The Tribal Chief

You hear a lot of rumors about the tribal chief, and like any good Angelino in the public eye, he does nothing whatsoever to clear them up. Some say he has resided over the beach for 30 years, others say since 1962, back when the drum first started to beat, the beach attracted nudes, and “everyone was naked” (this last point is a source of heavy debate). One wide-eyed drummer piped that the tribal chief only kept to the sandy side of the 33 block boardwalk. “He never leaves the beach,” in hushed tones. Later I learned that none of these rumors were true, except for one: the beach really is about 33 blocks. It’s a big place to be looking for a little chief.

The only place you are guaranteed to find the chief is right in the midst of the drum circles, and he cuts quite a figure there even amongst that crowd. He comes to you in shiny black pants and a black motorcycle jacket, the kind with foam padding at the shoulders and elbows. A lot of foam is poking out, like someone dragged the thing halfway across a football field paved in hard concrete; then I realized, highly possible. On the other hand, next to the baggy handouts some of the others are sporting, the chief looks—well, he looks like a chief. The jacket fits. Talismans hang from his neck over his exposed chest. And the pants are cut from the same imitation leather that women so often find disagreeably sleazy in nightclubs. The chief is one of those rare homeless people who have found a function to their dress besides keeping them warm.