Jack Fritscher, Ph.D., All Rights Reserved HOW TO LEGALLY QUOTE FROM THIS WORK 29 Smoke Signals S moke. Down on my knees laying carpet, I smelled smoke. I glanced toward the bay window facing the street. The small glass ashtray on the window sill held two cold cigarette butts. No smoke there. Outside it was sunny. This was unusual for San Francisco. By 2:30 in the afternoon fog would generally start to drift in from the Pacific. A slight breeze would pick up. I went back to stretching the carpeting across the floor, hook- ing it onto the carpet tack-strips nailed around the edge of the room. I had never laid carpet before, but knew it couldn’t be too difficult. I had done the reverse; ripped it up. The carpet was sage green and textured like moss with no visible signs of wear. It had been taken from a much larger room in a much finer house out in The Avenues. Clarence, the landlord, said it had been a bargain. The hard part of the bargain had been cutting it to match the irregular outline of the floor. This outline included a bay window, a fireplace, a light well, and several doorways. I was starting to get the hang of it: cutting, stretching, hooking. The smell of smoke was stronger. I glanced toward the bay window again. It looked like fog had started to come in. It smelled like smoke. I got off my knees and stood up. Bet I have carpet burns, I thought as I went to the bay window and pulled down the top sash on the left. I stuck my head out. To the east the street was shrouded in smoke. I couldn’t tell where the fire was. The distant sound of sirens came closer. I grabbed my camera bag from the kitchen table and slung it over my shoulder. I retrieved my bank books from the oak desk I’d trucked over the Rockies. The truck with my carpenter tools inside was parked on the street. I double-timed down the inside stairs, closed the door and ran across the street to where Bill Essex lived. Smoke still hid the Jack Fritscher, Ph.D., All Rights Reserved HOW TO LEGALLY QUOTE FROM THIS WORK 30Jim Stewart street to the east. Bill and I had lived together, briefly, after he moved up from U.C. Pomona, where he was working on a master’s degree in land- scape architecture. He, along with Jack Fritscher, had applied for positions as deputies under the gay outreach program of Sheriff Richard Hongisto. Bill was waiting to hear on the status of his application. He had moved into David Hurles’ old apartment across the street. “Bill,” I shouted through his door as I pounded on it. “Bill!” I fumbled on my key ring for his apartment key. We had each other’s keys for just such situations. I found it. I unlocked his door. He was sleeping naked on his king-sized bed. Bill pumped iron. I looked down at his body in repose. A scattering of hair covered the defined pecs and washboard belly Bill had worked so hard to develop. He was covered with a fine film of sleep-sweat. I had shot photos of that body in the woods in Marin County. They were hanging in the Ambush now, as part of my first show there, “Men South of Market.” Later they were published in Drummer, the mag that Jack Fritscher, as the San Francisco editor-in-chief, turned into the 20th-century icon of the leather community. “Bill, wake up,” I shouted as I shook him. Bill woke up. “What the hell…” “Do you know what you want to save?” I said. “What the hell are you talking about?” he mumbled as he pulled a pair of army surplus fatigues up over his naked butt and wrestled into a white wife-beater shirt. You could smell the smoke through Bill’s closed windows. He pulled on his combat boots and we went onto the outside stair landing that ran through the middle of the building. We stuck our heads out past the railing to look down the street. The smoke was really thick now. Sirens sounded much louder. They were at the other end of the street. Just as we looked to the east, we heard an explosion, and flames shot a couple of stories into the air. “Holy shit!” Bill hollered. “What the hell was that?” “Don’t know,” I said. “Could be that brick warehouse at the end of the street.” Jack Fritscher, Ph.D., All Rights Reserved HOW TO LEGALLY QUOTE FROM THIS WORK Folsom Street Blues31 The afternoon breeze from the Pacific had finally made its way down Clementina Street and was pushing the smoke back in the direction it had come. It was fanning the flames at the end of the street. Fire trucks pulled up below us as we looked down from the second floor landing. No possibility of moving either my truck or Bill’s van at this point. We raced down his stairs and up mine and into my bedroom where the bay windows hung out over the sidewalk and provided the best view. The smoke had cleared as the flames shot straight up through what was left of the roof. Bill and I looked down and saw the sidewalks lined with neighbors. There was Enchanted Mary, the New Mexican artist across the street whose husband had left her for the proverbial younger woman. Chuck Arnett, who lived in Bill’s building, was on the stair landing. The sleeves of Arnett’s khaki Marine shirt were rolled past his elbows. His right forearm, with the aging tattoo, was slick with a thin film of white grease. Crisco? The hot young Hispanic from El Paso, who had moved into the building, came out and stood next to Arnett. He was barefoot and shirtless. The widow in her 60s, who lived in the upstairs apartment next to the woodworking shop, was also out on the street. I watched her for a few minutes. She was dressed in a padded- shoulder pale green gown, with suede slingback heels: Joan Craw- ford come-fuck-me pumps. Right out of the 1940s. What an odd outfit to wear to a Saturday afternoon fire. But then again, one saw all sorts of fantasies played out here, on the streets South of Market. As I watched I noticed she would drift off the sidewalk and into the street. A young fireman would gently take her by the arm and say, “You’ll have to step back on the sidewalk, ma’am.” A few minutes latter she would drift out into the street again, where another young fireman would likewise pay attention to her. Who wouldn’t love to play that game? Through the center of the street, long hoses snaked their way toward the fire. Water, spraying from the hasty couplings at the fire hydrant, soaked the legs of the curious as they tried to get through the crowd. Firemen were everywhere, their protective clothing and helmets doing little to mask their strength and fit- ness. From our vantage point, Bill and I could easily pick out the Jack Fritscher, Ph.D., All Rights Reserved HOW TO LEGALLY QUOTE FROM THIS WORK 32Jim Stewart bosses from the muscle. There were those who shouted orders and those who carried them out. All seemed to have mustaches. A city cop car now blocked the end of the street. “Go home,” I heard one young cop, also wearing a mustache, tell a group of the curious. “You can see more on the news tonight than you can here.” I looked toward the west end of the street. A mobile TV news truck was parked just behind the cop car. The field reporter, with his mike in hand, was backing his way through the crowd to take best advantage of the flames as a background. His cameraman was trying to keep up with him. He seemed more interested in filming the firemen and cops than the reporter with the flames behind him. It would make great footage on KPIX-Channel 5’s news tonight. I sat at the counter in Hamburger Mary’s on Folsom Street eat- ing chili. I liked the way it was served. A gob of grated cheddar on top would melt and run down among the beans. It was then thatched with a fistful of chopped raw onions. A full basket of saltines sat on the side. With a mug of black coffee my supper was under a buck. I had walked the few blocks here since my truck was still boxed in by fire engines. The last of the big hoses were being rolled up when I left. The dark funkiness of Hamburger Mary’s provided a hangout for all: men, women, straights, Folsom Street Daddies, Castro Street Boys, Polk Street Queens, hippies, and artists of all sorts who were trickling into this bargain-basement section of the City, South of Market. Two guys in well-worn tweed sports jackets and faded Levi’s sat next to me at the counter, discussing the fire. “That wasn’t much of a fire today, in the whole scheme of things,” the one with the full beard said. “You’re right,” the one with the clipped mustache agreed. “This whole area burned during the 1906 Earthquake,” Mustache informed whoever wanted to listen. “It was actually the fire that did more damage than the earth- quake,” Full Beard added.Jack Fritscher, Ph.D., All Rights Reserved HOW TO LEGALLY QUOTE FROM THIS WORK Folsom Street Blues33 “There was a bathhouse that burned right near here, at 10th and Howard, I think.” “Yeah, the James Lick Baths,” Full Beard chuckled. “I don’t think it was that kind of bathhouse, not in 1906.” “Don’t be so sure of it,” Full Beard insisted. Grad students in philosophy? Assistant profs of history, slum- ming from Berkeley? I finished my chili and headed over to the Ambush on Harrison. Like Hamburger Mary’s, the Ambush was funky. It was a cross between a hippie hangout and a leather/western bar. It was a beer-and-wine bar. It was not, however, a wine bar. Wine at the Ambush came from two jugs, red and white. You wanted rosé, they’d mix it right there for you. In the afternoon and early eve- ning it was laid-back cool. Joints were shared. The heavy cruising mode wouldn’t kick in until after midnight. The Ambush was still in laid-back mode. I ordered a beer at the bar and headed for the meat rack. “That was some fire today,” the guy next to me said as he sucked on a joint and passed it my way. I shook my head. “No thanks,” I said with a slightly suggestive smile. “It’s early yet.” “Whatever.” He passed the joint over to the guy on his left, who greedily inhaled. Both were lean and lanky, sported dark wavy hair, sparse patchy beards, and needed a shower. “Nothing like that fire a few months ago over on Valencia and 16th though,” he continued. “Now that was one hell of a fire.” He inhaled his doobie and perfunctorily offered it to me again. I gave a little shake to my head. Grass had never done much for me other than make me sleepy. As it turned out, I was saving myself for a more magnificent obsession. “That’s where the Gartland burned, wasn’t it?” I said. I was sure of it, but wanted to hear his take on it. The Gart- land Apartments, several stories high, had been a glorified single- occupancy hotel. It was filled with the near-homeless, addicts, artists, prostitutes of both sexes, as well as the general poor, and those on fixed incomes. It was also filled with city building code violations. The city had condemned the building and filed a law- suit against the owner. In December, 1975, someone had poured Jack Fritscher, Ph.D., All Rights Reserved HOW TO LEGALLY QUOTE FROM THIS WORK 34Jim Stewart gasoline down its main stairway and lit it. At least 14 people had died. Within days the building was razed before a full investiga- tion could be launched. The hole in the ground where it had stood for over 60 years became known as the Gartland Pit. “Damn tootin’ it was,” he said, “and me and him nearly burned up with it.” He nodded toward the younger guy sitting next to him who had inhaled so greedily on the joint. Now here was a story. They hadn’t been in the City long. Unlike me, they traveled light. They knew no one here when they arrived from Tulsa via Greyhound, sharing a single suitcase. They bunked at the Gart- land with a man from Memphis they met at the bus station uri- nals. He gave up and moved back to Tennessee. They stayed on at the Gartland. No deposit required. The old hotel stood midway between Castro and Folsom. It was an ideal location. “We was both sleeping. Man, had we partied,” the boyish- looking pothead said as he grinned at me. “Yeah, we woke up to the sound of sirens. There was smoke in our room.” “Never heard no fire alarm or nothing,” Pothead Boy told me. “We thought we was cooked,” he added, grinning at his own joke. “What happened?” I urged them on. “Well,” the keeper of the joint went on, “the fire ladders wouldn’t reach up to the top floor where we was. There was flames right below us. That damn floor was a-gettin’ hot. We had the windows up, and looked down. There was a whole bunch of them firemen standing down there holdin’ one of those big round jump things. Somebody was on a bullhorn hollering something but we couldn’t understand it. Everybody was a-lookin’ up at us.” There was a pause as they shared the joint again. “So what happened?” I said. “Well, we’d rolled this big joint when we first smelled smoke, so we just finished that doobie and got out on the window ledge and jumped. What a trip!” “Yeah, we was holding hands when we jumped.” There was a pause. “Hope that wasn’t on TV back in Tulsa.” “Who gives a shit?” “You guys want another beer?”Jack Fritscher, Ph.D., All Rights Reserved HOW TO LEGALLY QUOTE FROM THIS WORK Folsom Street Blues35 “We might,” Joint-Keeper said, with the slightest of nods to Pothead Boy. I headed over to the bar for beers. After a few more rounds from my wallet, we walked over to Clementina Street and The Other Room. “Man, did we party!” as Pothead Boy liked to say. I learned they were uncle and nephew and had been partying together since puberty. In the morning they were gone. I had a hangover and an empty wallet. Had I really bought that many rounds at the Ambush last night or merely helped them stay in the City for awhile longer? It’d been a month since the Clementina Street fire. Vehicles were still being ticketed if you didn’t move them before the park- ing Gestapo arrived. I finally finished laying the used carpeting. It looked great. There was one more room in the flat to recover from decades of neglect. It was The Other Room. Bill had heard from the County Sheriff’s Department. They wanted to interview him at his home. That was still listed officially as my place. I told him I would disappear during his interview the following week. I locked the door and descended the six steps to the sidewalk. I was headed to lunch at Canary Island, a bright yellow streetcar diner over on Harrison with great burgers and dogs. I heard a siren. It was the braying of a fire truck warning all out of its way. I inhaled deeply. No obvious smoke. I looked east down the street. Already a crowd of neighbors had started to gather. A thin trail of smoke was coming from an open second-story window a couple of buildings away. It was the upstairs apartment next to the woodworking shop. The widow-who-liked-firemen lived there. The fire truck nudged its way down the narrow street and stopped in front of the widow’s building. A handsome young fireman rode the truck ladder up to the open second-floor window. The thin trail of smoke had almost stopped. The widow, in pale pink negligee and peignoir, was lean- ing out the window. Her long gray hair hung around her shoulders in a style Hepburn would have been proud of before the Big War. “Fire, fire,” the widow was repeating. “Help me, oh please Jack Fritscher, Ph.D., All Rights Reserved HOW TO LEGALLY QUOTE FROM THIS WORK 36Jim Stewart help me,” she said in a barely audible voice to the hot young fire- man on the ladder. He helped the lady in distress out the window and into his arms. She clung around his neck as the ladder was lowered. She was passed off to another fireman. The widow promptly, and very properly, swooned against her rescuer and slide down his body toward the sidewalk where she sat leaning against his big rubber boots. She was crying softly. The neighbors, who had all gathered on the sidewalk, started to applaud. Was it for the firemen’s heroism or the widow’s great performance? “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” someone whispered in my ear. “Have you ever seen anything so ridiculous?” I turned. It was Enchanted Mary from New Mexico. The fire was now out. The hero was descending the ladder with the culprit, a metal wastepaper basket filled with charred newspapers. A pair of partially burned barkcloth drapes had been ripped from their rod and flung to the sidewalk below where they were quickly extinguished. “You know her husband was a fireman?” somebody said, as much to herself as to anybody in particular. I turned. It was Mrs. Gonzales, the woman who still lived in the flat below me. “No,” I said. “I didn’t know that.” “Yeah.” Mrs. Gonzales paused. “He was killed in a fire.” Another pause. “They said it was arson.” “When was that?” I asked her. “A few years after we moved here.” She thought for a moment. “We both got our houses here about the same time. Her husband and mine both had the G.I. Bill so it must have been 1946 or 1947. No, it was probably 1948.” “She never remarried?” I asked. “No,” she said. “The house was paid off. She rented out the first floor and kept to herself. She’s never been quite the same since then, you know.” I hadn’t known.Jack Fritscher, Ph.D., All Rights Reserved HOW TO LEGALLY QUOTE FROM THIS WORK Folsom Street Blues37 Clementina was abuzz again. This time it was real Hollywood. Complete with movie stars. Or at least a movie star. Raymond Burr. The star of the early TV courtroom drama Perry Mason was filming a hopefully comeback TV series, Kingston: Confidential, on our street. Burr now played an investigative reporter out to solve crime. The crime on Clementina he hoped to solve? The burned-out warehouse fire at the end of the street. It was a perfect location. A real burned-out building, an industrial neighborhood in San Francisco, and lots of locals as extras. The street was blocked off at both ends. Temporary signs posted the night before warned residents that their vehicles would be towed after 7 a.m. This was serious stuff, not just the whim of the parking Gestapo. This was Hollywood. About mid-block a white van, with a stylized globe sand- wiched between “Universal City” and “Studios” on its door, sat squarely in the middle of the street. Near it were several canvas folding chairs. “Raymond Burr” was boldly printed on the back of one. A handsome 20-something gaffer sat in it, tinkering with an electrical gang-box. Further down the street Raymond Burr, in a three-piece suit and top coat, was signing autographs. It wasn’t the Hollywood crew that caught my eye but a tall bearded local man. When he walked, you knew he was naked under his grease-stained dark blue jumpsuit. Dark chest hair curled out of it at his neck. A dirty white paper facemask rode high on his head, where a black watchman’s cap barely contained unruly hair. The oval name badge sewn over his heart read Joe. I had seen him before on the street. He worked at the sandblasting place. Big black rubber-encased electrical cables snaked down the street from portable generators, imitating the fire hoses of a few months ago. Two motorcycle cops, sporting the seven-point star on their gas tanks, were parked crosswise at the end of the street. One cop stood nearby, in his black leather jacket with SFPD emblazoned on its sleeves. His white helmet, with the same emblem, was pulled snugly over his head, its padded chinstrap dangling down suggestively. He wore a bemused smile beneath his smartly clipped blond mustache. Next >