Tap, tapitty clunk tap tap. Tap-tap… tap-tap… tap-tap. The sounds of cars driving on Market Street, or the crowds of people walking by and chatting cannot drown the sound of Edward Jackson’s tap dance shoes clicking on his small dance floor nor the melody of the funk music coming out of the only speaker he has.
The sun is out, with very few clouds in the sky. Cool breezes flow through the air. It’s still cold enough to wear a sweater but not cold enough to be freezing. It’s a Friday afternoon. School has just gotten out for students in the K-12 school system, and many kids are walking around Westfield Mall and Market Street to spend time together. The line to get on the next cable car is about 50 people long and even more people are buying tickets at the trolley booth just yards away from where the line is.
Meanwhile, Jackson, 41 is dancing his heart out. He’s wear his gray and beige colored trilby hat. A plain white tee is under a purple-with-blue-stripes button up tee shirt. He completes the day’s ensemble with black pants, right pant leg rolled up to his knees. His tap shoes are black, as most tap shoes are. They are worn out at the rims where the metal plates meet the sole. He has two more pieces to the ensemble that he has already removed: a scarf and a black leather jacket. Only a few songs after starting his regular performance, the first bead of sweat starts rolling down his face. It won’t take much longer for sweat to start dripping to the ground. The ever-changing crowd watches him, as he continuously taps from one song to another… to another. He only breaks for a minute or two before he starts with the music and dance. Sometimes he breaks for only a few seconds. When one song ends, a round of applause echoes from virtually every direction. He continues with this routine for three to four hours before taking a big break.
Many times throughout the day, people from the crowd walk up to Jackson, congratulating him on his energy and telling him how much she wishes she could dance like him. Today, a mother with her two daughters, around the ages of 5 and 7, are doing some shopping in the area. They take a break and watch Jackson dance. Both girls, astonished by Jackson’s moves, start moving their little feet on the ground, trying to mimic him. Jackson notices, and with a smile of joy, taps his way toward them, and with one spin into their direction, he is slightly crouches down to their height. A-tap a-tap. He taps one foot the other less than a second later. A dap a dap. The sounds of the small girls’ feet trying to mimic him, cannot be heard but they are there. A-tap a-tap a-tap. The girls once again mimic him, a dap a dap a dap. The mother just stands there encouraging the girls to try their best. The girls are happy.
“I love the interaction with everyday people,” Jackson says. “I love seeing people happy.”
Minutes into the mid-afternoon, Jackson is joined on the open dance floor by his two of his friends, Tyler Knowlin and Mustafa. As Jackson takes a small break and sits under the shade of the plant pot and light post over his head, Knowlin and Mustafa take turns scraping and tapping on the concrete. Jackson jumps in. The three of them are taking turns dancing and showing off. For the next few songs, they compete with each other for the crowd’s attention. Jackson begins the competition. He finds an upbeat, funky song, such as James Brown’s “Get Up offa That Thing.” Again, he starts tapping on his dance board, getting on the tip of his toes, then returns to flat ground, and slides off his dance floor, and starts tapping on the pavement for sharper clicking sound.
Next Tyler takes over, and begins his set of improvised moves. He taps his foot against the light pole closest to the dance floor. The hood from of his sweater flaps up and down as he spins around.
“I’ve seen that one,” Jackson says jokingly, referring to the Tyler’s last combination of moves.
“Oh you have?” Tyler jokes back.
For the rest of day, the three of them take turns dancing for the crowd.
Jackson says he likes to differentiate himself and his friends from other street performers. He likes his audience to have a good time, and likes to interact with them during his breaks.
“This is a way to relate to people and be myself!” he exclaims.
Before taking the streets with dance, Jackson worked the retail and restaurant life before jiving into his late blooming dancing career. Edward left the retail and restaurant business after growing tired of working for others.
“I prefer to work independently,” he says.
He says he doesn’t like having signs asking people for money. He only has a small photo box, covered with a colorful patterned cloth. He likes the feel of people willingly going up to his box and dropping a few coins or dollars.
“I’m not a rich person,” he says. “This is my job. I don’t make much but I get by.”
The sun is now ready to set. The crowd is starting to die down. Jackson is starting to tire from his long day at work. He tries hard to hide exhausted body. His newly wedded wife, Yeye Jackson, emerges from the crowd from her day at work. Jackson is dancing his last songs of the day. Yeye gracefully dances her own style. She’s dancing the same way she did when they first met a few years ago in that same location during one of his shows.
“I just pointed to her ,” Jackson says, “ and said ‘hey you, come here.’ And the rest is history.”
As Jackson takes off his tap shoes and trades them for his street shoes, he keeps his iPod playing. Yeye, in high heels, continues to dance. Jackson and the crowd cheer her on. Jackson puts on his button
up shirt, loosely ties a tie around his neck and puts on a dress coat. After choosing a slow pop ballad, he struts away from his sound system, toward Yeye. He embraces Yeye with his right arm around her waist, left arm up, holder her hand in almost a ballroom dance position. Still in the mood of the music playing, Edward and Yeye dance passionately in a slow blues like tempo, moving side to side, and back and forth. They dance for a few songs like no one else is there. The day is over. Jackson packs up his small sound system and puts them in his small folding cart. He and his wife, leave his stage, just a bit quieter than before.
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