For the past several years, Hallandale Beach has been controlling vendors using the same state statute that Hollywood employed. Other local cities, including Weston, Pembroke Pines, and Margate, limit vendor sales, and Sunrise bans them altogether.
Colby Katz
Dressed in urbane black instead of the Herald's neon green, "Herald Rick" hunts for a sale and a $100 tipper on Broward Boulevard at Federal Highway
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Sentinel Rick hustles. Like Herald Rick, he's a long-timer. They couldn't be more different. Where Herald Rick is tall and skinny, Sentinel Rick is short and stocky, with a teddy bear-like demeanor. Where Herald Rick is mercurial, some days not showing up to sell until 11 a.m., the hour vendors are supposed to be off the street, Sentinel Rick has built a clientele on the tenets of friendliness and dependability. For the past 12 years, he's made his living hawking papers for Fort Lauderdale's most prominent rag. His lengthy provenance and dependability have earned him a good spot on east Broward Boulevard, on the edge of Victoria Park. He is at his post at 5:30 a.m. on Mother's Day, stuffing inserts into the Sunday paper, stacking them into piles, putting the piles inside tan garbage bags, and tying the bags at the top to protect the papers from the elements. Compared to the other corners, where Sunday papers flap while weighted down by rocks, Sentinel Rick's spot looks neat.
Rick says he recognizes his regulars by their cars. As soon as one drives up, he is there, paper in hand. On Mother's Day, he figures he'll sell at least 180 newspapers. For that, he'll pocket $63, earning about $7 an hour if he stays there until 3 p.m. or $5.70 an hour if he stays until 5 p.m.
He's not telling what he makes in tips, but the regulars obviously enjoy him. Rick invited one customer to join him at a Marlins game. He's built relationships there on the corner.
On May 18, another of his customers drops off a large load of T-shirts for him. "That's what I like to wear," he says grinning. "T-shirts and shorts. This is Florida. I always wear shorts."
By 10 a.m., when the east-west light at Broward Boulevard and Federal Highway turns red, cars headed east back up at five or six deep. Rick walks between the lanes holding a Sun-Sentinel. He's wearing a bright-pink Sun-Sentinel T-shirt and cap. "It's never been my favorite color," he says. "But it sticks out, and that's what you need." As he proceeds down the line of cars, some people ease their windows up. Others roll theirs down and say hello. Rick knows the work is dangerous. "It don't bother me," he says. "I keep my eyes open. And I'm out of the street before the light changes."
During the 12 years he's worked for the Sentinel, Rick has paid $4 a week for accident insurance. He says he doesn't know what it covers. "If I get hit, I'm dead," he says. "How will I know what it's for?"
To Sentinel Rick, this eagerness to rid the area of vendors seems at cross purposes with other values cities purport to hold. "They bitch and cry about the homeless situation," he says, "but if they get rid of us, they will only make it worse.
"The hardest thing is not knowing what is going to happen. Are we going to stay, or are we going to go?"
