Alan Click, 56, remembered as rock music roadie and lighthearted malcontent

By Daniel Powell

To those who knew him, Alan Click was a lighthearted malcontent who could usually be counted on to deliver one thing: a surprise.

An offhand request for an article of clothing being worn by an acquaintance, a midnight invitation for a stroll to Ocean Beach to score popsicles, or a serious offer to smash his prized possession - a silver guitar costing $2000 -- to pieces, all in the name of the rock and roll he dearly loved.

According to his friends, for the 56-year-old Click, life was about balancing impulsive whimsy with the more serious matters of the day.

He pulled off that balancing act one week before his death, managing to reunite with his long-estranged daughter, before succumbing to cirrhosis of the liver on Sept. 21.

“He wanted to get in touch with his daughter. Maybe that was his higher calling,” said Billie Jean, a resident of the Arnett Watson apartments on Ellis Street, where Click had lived since March of this year.

Click’s daughter wasn’t at his memorial service, held on Sept. 30 in the building’s community room. But there were about 15 workers and residents there to share their remembrances of him.

“He could have charmed the birds out of the trees,” said Lucia Fiorani, a 63-year-old resident. “I was like a substitute daughter to him. It would be nothing for him to knock on my door four or five times a day with the most off-the-wall invitations. One time at twelve o’clock at night he said, ‘Let’s go to Ocean Beach just to buy a Popsicle.’”

A placard sitting between two small floral arrangements in the apartment building’s sunny community room stated that Click lived much of his life in Colorado, working as a public school janitor, and often spoke of his affection for children, and the happiness and joy they expressed.

But according to Fiorani, Click also spent years working as a roadie for 80’s rock star Eddie Money, best known for his hit song “Two Tickets to Paradise.” Money could not be reached for comment.

“Alan knew Eddie Money, but he didn’t care about money,” Fiorani said. “He didn’t want his social security money - he felt guilty over it and his apartment.”

Urged on by those who knew him, Click eventually accepted his fate, and spent his money on something he really wanted: a $2000 guitar.

“We were all like, ‘Whoa,’” said Jeff Fortuno, the Arnett Watson’s building manager. “The moment he bought that guitar he ran to my office and asked if I wanted to try it on. ‘I don’t care Jeff, smash it, whatever!’”

“I was sitting in the lobby when he bought that guitar,” Fiorani recalled. “He played very well. I just didn’t realize it was going to be a five-hour set.”

Aside from the occasional five-hour impromptu concert, Click was also known as a borrower of things: five bucks for cereal, a Giants hat another resident had picked up at the ballpark, or a shirt being worn that very moment by a friend.

“My husband Tony was wearing a football jersey Alan really liked,” Jean said. “Tony took the jersey off his back and gave it to Alan. “

“Alan was supposed to give it back, but that’s what he died wearing,” Jean remembered with a smile. “We figured we weren’t going to get it back.”

Jean said Click accomplished what he most wanted to: to reconnect with his daughter, who lived in Colorado.

“He said he wasn’t going to die until he saw his daughter,” Jean said. “When he died, he was at peace with himself.”

(Produced in collaboration with Central City Extra!)