by Daddy X
1980 was the beginning of a long-awaited “Golden Age” for
Momma X and me. By the late 70’s her chronic illness, requiring twelve major
surgeries over more than a decade, had finally abated to a point where we could both work. Her grandmother passed away, leaving enough, combined with our meager
savings, for a down payment on what was possibly the least expensive house in
Marin County, Ca. If we didn’t first dribble it away on BS.
We bought the place we’re still living in, surviving on
peanut butter sandwiches the first year, counting every dollar until tax write-offs
from the various mortgages caught up. Our monthly payments, including 14.75%
interest (yes, that’s how it was in 1981) came to $1500. Our rent-controlled
apartment in San Francisco had cost us $275 a month.
Momma and I worked our asses off, limiting ourselves to
$1.25 day apiece for ‘pocket money’. She had a production position at a small
but prestigious publishing house in the city, requiring a three hour commute,
five days a week. Me, at cooking and bartending jobs, sometimes juggling three gigs
at once. I’d arrive at 8, prep and work the lunch rush, run home, take a nap, then
go behind some bar till 2 A.M. I did that until settling into a “lounge” manager
job at a bowling alley.
And what a lounge that was. Wow. I had already worked in
North Beach San Francisco, thought I knew the ropes, but wasn’t ready for what
I encountered at the bowl. Several motels in the area virtually rented by the
hour. The sleeveless leather vest was de rigueur for both men and women. On
weekends, some wore shirts underneath. I applied for the job at age 38, older
than most of the clientele. The owner asked if my five-eight 160 pounds could
handle such a wild, tough bunch.
I came back with something hubristic like: “I used to work
North Beach! I’m smarter than these assholes. I’ll talk my way out of shit.”
Two weeks later, I found myself carting a kicking, screaming nut case out the
door over my shoulder. The owner still tells that story. I broke another guy’s
ribs.
A stranger to all, lots of them tried me at first. Some
thought I was an undercover agent and had no reservations about telling me
exactly what would happen if that were the case.
In a place like that, one has to be open to elusive standards
of values. I met one guy who’d spent most of his life behind bars. He told me:
“All the good people are in prison, man. People in prison will do anything for
you. They'll kill somebody for you.” I met another, just released after years
inside for shooting his best friend. A local kid named “Spider”. He’d lurk in a
dark corner with a beer and stare at people, not speaking to anyone. No one
who’d known him from before trusted him. Another guy told me when he was bored
in Nam, he and his buddies would pick off old men from a rise above a path. I
told him to leave.
Not long after starting, I verbally broke up a fight. One of
the participants turned on me. He must have gone at least 260, six foot three.
He placed both hands on the bar, towering over me, looked straight in my eye
and said: “Nobody tells me I can’t fight in here. I been fightin’ in here since
I been eighteen. Nobody tells me I can’t fight in here. They like it when I fight in here. They tell me to fight.”
That evening, we talked. He wasn’t very bright. We became quite
good friends.
Previous bartenders would stir up bullshit just so this heavyweight
would blow his top and put on a show. They’d rile the poor guy up, then get off
watching him clean somebody’s clock. Usually it was a Mexican or black guy. After
we got to know each other, he admitted he didn’t like the way things went at
the place, but I’m sure it made him feel in some way liked and useful.
The mix at the bowl was about 1/3 Mexican, 1/3
African-American, and 1/3 poor white trash. The whites (coupled with a strident
racism) caused the most trouble. Bowlers out in the lanes were, for the most
part reasonable, law-abiding folks. Very few would set foot in that bar. A security
guard was essential in the parking lot, as well as in the building.
The daytime bartender hated Mexicans. Time after time, I
told him he was going to get hurt. He needed to get on board with these guys.
They were a big part of our business. He’d say, “Those fuckers? They’re scared
of Immigration. They wouldn’t dare fuck with me.” He’d constantly insult the men
coming in after work for a beer, assuming they didn’t speak English. I’d see
him baiting them when I came on shift, offering not a lick of respect. One
night after work he said goodbye to most of his teeth.
Within six months of taking over, the bar morphed into a much
safer place, where I stayed for twelve years. I had business cards printed up:
“Saloon Tamer”. Of course, nothing’s perfect, especially in that neighborhood.
Incidents came and went for the duration.
Crack was a factor in the 80’s. I’d see young kids—girls—come
on the scene, fifteen, sixteen years old. Fresh-faced and bouncy at first—burned
out, selling blowjobs on the corner within a few months.
I told the police about one obviously pregnant teenager. She
was being pimped by a pimply fuck I wouldn’t allow in the bar. I asked a cop if
he could do anything for her—she was so pitiful—maybe seventeen, looking forty.
Cop said, “That cunt? Fuck her. Let her die out there for all I care.” Needless
to say, these people weren’t on the cops’ priority list.
As the 80’s progressed, Momma and I made the best of our gradually
improving wages. She made lots more than I in those years, enabling us to
gamble on an antiques business in the latter part of the decade—working on my
new career during the day, driving to trade shows on weekends—still doing
week nights behind the plank. I finally quit the bar scene in ‘94 to deal in
ancient and tribal art full-time. In 2000, I opened a gallery.
If the 80’s sound not all that “Golden”, considering where I
worked, the difference was in Momma’s health. Aside from recurring ups and
downs, it’s been pretty stable. That’s the difference. If we have our health,
we have much to be grateful for.
We do what we need to do.
