative venue, they say, and they hope the generosity continues as they head south. Their plan, at present, is to continue down through California and possibly head into Mexico before going back north for the summer.

“We make enough money to stay drunk and fed,” says Johnson. “It’s a fun life. We play until we make enough money to move on.”