< PreviousJack Fritscher, Ph.D., All Rights Reserved HOW TO LEGALLY QUOTE FROM THIS WORK 38Jim Stewart “Local lady!” a bearded guy in a faded blue golf jacket with Rich Man Poor Man printed on its back called out. “We’re ready for the local lady!” Two bag ladies, their handled shopping bags brimming with stuff, rushed forward. They both wore several layers of clothing. One had a faded scarf tied over her head. The other wore a green knit cap pulled down over her ears. “Which of you’s the local lady?” Bearded Guy said. “I am,” they both said at once. “No, she’s not,” Faded Scarf said. “She just came over here this morning because she heard you’d be here,” Knit Cap said. “No, I didn’t. I’m here all the time. This is my street.” “No, it’s not. She’s crazy. She doesn’t even know where she is.” “Whore!” Faded Scarf said, as she pulled the green watch-cap off the other’s head, threw it to the ground, and spit on it. The motorcycle cop with a neatly trimmed steel-gray mus- tache started toward the two women. Before he reached them, a man with overly stylized long hair, wearing a billowing white silk shirt with faded tight Levi’s, stepped up to the ladies. He quickly took two 20s from his wallet and gave one to each local lady. The matter was quickly resolved by the Hollywood Fixer. I walked over to Hamburger Mary’s for lunch. The place was packed. I ordered a bleu-cheeseburger with sprouts and swiveled my counter stool around to people-watch. Hamburger Mary’s was always a good place for people watching. Two women surrounded by tattered, overflowing shopping bags at a nearby table caught my eye. One wore a headscarf, the other had a green knit cap pulled down over her ears. Both were drinking drafts and wolf- ing minestrone as they chortled in glee at putting one over on the Hollywood Fixer. I wondered if they were from the homeless colony that had sprung up underground between Mission and Howard. A square block had been razed in preparation for a new convention center. The huge hole sat waiting for the project to start. It would be years before the Moscone Convention Center was built there. Jack Fritscher, Ph.D., All Rights Reserved HOW TO LEGALLY QUOTE FROM THIS WORK Folsom Street Blues39 Along the north side of the hole, on Mission Street, were a number of underground rooms. They were the kind of rooms glimpsed through purple glass circles in the concrete as you scurried along the sidewalk. These underground rooms always intrigued me, but generally housed nothing more mysterious than a barber shop. With their buildings gone, they stood as an urban version of ancient pueblo cliff dwellings. Homeless people had moved in, organized, and elected their own mayor. I could picture these ladies as members of an ad hoc board of supervisors. I often ran into homeless people South of Market. One day, before Hollywood came to Clementina Street, I went into a small blue-collar bistro on the corner of 8th Street and Natoma. It was in one of those old stores where the corner of the building was cut off at an angle with a double entrance door. Both doors were wide open that day. I took the small table closest to the doors, in order to catch whatever breeze might be headed that way. You paid at the serving counter and went back for seconds. The diners were mostly work- men in sweaty clothes. I fit right in. I had steel-toed work boots, torn Levi’s and a green work shirt with a red and white name tag sewn above of the chest pocket. “Jimmy” it read. The special of the day was all the fried chicken you could eat. I had settled into my fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and canned peas when I sensed someone standing close by. There were no waiters but maybe it was someone I knew. “Yimmy.” I looked up. “Yimmy,” a whispered voice said, “give me your chicken.” An ancient-looking but once handsome man, probably no more than 40, stood in the doorway next to my table. “You can get more.” I hesitated. “It’s all you can eat,” he said. He gave me a faint smile filled with bad teeth and swollen gums. He was still outside on the steps. “Get out of here. I told you not to come in here again.” The irate owner of the bistro pointed his finger outside and repeated “Out!” My newfound friend left. I went back for a third helping of chicken. I carefully wrapped it in paper napkins when the owner’s back was turned. I slid it Jack Fritscher, Ph.D., All Rights Reserved HOW TO LEGALLY QUOTE FROM THIS WORK 40Jim Stewart inside the Chronicle I carried as a lunch companion and left it on the sidewalk a few feet around the corner. I headed for my pickup. By the time I pulled Nelly Belle into the flow of traffic, the chicken and newspaper were gone. Walking back to Clementina Street from Hamburger Mary’s, I was stopped by the Don’t Walk sign at 9th and Folsom. There was another pedestrian waiting for the light. It was Raymond Burr. We stood there in silence for a moment. Just before the light changed he nodded at me. Maybe he would invite me to his private island in the South Pacific. Would I go? “Know of any good bars around here?” I waved my hand down Folsom Street. “Almost anywhere down this street for the next couple of blocks you’ll see leather bars,” I said. “Or if you want something more mellow, walk over a block to the Ambush on Harrison.” I gave him directions to the Ambush. When the light changed he turned and headed for the Ambush. The Gartland Pit at the corner of 16th and Valencia remained as a monument to eviction by arson. The sub-sidewalk Colony of Cliff Dwellers between Mission and Howard continued to dem- onstrate the tenacity of the homeless. Bill Essex was accepted as an openly gay deputy sheriff. I now had a handsome set of photos of a genuine, naked, San Francisco County Deputy Sheriff. Early one evening I heard a knock on my door. I left it unlocked most of the time. “Come in,” I hollered down. “It’s open.” The door opened. I head heavy boots on the stairs. I came out of the kitchen just as the sandblaster in the grease-stained jumpsuit reached the stair landing. “Want a beer?” I said.Jack Fritscher, Ph.D., All Rights Reserved HOW TO LEGALLY QUOTE FROM THIS WORK Folsom Street Blues41 What a Dump May 1976: auto-photograph by Jim Stewart, a “before” shot of 766 Clementina StreetJack Fritscher, Ph.D., All Rights Reserved HOW TO LEGALLY QUOTE FROM THIS WORK 42Jim Stewart Johnny Gets His Hair Cut I 1976: photo by Jim Stewart at the Slot Hotel, 979 Folsom StreetJack Fritscher, Ph.D., All Rights Reserved HOW TO LEGALLY QUOTE FROM THIS WORK Folsom Street Blues43 Johnny Gets His Hair Cut II 1976: photo by Jim Stewart at the Slot Hotel, 979 Folsom StreetJack Fritscher, Ph.D., All Rights Reserved HOW TO LEGALLY QUOTE FROM THIS WORK 44Jim Stewart Jack Fritscher at the Slot 1976: photo by Jim Stewart shot at the Slot Hotel, 979 Folsom St. for Drummer (No. 16, 1977) feature “Johnny Gets His Hair Cut.”Next >