Go Back to Russia

The transition from big-fish-in-a-small-pond of Pleasanton, California to the little-fish-in-a-big-pond of San Francisco was not easy. In Pleasanton, I was a big fish, a spectacle turning heads on Main Street. In 1983 San Francisco, where it seemed like everybody under 25 was punk, I was nothing special. Because of this very reason, the move was not easy?

It had been building for quite some time. I knew I had to leave and so did my parents. I just needed a push and that push came in the form of the Pleasanton Police.

Around 11 pm on a Saturday night I decided to walk down the block to my friend Bob’s party. Bob was one of my oldest friends, but since my conversion from burn-out to punk our friendship had soured. It wasn’t a conscious thing; however, when you’re 18 and your favorite band was Minor Threat and his favorite band was The Doors, there wasn’t much you could do to salvage your relationship. Music was identity and was everything, so if your friend was into the wrong kind of music, it was over.

Humanitarian that I was, I walked the short block just to make an appearance and say hi, hoping that his younger brother Brian was not around

Ever since my punk rock coming out, Brian was always aggressive towards me. Even though he was a skinny kid, he was mean and had disapproving eyes, and was fond of calling me faggot. I had witnessed many Bob and Craig all out brother fights, where Craig would get pummeled, but he never quit. I figured if he came at me he would act the same way.

By the time I got there, the cops were breaking up the party. There was one police car out front and one pulling up.

The front door of the house was open, the bright hallway light spilling onto their front lawn. Streams of people were coming out of the house in an orderly manner, walking to their cars. This wasn’t how Hollywood depicted these kinds of high school parties – no jumping over fences or running out of every door of the house.

I walked past the stream of people into the house. I just wanted Bobby to see me. I knew the house well and searched, but he wasn’t around so I left, making my way past the flowing stream leaving of adolescence. It must’ve been a big party because the front yard was filling up with Lollygaggers.

Leaning against the side of their car in front of the house, 2 Pleasanton Policemen watched me as I descended the steps attached to the concrete path that lead to the sidewalk. I kept my head down, but I knew they were watching.

“Hey, Comrade,” one of them said as I approached.

Not sure how to respond to such a stupid statement, I said the equivalent of a grunt,”“Huh, what?” looking perplexed.

In an angrier tone, he finished his thought: “It because of people like you…parties get busted. Go back to Russia.” His words followed me as I walked by.

I turned and indignantly replied, “Dude, I just got here.” I would learn that cops didn’t like to be called dude or homes. A few years later, my friend Josh and I were skateboarding down San Pablo Street in Emeryville, coming back from a Soul Asylum show at the Berkley Square. We were about a quarter mile from our warehouse, carefully crossing train tracks, when we heard a voice to our left: “Hey, get off the sidewalk!” We looked and a cop across the street, walking to his parked car, was gesturing toward us and seemed mad. It looked like he had just gone to a store and was on his way back.

I replied, “We’re not on the sidewalk, Homes!” He either didn’t like my righteous tone or use of the word “homes” because he moved quickly to his car, got in and flipped a u-turn. Josh and I didn’t wait around. We skated as fast as we could to the entrance of our warehouse. We knew that if we could make it inside, the cop would not come in. They knew who were and routinely were called to break up our warehouse’s parties and shows and knew that the space was a very dark maze of hallways and doors with no doorknobs.

I made it inside but Josh didn’t. I told my roommates what was going on and we ran to the roof to see if Josh got caught. Lying on the roof, we saw a silhouette of what we assumed was Josh slumped down in the back seat of the cop car. He was released early the next morning and came straight over, feigning being pissed at me. I was, however, the one that threw out the “Homes” comment.

Walking back to my house, looking over my shoulder, I knew this verbal exchange between the Pleasanton Police and I was not over. As expected, they leisurely got in their car and slowly followed me. It was like an excruciatingly slow chase. They never moved in front of me, careful to loom in the background like a storm cloud. If paranoia was not option, it now was.

The thought of running was an idea, but I knew how it would end and I had nowhere to go except to my house, which would be bad. So, I slowed the pace, looking back at them, shaking my head. I knew this would piss them off.

Walking across the lawn of my house, I picked up the pace, making a run for my door. Seeing that this was the end of the slow chase, they hit the gas and screeched to a halt in front of my house. Key in my hand, I quickly opened the door and slammed it shut, running to the den window to peak out the window.

They were halfway up the lawn and moving toward the door. The door bell rang. My parents were out for the evening, but my sister was home. I ran out of the den and to the bathroom, where she had just taken a shower.

“Get the door. What’s going on?” She could tell by the look of fear and excitement on my face that whoever was ringing the bell was there because of something I did. I quickly explained what was going on: “Bob was having a party. When I got there it was getting busted. I went in to say hi, but he wasn’t around, so I left. As I was leaving, these 2 fucking cops told me to ‘go back to Russia.’ And they followed me home.”

Not one to think things through, Lisa moved to the door, wearing a lush, white robe and towel around her hair, hiding her hennaed hair.

“Yes, what?” she said, opening the door a crack, exposing her turbaned head. The entry way was dark and I assume they thought they disturbed my mother while taking a shower.

“Well, uh.” They stuttered not expecting this and not sure really what to say.

“Leave him alone, he did nothing. You’re harassing him because his hair.” And she shut the door

I ran back to the window in the den and watched them get back in their car.

3 weeks later, I moved. I had outgrown my hometown of Pleasanton.

Dad, I’m a Lesbian

Her name was Sara Lee. I couldn’t get over the fact that she shared the same name as my favorite cake. She was our family counselor, paid to deal with the lesbian problem my sister was having. Like all counselors and therapists, she had a peaceful way about her. Dressed in loose clothing, she closed her eyes and gently nodded her head up and down when the conversation turned combative. Her empathy rating was off the charts. Once when it was raining, she looked out the window, nodded and said, “Rain cleanses the earth and the soul.” It was intended to be a metaphor for our situation, but it fell flat and no response was made. Even my sister, who was open to that get-in-touch-with-your-feelings crap, was dumbfounded. This hippie introspective talk kinda freaked me out and was the antithesis of my feral suburban upbringing.

To me, at the age of 17, Sara Lee looked like some old hippie I would see on Telegraph writing poetry in a clothbound book when I shopped for records at Rasputin’s. It would be some time before I utilized the services of therapists. I was still a well-adjusted suburban punk, void of guilt, self-reflection and culture. I was ignorant and life was good.

My sister Lisa called me at home and left a message with my mom to call her back. She was in her first year of college at San Francisco State, majoring in Women’s Studies and living in the dorms. I figured the call had something to do with who was playing the Mab or the On-Broadway, as most of my weekends were spent going to punk shows with her friends and sleeping on the floor of her dorm.

I called back and Lisa said, “You know I love you, Greg.” This sort of declaration was not unusual for her. She was young, expressive and enjoyed playing the role of mentor to me. Knowing my sister and her propensity for extremes, I prepared for information about a pregnancy or perhaps a pre-operation procedure to become a man. Either possibility was conceivable with my sister. She continued, “I wanted you to be the first to know…I’m a lesbian.” I knew that it was extremely hard and frightening for her to tell me this, but I was 17 and had known she was gay for a long time or at least fluid in her sexuality like so many Women's Studies majors across the planet. My response reflected this: “Duh, Lisa.” She laughed and said, “You knew?” I said, “Well, of course I did. I didn’t figure all those bull-daggers you were hanging around with were married and living in Pleasanton.” I embraced the situation as it gave me the oppressed credentials that I so desperately needed: “Dude, don’t fuck me with me, my sister’s gay.” Without it all I had was, “Dude, fuck off, I’m from Pleasanton.”

In fine Lisa fashion, she came out to my Mom on Christmas Eve. We were standing in the kitchen cooking dinner and talking:
“Mom, I want to tell you something.” By the tone of her voice, my mother stopped what she was doing and looked at Lisa.

“Ah Jesus, Lisa. What is it?” Bracing for bad news, her face was blank, almost like she flipped a switch and turned herself off.

“I’m a lesbian, Mom.” It was the second time I heard this and her delivery was exactly the same. I assumed that Lisa had consulted some of her “professional” lesbian friends for advice in this matter.

Mom’s response was quick: “Jesus, Lisa. Did Scott turn you gay?" Scott was my sister’s last boyfriend. They had recently broken up. When they were together they were very affectionate—always sitting on each other’s lap and inappropriately touching each other, even when performing mundane tasks, like going to the supermarket. Because of this, I wasn’t fond of being around them as a couple.

Laughing at the absurdity of the response, Lisa replied, “No, Scott didn’t turn me gay, Mom. I’ve always been this way.” She was as gentle as one could be in this situation. I reveled in the fact that my mom said “turn you gay.”

My mother continued on, processing this new information on the fly and reacting without thinking. “How are you gay, you’ve had tons of boyfriends? Why would you choose to be gay? It’s not an easy life.” It was like she was referring to a handbook on why people are gay.
She saved the best one for last, turning her attention to me: “Well, I guess Greg is gay, too.” This took me by surprise. I was happy being a spectator, but not a participant. I gave my sister a look that said, “Deal with this.”

My sister sassed back, enjoying the brief diversion of attention away from herself, “Well, why don’t you ask him?”

I preempted her question: “Yeah, I’m gay.” Even though it wasn’t true, it was the obvious answer in this situation.

Lisa stepped in, seeing that this admission could lead to a regrettable medical emergency: “Mom, calm down. Greg’s not gay.” My poor mother. Lisa and I laughed. “But I have one other thing,” she continued. The mood quickly soured. Without a pause, Lisa continued, “I’m in a relationship with a black woman!”

“Oh Jesus, Lisa. You always take things to the extreme, you always have.” My mother was right. Lisa was not one for temperance.

True to her nature, when my sister came out, she exploded. This was typical in my family. Lisa and I had a family motto: “If things don’t get better, make ’em worse.” Many times we made things horrible. Lisa took this motto into her first year of Gaydom. She, of course, embraced separatism. It was the logical stepping stone from hetero to gay. It was the 80s and all the lesbians were doing it. She proudly strapped on penises and wasn’t afraid to talk about it. When we were out at punk shows, she would get in fights that I almost always unwillingly got involved in. She was a big bull-dagger separatist pain-in-the-ass that took no shit.

On a smaller scale, I understood this extremist behavior. When I first got into punk rock, I gathered my Pink Floyd and Police records and purged them from my collection. Instead of selling them at the used record store, I threw them like Frisbees from our front patio, watching them shatter into hundreds of pieces when they hit the street. It was a cathartic act.

During the year of her coming out, we started seeing Sara Lee. I’m not sure whose idea it was, but once a week for a month or so we made the trip to Sara’s practice. Sara arranged the chairs in a circle, where everyone was equal. We dutifully took our places each session, staring at our feet or staring straight ahead, stone-faced. For a very normal family that was loving but not used to sharing their feelings, this was as hard as it got. I was the only one that appeared to be enjoying the theater of it all. Essentially, I was there because the therapist’s title had “family” in it, and I was, well, family.

Sara Lee did her best to broker middle ground between the two factions. Both sides argued history and nature: my parents used my sister’s promiscuous past and her desire to be marginalized; Lisa argued this was how she was born and that her heterosexual beginnings were due to repression. I sat between the two, siding with my sister, knowing it would be blasphemous to side with my parents. Lisa and I were alike in that we were both looking for some sort of self-imposed marginalization, which we found in the opposite of everything that was around us and our upbringing. This is very common in white suburban kids. If being gay and black was a choice, we would have both willing changed. And, looking back on it, my sister’s desire for significance probably swayed her fluid sexuality from one side to the other.

When negotiations stalled, Sara Lee asked my sister to address my dad. Sara said to my sister, “Lisa, do you want to say something to your father?” Lisa confidently looked at my father and said, “Dad, I’m a lesbian.” Silence permeated the room. Even I, the good son with a pink Mohawk, stared at my feet, feeling sorry for everybody in the room. The cat was out of the bag and a new chapter in our family’s history had begun. It was final.

We rode home in silence. It was a beautiful sunny day, but it might as well been a dreary winter day in Cleveland. The coldness was palatable and it wasn’t leaving.

My parents’ relationship with my sister was tumultuous. Mom joined PFLAG, walked in the pride parade and then had a falling out when Lisa and her girlfriend adopted two children. My dad, on the other hand, quietly missed his first born.

Last week I got a call from my sister pertaining to her sexuality. I let it go to my voicemail. The strain of being the good brother and good son, took its toll on our relationship. I was sick of being in the middle and hearing both parties bitch about each other.

I retrieved the voicemail: “Little brother, hey, I wanted you to know that I decided to start dating men. I’m dating a guy that looks a lot like you.” I couldn’t believe it. I wanted to call her back and say, “What the fuck, Lisa? Please don’t tell Mom and Dad!”

My mom called the next day and said, “Did you hear the good news?”

Pussy Galore

My first apartment in San Francisco was a three-room flat in the Haight Ashbury district. I lived in the only bedroom—a small, dark 15-by-12-foot room with the only closet and one window looking into the wall of the adjacent building. Henry and Jessica, my roommates, lived in the den and living room, which was divided by a sliding door. This was a normal layout for most SF apartments. The kitchen was a small sliver off the living room that dumped into the hallway leading to the front door.

Henry and Jessica were my sister’s friends, a little older and wiser to the City’s ways. They took me in and were patient with my transition from big suburban ranch house to small city apartment. When I didn’t do the dishes—a symptom of living on your own for the first time—they would gently remind me that my mom didn’t live with us. They also taught me how to bake a potato, so I wouldn’t starve.

Even though Jessica and Henry were first-generation SF punks, when punk was a little artier, gayer and people still pogoed, they tolerated my enthusiasm for hardcore punk. While they drank beer in the back of the club while seeing the Circle Jerks or Flipper, I would be in the front thrashing and stage diving. Every few songs I’d take a break, to catch my breath and see what they were doing. I would be bloody and beat to hell. They’d laugh. I got lucky with them.

Henry was a dispatcher at a bike messenger company and sold pot on the side. He had gone to school in the central valley of California and lived in the dorms. When his first dorm roommate moved out, he littered the floor of the room with garbage until it was about 18 inches thick. Everybody that the school sent to live with him refused, so eventually they gave up and he was able to live by himself until he graduated. I never asked if he cleaned the room, once the threat of a roommate was over. I would assume not. Henry was a shit stirrer before I knew him, but I only knew him as the smart, soft-spoken guy down the hall.

Jessica worked with Henry as an order taker at the same messenger company. She had flaming, red, curly hair, bunched up on the top of her head, falling in her eyes like a long pompadour. Despite it being a nuisance, it was part of her like her eyes and nose and her vanity prevented her from cutting it. For some odd reason, we called it her “poo-tang" (not poontang). Jessica had no problems with the name and adopted it.

Jessica was fond of saying, “Gregory, my poo-tang is bugging me,” blowing the hair from her face. I knew that she meant her hair was bugging her, not her crotch. This inside joke would backfire on her.

Jessica met a suave black man named Marvin at San Francisco State University. He convinced her to go on date with her with the line: “Come on, Jessica. A little wine, a little women, it’ll be nice.” She fell for it and Marvin came to our apartment the following weekend with a single red rose and leather loafers, reeking of cologne.

While Jessica fiddled about her room looking for a black cardigan to go with her black outfit, she nervously brushed away her “poo-tang” from her face. Marvin patiently waited. As she fluttered about the room, she absentmindedly said to Marvin, “Man, my poo-tang is bothering me,” pushing her hair off her forehead. Jessica saw Marvin’s reaction to the comment, and feebly tried to explain that poo-tang was the tuft of hair dangling in her face and poon-tang was between her legs. She tried but irony is impossible to explain. They still went out and I think Jessica gave Marvin a little wine, a little women and I’m sure it was nice because every once in a while I saw Marvin being led past my room late at night.

Since both my roommates worked at the same messenger company, it only made sense that I worked there, too, as a bike messenger. Henry got me the job and we would ride our bikes to and from work like a little family. At first I didn’t have a bike, so the company lent me a heavy one-speed with a basket in front, which was status quo for messengers back then.

Through being a bike messenger and Henry’s dealing, I met a fellow messenger and pot smoker named Tom. He would come over to the house to buy pot and would usually stay and hang out. Eventually he and I were going out all the time.

One Tuesday, Tom, Jessica and Henry and I went to see Tales of Terror and White Flag at the Mab. We crowded into my small car, picked up my sister in the Mission, got burritos and headed to the show. On the way, we pulled over and got a 12-pack for the road. It was customary to either drink beer in the car before the show or take it up to the club and find an alley to drink it. This time we chose the car.

Lisa had been drinking before we picked her up, so she was quite drunk by the time we got into the show. Lisa wasn't a mellow drunk—she was feisty, loudmouthed and opinionated. I wasn’t looking forward to babysitting her and keeping her from fighting, which was usually with guys. In situations like these, the only thing she had going for her was sexism: most guys wouldn’t hit girls.
Lisa, Jessica and Henry went to the bar and Tom and I went to the front of the stage. There weren’t many people there and we were able to get close enough to avoid the few punks thrashing about in the pit. Tales of Terror were playing, led by their singer Rat’s Ass, who was a notorious SF punk. He was notorious for two reasons: one, because of his name, and two, because it was reputed, by his own admission, that he had a tattoo of Elvis on his dick. This begged many questions: Was the tattoo on the head of his dick? On the shaft of his dick? Was he erect when the tattoo was inked? I was oddly curious.

After a song, Rat’s Ass unzipped his pants and announced: “I’ve got a tattoo of Elvis on my dick.” I pushed toward the front—finally, the question was going to be answered. He stopped halfway, then zipped it back up. Tease. Switching gears, he taunted the crowd: “Someone hurt me. Come on you fucking pussies, someone hurt me.” A guy in front of us grabbed the microphone stand and slammed it into Rat’s Ass’ face, the microphone careening into his front teeth. Stunned, Rat’s Ass stepped back, leaning over with his hands pressed against his mouth. He regained his composure, approached the microphone and said, “That did it, that fuckin' hurt!” His eyes were glassy, watering.

Tom and I retreated to the back and found my sister, who was having problems with a longhaired guy. “What the fuck is that?” my sister yelled at us, looking over our shoulders. The guy had tan, muscular arms and longish blond hair, and was wearing a sleeveless shirt that said Pussy Galore in large colorful letters. "What the fuck does Pussy Galore mean? I’m gonna rip that fuckin’ shirt right off him.” Luckily, the band was playing, drowning out her screams. The object of my sister’s hatred had no idea that a crazy woman was about to attack.

“Lisa, calm the fuck down, Pussy Galore is a band. It’s just a fucking band.” I pleaded. There was no stopping her, I had seen this behavior before and it was pointless trying to rationalize with her. Plus, she was wasted, having spent most of her time at the bar. Between the alcohol and years of Women’s Studies classes and yearly subscriptions to On Our Backs, I knew there was nothing I could do to stop her from attacking this guy. “Jesus Christ, Lisa, calm down!” I pleaded with her.

Tom and I watched as she walked toward the guy, his back turned to her. She immediately grabbed the top of his shirt and yanked downward as hard as she could, ripping it from the collar to the pit and then some. He turned around and yelled, “What the fuck?” He was pissed and rather confused. He could’ve kicked all three of our asses.

Tom and I grabbed Lisa and pulled her out of the club, leaving Jessica and Henry at the bar, who were oblivious to what was going on. She went reluctantly, screaming, “Fuck you, dude. Fuck you, you dick.” He returned the insults with, “Fuck you, bitch. What the fuck?” not sure why this crazy woman was trying to rip his shirt off him. But he stayed put, not following us. Just in case, we dragged Lisa halfway down Broadway, past Montgomery and down the hill until we couldn’t see the club.

When the coast was clear, we let go of her. She shook her arms, looked at us with a smile, thinking she had done something good, and said, “Fuck that guy, what the fuck did he think he was doing?” Before she could finish, I pushed back, “Fuck you, Lisa. That guy was gonna kill you. And probably me.” Tom chimed in, “And me too.”

Just then, a large truck drove by. A cowboy looking dude in the driver’s seat yelled, “Devo, B-52s!” It was something that straight people yelled at us all the time.

Lisa flipped him off and yelled, “Fuck your mother.” The wheels on his trucks screeched, throwing it into a skid. We grabbed Lisa and ran down the hill, making a left on Sansome and darting into the two-tiered free garage where we always parked.

“Lisa, you’re a fucking idiot. I’m sick of you doing this.” She was drunk and moving from feisty to apologetic and pathetic.

“I’m sorry, little brother.” At the end of the night, my name usually changed from Greg to Little Brother. “Fuck, I know, I know, but that guy was a fuckin' idiot.” She wasn’t giving up but she was fading quickly, slumping in the back seat. I failed to respond. “Come on, Little Brother. Don’t be mad at me.” We rode home in silence—me stewing in the front seat and Lisa slumped down in the backseat.

Driving down Market, past Van Ness, Lisa’s head popped up: “Pull over, I gotta throw up. Pull over.” I jerked the car to the right and turned off the lights, keeping the engine running. It was midweek and late, so there wasn’t much traffic. Lisa lurched out the back door and walked in front of the car, bending over where we couldn’t see her.

Tom and I sat motionless in the front seat, waiting for Lisa to reappear. Even though I was drunk too—drunk enough to get a DUI—and drawing attention to the situation could lead to all of us going to jail and the car getting impounded, I decided to pull back on the high beams while simultaneously laying hard on the horn. Lisa was really bugging me and I felt the need to get back at her.

There weren’t many people on the street, but the ones who were near us noticed the drunken woman crouched down, throwing up in front of a car. Tom and I laughed hysterically. After a few seconds, we figured she would appear, stumble back in the car and tell us to fuck off. No, this wasn’t my sister’s style. A lone finger—the middle one—slowly rose beyond the hood like the sun in the east. I stopped honking. Her middle finger stood stone like, pointing toward the sky. It was followed with a mumbled, barely discernible:

“Fuuuuuuck Oooooofff!” That's my sister. Defiant to the end.

Turk and Taylor (Guest Post by Tom Pitts)

(Sit Down, Casper is pleased to have Tom Pitts handling the post today. Tom is a friend and ex-band mate of Short Dogs Grow. I saw him read this story at Lip Service West and he was great. Enjoy.)

The problem was finding a place to shoot up. I’d tried everything. Public buses, public bathrooms, people’s front stoops, in the parks, in parking lots where needles were hidden safely under the bumper of an immobilized car, it was a constant problem that needed constant solving.

One of the safest, most private places I could think of was the video arcade porno booths. The kind of joint that a guy went into with a roll of quarters in one hand and a hard-on in the other.

I’d done it before. There was a XXX porno shop beside the methadone clinic with the pay by the minute video booths hidden in back. I’d gone in and cooked up, and hit up by the light of thirty-six channels of endless sex.

It was maybe my third visit to the video arcade. I went into the booth, and started to set up shop. This included grabbing some newspaper from my bag and stuffing the glory hole to ensure complete privacy.

This time the paper popped back out. I stuffed it right back in. Again, it popped back out.

“Oh.”

There was someone on the other side pushing it out. I was so focused on finally having solitude that it didn’t even occur to me that that was what the fucking glory hole was there for in the first place. I had a needle in one hand, a spoon in the other. It was worse than being caught masturbating.

“No thanks!” I said, replacing the paper. Loudly, I thought, but I guess not loudly enough, because the newspaper popped right back out. Goddamn it. I was pissed, I didn’t have all day. They made you buy a minimum three dollars in tokens and each of the tokens lasted only seconds it seemed. I had only so much light to unpack this shit, cook it up, and trickiest of all: find a vein.

At any moment I feared a big hard cock being shoved though the hole. Or a terrified voice shouting, “Hey what are you doing in there? That’s not beating off!”

I leaned over and shouted at the hole.

“Try another fuckin’ booth.” I shoved the paper back at the hole, and added, “Not interested.” An unnecessary appeasement in case I’d hurt the pervert’s feelings. I think he had figured out I’d be doing something other that what he was doing.

I went about my business quick. My tiny bottle of water, the little rat-shit sized piece of black tar heroin, a shed of filter from my cigarette to draw it up through, and the reason for my urgency, a quarter gram of cocaine, ready to slide in once the junk was heated and dissolved.

I’d pump a few more tokens into the machine and look around for some fucking going on in a white room. When I thought the light was the best, I’d take the spoon and twist it up into my sleeve, creating a tourniquet, and start poking around till I got something.

Afterward I’d try to stay in there, use up my tokens, check out the movies, but I never could. I’d flip around the channels, rubbing myself a little, but I had no interest, I was already satisfied. Then, the paranoia would set in, and I’d have to move on the next place, the next comfort zone.

It took a month or so before I felt like I had to go back to the booths again. It was late, the public pay toilets on Market Street were being serviced and it was too dangerous in the Tenderloin to just plunk down in a doorway and start fixing. The place beside the methadone clinic was too far away. It would only take a few minutes by bus, but that would require waiting for a bus, something I was not prepared to do. The closest places were the seediest joints in town. At Turk and Taylor. The corner was widely known as the place you could buy any drug you could think of. I’d never think of buying there. It was a sure fire burn. It was crack dealers and people selling heavy duty meds. It’s where the homeless went to shop when they needed to self-medicate. My presence down there was an exercise in self-denial. But I wasn’t gonna linger, I was gonna get this hit and then a bus ride wouldn’t seem so agonizing. After all, I’d hoped the next bus ride would take all night long.

The shop I picked was at 45 Taylor. It was next door to a halfway house a friend of mine stayed at when he got out of the pen. I walked in and browsed a few moments. It was the same stuff as the other joint. Dildos and DVDs. Same shit, different hole. I walked up to the counter and asked for tokens for the booths in back.

“Minimum three dollars,” said the clerk. Same as the other place. I didn’t say a word; I just forked over the three dollars and made my way toward the back. Once inside, I went through the same ritual as before. Only this time I noticed that the tokens didn’t give me as much time.

I was tearing cellophane with my teeth and drawing up water when I heard a knock. I froze. Fearful like a dear. Who would knock? Is that management? What do they want? They’d have to assume I was jerking off and want privacy so I decided to ignore them and keep moving.

The red digits on the seconds counter fell as I hurried to assemble the hit. Dope, water, flame, coke, cotton.

Knock, knock, knock.

I had just drawn up the hit, I couldn’t have somebody pounding on the door when I had a needle in my vein, I had to answer.

“Fuck off.” I called out. No sense in beating around the bush.

The knock came again, a little lighter this time.

“Fuck off.” I repeated. A little louder this time.

But the knock came back, this time with a voice.

“Open up.” It was tough to make out, but it was a voice.

“Busy.” I answered. I wanted to kick the door open and scream What the fuck!, but I wanted that hit.

“Come on, man. Open up.” The voice was barely above a whisper. I knew it wasn’t management or the cops. It was almost pleading.

“What?” I said, as sharply as possible. I still didn’t want to open that door. Then I heard the voice say something I couldn’t’ make out. It was a question, I could tell, but who knew what?

The voice repeated the question.

Jesus Christ, I wasn’t gonna get rid of this guy. I didn’t know if he needed a light or if he was hitting me up for change, but I was going to have to open up that door. I held the needle behind my back and cracked it open just a bit.

There was no one there.

Then, the voice repeated the question. Even with the door cracked, I still couldn’t understand the question. I open the door further to see where the person owning that voice went.

It was then I saw something move in the blackness in front of me. I looked down and saw two yellowy eyes and a set of grinning teeth looking up. I recognized him immediately; it was as though I’d already seen him in my nightmares. He was a tiny black man, only about 4 and a half feet tall. I’d seen him many times on Market Street handing out photocopied poetry to uninterested commuters. He was dreadlocked and dirty. His head was too big for his body and his yellow glassy eyes bulged out of that enormous head.

“What?” I repeated, in shock from seeing him there in the first place.

He asked the question again. “Can you what?” It still made no sense to me.

He slowed down.

“When you are done … can I eat your wad?”

I blinked, astonished. This is what he wanted? This stranger? Is this what this guy did all night? I was nauseated, disgusted, but most of all pissed off that he interrupted me for … this.

I held up the needle in front of his face.

“I’m trying to fix. Fuck off.”

But he just stood there expecting me to change my mind. Grinning, waiting.

After a pause he said, “I mean, after.”

“I’m fixing, I don’t have any … wads,” I said and slammed the door.

I went back to work. Wham. Slam. Pack up and get out. I was trying not to think about that little troll at the door, about what kind of death wish one must have to go and beg to gulp stranger’s semen in a porno booth in the Tenderloin.

As soon as I opened the door, there he was. Still hoping I was going to change my mind, or maybe waiting for the next guy. I thought to bitch to the clerk, but decided that next time, I’d take the bus down to the train station and take my chances with the hobos in the public restrooms there.


Tom Pitts 8/31/08

Play Some Manilow

This morning on the way to work, my memory was jarred back to a bar at Harrah’s in Lake Tahoe. It was the late 80s and I was there with friends, drunk and looking for authentic, unaware kitschy entertainment. At this time there were still leftover entertainers from the late 60s and 70s, peddling hipster Vegas schlock for the old people who appreciated “quality entertainment.” I was looking for someone who closed their eyes while singing Manilow.

In the corner of the casino, a half-sphere bar formed a moat around a stage. On stage, an attractive woman in her 30s, with an ankle length evening gown and shoulder length feathered hair was singing a Phil Collins song. A few feet behind her and to the right, an on older guy with a mustache played bass. Behind him was a stack of rack mount effects that covered all of the other instrumentation. Their roles in the band were obvious: singer and the guy that did everything else. If I were really drunk, they could’ve been The Captain and Tennille.

We sat down at the bar and ordered beers. We were already drunk and acting a little braver and louder than normal. Since it was a casino, nobody seemed to notice or we weren’t at the point where guys in solid colored blazers and ear pieces looked our way.

My demise started when the singer politely asked, “What do you want to hear?” My eyes widened like saucers and I screamed, “Manilow! Play some Manilow!” It didn’t stop there. Nearly jumping out of my seat, I listed every Manilow song I knew: “Mandy, Weekend in New England, I Write the Songs.” That was all I knew and I kept on repeating them until she acknowledged me. Everybody sitting around the bar, about 10 of us were aware that I wanted to hear some Manilow…in a bad way!!

Without looking at me, she politely addressed my suggestions:

“Wow, I thought the kids were into Guns and Roses these days.” Her hand gently caressed the mic. She glanced over my way and smiled. I was sassed.

I exploded, throwing my hands up, indignant that she thought I/we liked Guns and Roses. By our dress, I figured it was obvious that we were into indie rock, or college rock as it used to be called. They launched into Sailing by Christopher Cross. I closed my eyes and mouthed the words. My indignation calmed with the first chorus. Order was restored. I looked around and there were no blazers near.

We settled in and the music became secondary to our drunken conversations. As with most drunks, we made plans that wouldn’t happen and enjoyed the moment, aware of only ourselves.

During an instrumental interlude, the singer sashayed toward the center of the bar. I ended our conversation, concentrating on what was taking place. Out of my peripheral vision, I saw a man hand the bartender a folded note. The bartender gave it to the singer; she looked at it and nodded, acknowledging the guy. This was all too much for me to handle. I exploded again, screaming, “What does it say? What does it say?” I turned to my friends, who didn’t witness the transaction and said, “Man, that dude gave her his hotel key,” knowing quite well that he handed her a slip of paper. I continued screaming, “What does it say? What does it say?,” interspersed with looks of astonishment to who would look my way – as if to say, “Can you believe what is happening?” Of course, this innocuous transaction - he probably was friend – was all fabricated in my drunken state.

Eventually, she had to recognize me and my concerns. She turned, and in her ever-so polite manner said, “It says that the young man at the bar with long hair and black clothing (me) is an ex-convict.” The 10 people or so at the bar, and the bartender broke into laughter, along with my friends. Once again, she sassed me. Touché. Being mostly a friendly drunk and one who enjoys a fair amount of ribbing, I climbed on the bar and waved to the crowd, bowing in respect - my dirty, size 11 leopard print converse leaving prints where they balanced on the wet bar top.

After everyone had some sort of verbal shot at me, I climbed back down, expecting to resume my night. From behind, 2 men in blazers approached and said, “That’s it, Buddy.” I’d been looking at them all night and now they were right behind me grabbing my shoulders.

As they led me away, my friends laughed along with the handful of drinkers. I waved and smirked at the singer. She nodded and said, “Back to prison.”

A Lesson in Respect

As “Sara Smile” caressed the walls, a group of Sunolians (hicks that lived in Sunol, a small rural town adjacent to Pleasanton) wearing Wranglers and cowboys boots walked by. They stopped, looked at me and moved on. I didn’t think much about it.

Later in the day, when Kim arrived, the cowboys came back with more cowboys. They did the usual point and stare stuff, but didn’t move on like most eventually did. They sat outside of the store, leaned against the railing and loudly asked each other if they thought I was gay. Then it was the usually stuff: “Fag, Faggity Fag!” I ignored them, but Kim, like a good friend, told them to fuck off and leave or she was calling the cops. I tried to shush her because I knew how situations like this ended: with me getting beat up.

The cowboys approached the store and we called Mall Security, who kicked them out. Vowing to wait for me after work and kick my ass, they reluctantly left, repeating “Fag, Faggity Fag.” Mall Security said they would escort me to my car after my shift ended, but I politely declined. I would rather take a beating then admit weakness to a security cop. I was my dad’s son and I was punk.

Kim and I closed the store at 8pm and drove to the Diner, an all-night eatery across the street from Albertson’s on Hopyard. Even though neither of us would admit to being scared, we were both on guard while in the mall parking lot and were relieved the rednecks were not waiting for us.
The Diner, as we called it, was a reference to our favorite movie Diner, starring Mickey Rourke and Kevin Bacon. We adopted the Diner as our late-night headquarters. We would meet there around midnight and stay until early morning. We’d drink coffee, eat fries and revel in our misfit status. It was very Breakfast Club and tortured.

Kim and I were the first to arrive. We ordered coffee and a basket of fries. She walked to the jukebox and played “Stand Back” by Stevie Nicks. She knew I hated this song, but didn’t care. Our friends Ken and Michele filtered in, but nobody else. Attendance wasn’t mandatory, but we did like to keep a presence there every night. On Christmas Day we dragged in a portable TV and VCR and watched Diner. Needless to say, the waitresses didn’t understand us. Not many did.

It was a little after midnight and not much was happening. There were a few people scattered in booths and two or three singles at the counters. The wait staff was taking breaks. Stevie Nicks had finished singing about standing “in the middle of the room” and "Missing You" by John Waite was on deck.

Outside in the parking lot, a flatbed truck pulled up and parked on the west side of the Diner. Three cowboy types got out of the truck and walked to the entrance. I recognized them as the cowboys from the mall. I’m not sure if they followed us or if it was just a coincidence.
They opened the door and sat in a booth behind us. We brought Ken and Michele up to speed and braced for problems.

As expected, the verbal abuse started right away. They acknowledged our presence and said, “Well, if it isn’t the fag and his girlfriend,” which made no sense, but I wasn’t about to explain the contradiction. Their country drawl was slow, methodical and somewhat contrived. They were from California, after all. They sat down and talked loudly about “fag this,” “fag that” and “Polk Street faggot.” Kim bantered back and forth with them saying I was from San Francisco, taunting them and their intellect. I told my friends that they should leave. Ken and Michele took me up on the offer and promptly bolted.

Kim and I made a simple plan. She would leave first, start the car and wait for me. I would follow shortly thereafter, smacking one of them on the head with a ketchup bottle on my way out. I thought it was a good plan. The harassment was escalating, making everybody in the Diner uncomfortable, so there wasn’t much of a choice. We assumed they would follow us when we left either way. We might as well clock one and hope we could get away before they realized one of them was doused in ketchup…and blood.

Before the ketchup bottle flew, an innocuous looking man in his mid-thirties, dressed in jeans and a buttoned-up flannel, approached the cowboys’ table. He slowly reached down and ate one of their fries. In unison, all three cowboys rose. The man said, “Sit down, boys. I’m a cop.” He flashed his badge and then sat down, forcing them to all scoot over. We were completely ecstatic (despite the surreal feeling that we had left Diner and were now in Dirty Harry) and took the opportunity to leave as fast as possible.

On the way out, we overheard the cop saying, “I want to teach you a little something about respect.” He continued to eat their fries.

Kim and I ran through the parking lot and hopped in the car, giddy from being rescued. Before pulling away, I told Kim to wait. I jumped out and made my way to the cowboys' pickup truck, reaching in my pocket for a key to deflate one of their tires. It was slow going, but I persevered, flattening the back left tire with a loud hiss.

While scampering back to the car, Clint Eastwood was still lecturing the cowboys. As we triumphantly pulled away, Kim honked the horn and a wave of dread flowed over me. “Shit, they know where I work.”

(Image: Cowboy Fan Art)

Did You Used To Sing For Black Flag?

Going to Guitar Center used to be like preparing for war. Before entering the doors, I would pause and repeat several phrases –“Don’t say fuck off,” “You can’t control what they say but you can control your response” and “If you get arrested, take off your shirt before going to jail.” No matter how prepared I was, it pretty much always ended up the same:

Guitar Center Dude (GCD): “Yeah, what do you need?” Since it was the 90s, he had long hair and jeans with holes in the knees. They were forced to wear ties, so he had a skinny-ish black tie with a black button-up shirt. His appearance was unkempt and he sported a homemade “K-O-R-G” tattoo on his left knuckles. The tattoo already pissed me off.

Me: “I need some GHS Boomers -- 10s, ok?” I knew what was about to happen. He would grab the strings from the wall behind him, look into his computer and quote me a price that ranged from $4.50 to $11. This is where the problems started. I was prepared and my shirt was still on.

GCD: “I can give them to you for,” pausing to look into his magical computer like it was map and he was lost, “9 bucks, out the door.” His head would never look up. Right away, “out the door“ pissed me off. It was like he was cutting me a break. All the pre-shop preparation usually went out the window at this point.

Me: “9 bucks?” said aggressively. “How about $4.50…out the door.” He knew I was mocking him by saying “out the door.” He would go back to looking at the computer, typing arbitrary commands, while shaking his head and snorting sometimes.

GCD: “$4.50? I don’t know if I can do that. We’d be losing money.” Inside the right pocket of my jeans was my trump card. I had been nervously touching it intermittently throughout our conversation. It was a receipt from Guitar Center where I had paid $4.50 for a set of GHS Boomer strings. I had blacked out the salesperson’s name on the receipt in black ink. I found a lot of joy in doing this.

Me: “Yeah, $4.50.” Still holding onto the receipt.

GCD: “$4.50?” meticulously scouring the computer screen for something that could justify this price. “We’d be losing 13 cents.” It was time to break out the receipt.

Me: Without saying a word, I handed him the receipt. He looked at it, holding it to the light to see if he could ascertain the salesperson. He knew I had him. “So, $4.50…out the door?” Now “out the door” meant no sales tax and I would let him know it. He rang me up and I was on my way.

I could’ve showed him the receipt right away, but I held onto it for the years of abuse before the receipt. The years of seeing moms buying their teenage sons shitty Marshall amps for full retail price and having to go through the awkward dance of paying a fair price for everything from picks to guitars. I was common knowledge whatever price Guitar Center quoted you, you would slice it by %60 percent and bargain from there. They relied on unsuspecting customer to pay full price. For this, retribution was necessary.

I rarely have to step foot in Guitar Center these days. I buy picks, sticks, drums, guitars, amps, strings and everything else online. However, if I need something immediately or shipping is too expensive, I’m forced pay them a visit.

Maybe it’s my advanced age, or I’m making a little more money than the early 90s, or a few angry customers burned down a couple of Guitar Centers which brought about change, but it appears they’ve mellowed out. Or maybe I mellowed out. They still wear ties and awkward, big suits, watch Satriani how-to videos on in-store monitors and all look like they’re in a band, but they’re nicer and they fixed the whole arbitrary price thing. I was pleasantly surprised.

However, while the employees stayed the same age, I got older and irrelevant. Instead of walking in as a peer, I was – to them – the guy that looked like Kenny Rogers that played blues on the weekends with his buddies. I would’ve thought this too. But, not being a peer meant I was less threatening. I ran with this and took on a more fatherly role, dispensing homogenous music advice to the young musicians: “Keep practicing, your time will come, “Do what you love, keep at it” and “Fuck lawyers and managers, do it yourself.” In my mind, this wisdom was appreciated and warranted, but I knew it wasn’t.

Regardless of the improvements, I was prepared for adversity. I was going to a new section of the store - Pro Audio and Recording - to buy two microphone stands. How hard could it be?

Instead of fiddling around and looking at crap on the walls, I found the mic stands in the middle of the floor. They were cheap and what I wanted.

In my most polite voice, I said to the salesperson behind the counter, “Excuse me, how much for the straight stands?” Instead of going to computer, he replied, “They’re 20 bucks. They’re pretty good.”

The Guitar Center website listed them at the same price. This was good. I brought the mic stands to the counter and gave him my credit card and license. He looked at my t-shirt and said, “Pavement. Great band.” I looked down, unaware that I was wearing a Pavement shirt. This embarrassed me, so I just smiled, feeling a little old for a Pavement shirt.

Furrowing his brow, he stared at my license. I could tell he was thinking.

“Did you used to sing for Black Flag?” handing back my license.

Well, this was a first. I had no idea why he asked me this question. Did I look Rollins?

The salesperson was a young guy – probably born after Black Flag broke up. Like all young musicians, he was kinda of nondescript and probably played a shitty Teisco guitar through a tube amp in a local garage band.

“Who was the singer of Black Flag?” he continued.

Asking an old punk to spew knowledge of Black Flag was like asking a hippie about Jimmie Hendrix. I would gladly oblige the request and let this guy know that I used to be somebody. It was pitiful, but he opened the door.

“Do you mean Rollins?

“No.”

“Dez Cadena?”

“No.”

“Chavo?”

“No.”

“Keith Morris?”

“No.”

I was out of singers. I paused and let him ponder what he meant.

“You know,” he said, “lots of famous people come in here. One of the guys from Toto came in the other days.”

Toto and Black Flag in the same sentence? That was a first. Maybe I misread this guy. I was going to mention Greg Kihn, but I didn’t want to go down that road. It sometimes ended in me singing a few bars of “Jeopardy” (“My love’s in jeopardy, baby. Ewwww.”).

While walking to my car with the mic stands, it came to me: “Ahhh, Greg Ginn (guitarist for Black Flag)! That’s who he thought I was.”

I’ve never gotten that.

(Image: Rollins Fan Art)