Hit it to David Silver

 In the late 90s, I was at a matinee show at a local club. It was early and there was only a smattering of people watching the opening band. Most of the people there were with other bands on the bill and paying little attention to the young, enthusiastic band on stage. The young band were poor musicians and played through shitty equipment, but the enthusiasm and energy they projected reminded all of why we got into music. It made me want to be young again.

As people filed into the club, harsh rays of sunlight spilled through the front door, exposing a filthy floor and general decay that you don’t notice when it’s packed and dark. With every open door and sunlight, half the crowd turned around and looked to see who was coming through the door. It was very exposing, if you were entering. 

I was standing in the back near the sound booth. The door opened, light flooded the club and an acquaintance walked in. He went straight to the bar, got a beer and settled about ten feet to the left of where I was standing.

He was the boyfriend of an ex-girlfriend. When we saw each other out, we chatted music and made small talk. There was no animosity or weirdness between us. He was reserved, wore wire-rimmed glasses and had perfectly normal brown hair. He usually dressed in untucked button-up dress shirts, slanted pocket slacks and dirty sneakers.  It was a well-defined indie/slacker fashion choice, pioneered by Thurston Moore and Stephen Malkmus. 

Like so many people you meet when you’re young, you usually know something specific about them without having ever met: “She went to Harvard” or “He did time for sending drugs through the mail.” We all had reps; he was no different.  His story was that he co-wrote a hit single for a local band. Anytime I saw him, I thought about this. Not so much the song part but how much money he made from the song and was he still receiving royalties? I never mentioned that I knew.

Instead of walking over and greeting him, I stayed put. The young band was loud and conversation would be jilted and filled with blank faces, so I stayed put.

While watching the band, my eye kept looking over to him. He was dressed differently, very differently. Instead of the slacker look, he had on something that Fred Durst would wear: below the knee Ben Davis-like shorts with leopard print piping running down the sides, a chain wallet with an extra-long chain, a reproduction Chandler Bing bowling shirt and Converse hi-tops in leopard print. It was like he went to a rock shop on Melrose Avenue in LA and said, “Enough with the indie look, rock me up!”

It was hard not to look at him.  The chain, the leopard print – it was all too much. However, I got the feeling that he really liked what he was wearing. It was something he could never afford and always wanted. These were not thrift store clothes; they were definitely bought at a trendy clothes store.

When the band finished, I walked over and said hello. I asked him what was up and he said he just got off tour with Skinny Puppy or Ministry or some other band like that. I was impressed. I didn’t know he was hired gun and it explained the new fashion choice. With a little bit of white face makeup and eyeliner when playing live, the new looked worked.

I was a little older than him and long past desiring a piece of clothing that I thought was the coolest thing ever. However, when I was younger, I remember buying a few items that I coveted and had to have – clothes that dated you to a specific time period:

1] In 1980, if you wanted Doc Marten’s or Creepers, you had to get a store to import them, or, what most people did, they took a vacation to England, or they got a friend who was going to England to bring back a pair. Back then, lots of people made the trip oversees. It was like mecca for the punk rocks.

Without the internet, I managed to get a plaid butt flap (a piece of cloth that attaches to your belt loops and hangs below your bum) and Manic Panic hair-dye from Trash and Vaudeville in NYC and speed-bleach to die my hair white/blonde from a beauty store in the Castro (SF). I preferred green Vietnam army boots over Doc’s and pants and shirts were purchased at thrift stores and altered. However, what I really wanted were Creepers.

I put the word out to my sister’s friends in the city and they said a shop on Brady Alley off Market sold creepers for $85. Up until then, the largest purchases of my life were a guitar and amp. I lived at home, went to high school and had a job – I could afford this.

They were red suede with a single monk strap and extra thick soles. I loved them and wore them every day until the glue on the heel came undone, causing them to flap when I walked. By the time I retired them, my taste was changing. When I moved to SF, I left them at home and never saw them again.

2] Mohair sweaters went together with Creepers, and thrift stores were full of fuzzy, holey, pill-y mohair sweaters. When paired over a long-sleeve dress shirt – sleeves, collar and tail exposed -- it was my favorite look. If the tail was long enough, you wrote a band name on it, where people behind you knew your favorite band. How Creepers and mohair sweaters became acceptable punk fashion, you have to look at the Sex Pistols. Unbeknownst to most us, the Sex Pistols were put together by Malcolm McLaren and dressed by Vivienne Westwood. In many photos of the Sex Pistols, Johnny Rotten could be seen donning a furry mohair sweater, albeit a very fancy mohair sweater, not the thrift store kind we wore. Even in a scene where non-conformity was a premium, just one photo of a “punk star” in a mohair sweater was enough for everyone to adopt the odd, antithetical style.

In the mid-80s, I replaced Black Flag with The Replacements. With the musical change, came a new look: longhair, old t-shirts and tight jeans. Maybe a vest. Eeeeks. I still loved mohair sweaters, though, and now wore them with less an attitude. The subtle change worked in the new scene, too.

Around this time, I was in Berkeley with a friend. We stopped at a store called Urban Outfitters. In the window was a plaid, yellow and brown mohair sweater. Very fuzzy and very cool. We walked around the store and marveled that all the pants were already pegged. Up until then, you hoped your girlfriend had seamstress skills to straighten all your pants.

I found the sweater and surreptitiously looked at the price tag: $75. Unlike buying the Creepers, when I lived at home and had no overhead, I now lived in a Victorian in SF and all extra money went toward living. We eventually left the store but all I could think about was the sweater.

That night I told my roommates about the sweater…and the price of the sweater. They were supportive and told me to get, in spite of the hefty price tag. A few weeks later, I went to Berkeley with $80 and it was mine.

I wore the sweater out the store. It was fuzzy and beautiful and new and cool. I loved it. When I got home, I assembled my roommates and we had a fashion show. They loved it, too, but I could tell there was some trepidation – not just from them, but from me, too. It was kinda large, very itchy and it kinda cinched at the waist, causing it to balloon around the mid-section – a look that no one wants.

Like all people, we didn’t express this. I tried wearing it a few times, but I didn’t like it. After a while, I placed it on a shelf in my closet. With every move to a new apartment, it followed but it was never worn. It sat for almost two decades, in perfect condition. However, it was from Urban Outfitters which meant it had no resale value.

In the early ‘10s, I packaged it with 8 vintage sweater vests and sold it in a lot on Ebay. A guy from Chico, CA bought it. He said he wanted the vests for his BMX gang. He said nothing about the mohair sweater; the sweater was superfluous. Yes, it was.

3] When I turned 25, I went down to the Hall of Justice and got a taxi license. After a 2-hour taxi class, where a cop warned us about picking up “homies in Troop jackets on 3rd Street,” I was a cabbie. My band was touring a lot, and it was a perfect job for a musician: flexible hours (you could quit and come back), cash at the end of the night and no real boss. Essentially, it was a stripper type job for guys.

Before I started, I wanted to get an old taxi cap – one that Ernest Borgnine wore in Escape From New York. Yes, I was taking my fashion cues from an old actor. Again, I put the word out and someone said there was a good hat shop on Grant Street in North Beach (SF). 

North Beach was/is an enigma to me. Home of the punk clubs of my youth, no one I knew lived there. Ever. So, when I went there, I felt like a tourist amongst the Italian restaurants. It felt like a vacation, never worrying about running into someone you knew. I kinda liked it.

The hat store was located a couple blocks up from Broadway, on the left side. It was a small shop with most of the hats towering behind the counter. I easily spotted it midway up and to the left: a military style hat with a black leather visor, a yellow leather crown and a band with the words “Yellow Cab” written across the front. It was easy to spot. Not wanting to return to North Beach, I brought $80 with me. If the hat was more than $80, I would forego it and find something else. It wasn’t it. Like the creepers, I wore the hat out of the store. Walking down Grant, I stopped on Columbus and got a slice before returning home. I enjoyed the foray of being a tourist. It did feel like a mini vacation.

Unlike the fashion show of the mohair sweater, I arrived home and said nothing, but I had a look on my face that said “I’m wearing a taxi hat. Look at me.” Unlike the sweater, there was no remorse. The hat was cool. It was rock. It looked great.

Unfortunately, I got a job at City Cab, not Yellow Cab, but I didn’t care. I was still wearing the hat.

Before starting, a taxi driver friend told me the hard rules of being a cabby. I thought he was going to tell me not to pick up “dudes in Troop jackets” and general people to avoid, but he didn’t. The rules were about picking up your cab and returning it:

1. When picking up your cab from the dispatcher, tip him $10. If you don’t, you’ll be assigned the worse cab and you’ll never get an airport run.

2. When returning the cab, tip the gas man a dollar and change. Regardless of whether you filled up right before returning to the lot, the gas man always topped you off, and you always had to tip, regardless.

3. Upon returning, pay the gate (daily vehicle rental) and tip the dispatcher another $10.

4. You’re young, no one will like you. Don’t do anything to piss them off.

Like wearing a Yellow Cab hat? Dispatcher was an extremely coveted job.

That was it. It sounded a bit like the mafia and extortion but I didn’t care. I was young and I had the perfect hat. Tip the dispatcher in and out, and tip the gas man a dollar and change. Simple. I was ready.

Waiting in line to get keys to my cab, I clinched a $10 bill in my right hand. I approached the window and said, “Driver Kim. It’s my first day.” Without looking up the up, he said, “Your cab is on its way back. Number 2048,” and slid the keys under the plate glass window. I grabbed the keys and replaced it with a $10 bill.

Outside, 10s of drivers milled around two very old gas pumps, waiting for their cab to pullup. For the afternoon shift, cabs returned in intervals: 4:30, 5:00 and 5:30. I found a place on the fringe and waited. There were no women waiting. Most of the drivers were in the 40s and 50s, wearing baggy, dirty, dark clothes and looked worn-out and downtrodden. Some were drinking 40 ouncers and others were smoking pot. My first day and, if I stayed, the future was right in front of me.

As I waited, one the 40 oz drinkers broke from his circle of drivers, and walked toward me. I looked behind me and then at him. He was coming for me. With a black derby jacket, baggy jeans and non-descript black sneakers, he was in mid 40s, tall and little overweight. His shoulder length wavy brown hair was brush to the side, sweeping across.

“This is City Cab, not Yellow Cab,” he blurted. To the lifers, it was a profession. He spotted me as a dabbler. Before I could say anything -- not sure how to respond to that –he turned and returned to the fold. I had already broken the 4th rule: don’t piss off the drivers.

A little shaken, I convinced myself that it was no big deal, while staring intently at a new wave of cabs returning from their shift.

Besides the Yellow Cab hat in my head, I was wearing an Ed Hardy tattoo t-shirt that my friend Josh printed, tight, pegged jeans with holes in the knee, leopard print Converse hi-tops laced up halfway and a red velvet vest over the t-shirt. It was the most rock I’ve ever looked. Throw in my mirrored shades and I was the biggest douchebag there. 

My cab finally came. Thank God. I left the yard and looked for fares. 12 hours later I returned. I tipped the gas man, the dispatcher and left. When I got home, I retired the hat. It would make appearances -- my roommates and I wearing it while drunk, but it never left the house. I eventually traded it to a friend for a P-coat. It’s cold in SF.

I lasted two years as a cab driver, the second year working once a week, at most. While filling up at an outside gas station, the cabbie who said “This is City Cab…” pulled into a bay, and went inside the station, returning with two drinks. He came over to where I was leaning against the cab and said, “Have you ever had horchata?” Before I could respond, he handed me a drink in a Styrofoam cup and raised his drink in salute. We touched Styrofoam. “Hammer of the Gods,” he said. That was the only time we talked.

4]  Dan worked at NaNas on Market. NaNas, along with Daljeet’s and other Haight Street indie fashion stores, sold everything I would’ve wanted when I was in high school: Docs, Creepers, studded belts, tights with daggers on them and skulls on the everything you could imagine. It was like Disneyland for Chris Angel and Dave Navarro.

The people who worked there didn’t exactly mirror what they sold but they had their own fringe style: Guys in tight jeans, harness boots or Docs, chain wallets, flannels or gas station shirts and oversized t-shirts; Women pretty much wore baby doll dresses with Docs and tights. It was the early 90s and it was the dominant hipster fashion. 

Dan’s friend and co-worker, Cam, who looked a little like Geddy Lee (…and you’re my fact-checkin’ cuz), deviated from the fashion norm. Instead of flannels, he wore oversized, flowing printed dress shirts, made out of thin, silky cotton. Paired with his extra tight stretch pants, he was tight on the bottom and loose on top. A wind machine’s friend. I liked the look.

Dan worked in the shoe department. Since I was poor, he would give me used shoes (mostly Docs) that people left at the store when purchasing new shoes. He knew my size. One day he called and said he had a used pair of harness boots for me. Harness boots? I was excited. Up until then, it was predominantly Docs and an occasional derelict Monkey boot. Later that day I stopped by the store. Dan went in the back and got me the shoes. While I waited, I browsed the oversize printed dress shirts. Cam definitely used his employee discount to get some of these. Amidst the swirls, checks and swooshes of patterned shirts was a white dress shirt covered in blue stars. The fabric was thin and soft and it flowed. It would be a departure if I got it. I wanted it.  I asked Dan if he would use his employee discount to get it and he said yes. I told him to get it in XL. With his discount it came out to $45. I pulled together money from a half-night of cab driving and paid Dan.

That weekend the NaNa people were hosting a picnic in Golden Gate Park. It would be a perfect opportunity to wear my new shirt and try out my new look. 

The mirror saw tight-ass jeans, brown suede harness boots and my new star dress shirt. It didn’t feel right.  I stared at the mirror, raising my shoulders, while pulling down on the tails of the shirt. It looked a little better, a little skinnier. Maybe it was because it was fancy and I wasn’t that fancy. That wasn’t it, though. 

Unlike bone-skinny Cam, I was more barrel-chested and a bit thick around the waist. Even with the skinny on the bottom, loose on the top fashion sense, it made me look like a beached whale or like I was hiding weight. And, it was more blouse than shirt -- something to you wear to cover your ass. Dejected and determined to like it, I kept it on, but braced for mockery. Mockery was just part of life. My roommates said nothing about the shirt when I told them it was time to go. Not a good sign.

A boombox on a picnic table played ‘50s songs. Oldies.  Figuring it was a mixed tape, with other types of contemporary hipster music mixed in, I didn’t give it a second thought. I was more worried about my shirt. However, after 30 minutes of oldies, I found myself mouthing the words to “In the Still of the Night.” And I had a theory about what was going on.

Like Mormons on their two-year missionary trip, where they bike from house-to-house wearing big suits over long underwear, and knock on doors to proselytize

about Joseph Smith, these NaNas ultra-hipster were attempting to proselytize oldies. They switched religion for music.  Because they held sway due to their employment, and they dressed in the coolest non-fashions, people would see them listening to oldies, and they would follow suit. It was contrived and calculated, and it may have worked. Not with me, though. Or they thought they worked for Sha Na Na and, in this case, they would be required to listen to oldies. Either way, I was on to them, but, if I said something, my used shoes connection would dry up.

Cam was there in stretch pants and an oversized patterned dress shirt, like always. He looked great, and it looked natural on him. It was a bit windy and his blouse gently swayed with every gust. He flitted from group to group, while the boombox played Clarence “Frogman” Henry’s “Ain’t Got a Home.” A few couples danced on the grass next to a fire pit, strolling, cha-chaing and hand jiving.  You could tell they practiced.

 In contrast, my shirt was more Mumu, and I felt very uncomfortable in it. I knew it, everyone knew it.

Dan was late getting there, as always. He was my connection to these people. As he walked up, he had a big smirk on his face. I knew the smirk was for me:

“Well, well, well, nice blouse. Did you get it at Claire’s?”

He knew where I got it. He was being a dick.

“Fuck off.”

The fog lifted, and the sun made an appearance. Like all Golden Gate Park picnics, I was wind burned, cold and probably sunburned, even though a thick fog persisted most of the day. Regardless of time of year, it was always like this.

Dan grabbed a beer and talked with the 50s crowd. Some non-oldies were playing volleyball. I decided to join them. I took off the star shirt, balled it up and stuffed it into my bag. Underneath, I was wearing a Beverly Hills 90210 shirt. Irony.

I subbed in to the front row, center. Across from me was woman I kind of knew. We nodded and she gave me a competitive look, her shoulders gently swaying from side to side, eye’s wide. Her team was serving. Before the ball was served, she looked at me and announced to her team: “Hit it to David Silver.” Great. I was now taking shit for my t-shirt. For the rest of the day, she called me David Silver, first and last name. My only option to was to take off my shirt. Last time I did that, though, a stranger called me Casper.

When I got home, I took the shirt out of my bag. It was wrinkled and had lost its “flow.” The chill of the picnic was still with me, and the drafty Victorian I lived in wasn’t helping. I tossed the star shirt into the bottom of my closet, never to see it again. Good riddance.