When a man boards a trolley holding a basket of juggling pins, there’s really no excuse not to ask questions. Actually, as a reporter, I feel like it’s my duty to find out more.
Turns out, John Buckeley doesn’t mind, because I’ve taken his photo before. That’s not really shocking; I like jugglers. There’s something about those bright colored pins sailing in a perfect arc through the air that makes me want to capture the moment. Not that I can juggle, mind you, but I love watching other people.
Today he’s taking the trolley south down the beach and then headed home to Gulfport. He’s been up juggling along the beaches, trying, like so many locals do, to make a living in paradise, counting on the good graces of Mother Tourism for his living. He’s tried the sunsets at Pier 60 and a few others; he’s not getting rich, but he’s getting by. It’s a far cry from Jackson Square, the Manhattan of street performance venues, but it pays the rent. Mostly.
As I watch him on the trolley, it occurs to me that his toolbox is not that different than the ones carried by laborers I see climb aboard after a long day working in the sun and his uniform not that different than those worn by men who wash dishes at any of the restaurants perched on our sandbar. He’s not even that different than the banker or insurance salesman. His briefcase is a basket of pins, and his attire, a wee bit more casual, but the game is the same: survival in a fashion with which you can co-exist.
Don’t get wrong, John the juggler has more color in his life than most, and definitely some better dinner party stories, but at the end of the day, when you juggle for money, you’re juggling for money. That means the day you don’t juggle, be it by your choice or someone else’s, you don’t make money. Jugglers, unlike bankers, don’t get sick pay. Unlike insurance salesmen, there’s no – pardon the pun – insurance for the day business slacks off at the pier. It’s hard, eeking out a life in paradise.
He seems pretty Zen about the whole thing, though. He juggles when he can, where he can, and along the way he climbs aboard the beach trolley. After all, that trolley connects every point where someone might find themselves in need of a juggler, from Treasure Island’s sandy celebrations to Clearwater Beach’s sunset halllujahs. That, after is, is the name of his game. It’s what John does: he juggles. It occurs to me then that he’s not just juggling pins, he’s juggling the dream, the same as me, writing my way through life. He’s doing it the same way the Mexican maids who ride the trolley to the Park Street terminal before heading home, looking for all the world like they just want a hot shower and bed, do. We’re all jugglers on a bus in one way or another.
His briefcase just looks a little different, is all. Other than that, he could tell my story as easily as you’ve just read his.