Jack Fritscher, Ph.D., All Rights Reserved HOW TO LEGALLY QUOTE FROM THIS WORK 89 Voodoo W hen Allan Lowery opened the Leatherneck bar at 11th and Folsom he hiredRocky as a barback. Barbacks are like sous chefs. They make the bartenders shine. Barbacks make sure the beer coolers behind the bar are well stocked, they give the bartenders breaks during slow times, and pretty much anything else they might want. Bartenders were stars who couldn’t shine without good barbacks. Barbacks were like sous chefs. Before Allan opened the Leatherneck, I constructed meat racks, restraint structures, a cross, and other accoutrements that turned the space into a leather bar. I was the Leatherneck’s car- penter. As the crowds grew, and the lines waiting to get in got longer, a second serving bar was needed. Allan asked me to build it in the back room. It was small. There was just enough space for a couple of washtubs full of ice to chill the longneck beer bottles, a service counter, and a cash drawer. It would take pressure off star bartend- ers at the main bar and keep the men coming back. If customers wait too long for a beer, they leave. I designed and assembled a hot little bar. It was similar to the four-poster beds for bondage at The Slot. It was done in a day. There was one problem. Allan had no bartender lined up to man it. “Want to tend bar in the back room tonight?” Allan said upstairs in his office when I told him the project was done. “Sure,” I said. I’d never tended bar in my life. It was just a beer/wine bar, I thought. How hard could it be? “I’ll give you Rocky as your barback,” Allan said. If there had been any doubts in my mind about being a bar- tender, they vanished at the thought of Rocky being my barback. Rocky was a poster boy for a Folsom Street bar. He’d celebrated his 21st birthday but not his 30th. He sported close-cropped dark Jack Fritscher, Ph.D., All Rights Reserved HOW TO LEGALLY QUOTE FROM THIS WORK 90Jim Stewart wavy hair and a perpetual five o’clock shadow. He worked with- out a shirt. Standing next to him, you could feel the heat radiating from his sculptured body. He was a prince from West Side Story. Most men like Rocky come with attitude. He didn’t. He was a photographer’s dream. I know. I snapped a dozen shots or more of Rocky in nothing but a studded black leather dog collar. Jack Fritscher and I joined forces for a spread on the Leath- erneck in Drummer magazine, Number 18, 1977. Jack wrote of the hardass cruising at the Leatherneck. It was San Francisco’s ultimate bar of the 1970s, he wrote. After reading that the “Leath- erneck ain’t exactly fantasy,” and that the “Leatherneck trip is real,” you knew you better get your ass over there or you’d miss the whole last quarter of the 20th century. Just in case anyone still had doubts, I photographed the entire staff partying in the Leatherneck after hours. Although the bar- tenders, Chris and Ron, were hot—especially the shot I got of them pinching each other’s nipples—Rocky was the real star of that photo spread. In just three photos, Rocky stole the show. I shot him from the rear, polishing boots. He didn’t grovel. He was standing up, to show the perfect muscle-V where his back meets his bare butt. I shot him hanging from the cross I’d built at the end of the bar. Later, for my Double Exposure photo show, I flipped the negative of Rocky on the cross and printed two Rocky malefactors facing each other across a leather-bound crucifix. A triptych for the 1970s. The photo that brought the Rocky fans to the Leatherneck, however, was the one I shot of him buck naked behind the bar. His uncut cock was laid out along the bar next to his thumb. Guys brought steel carpenter tapes to the bar just so they could measure Rocky’s thumb and calculate the length of his tool. A client of mine, Father Jack from San Jose, became enam- ored with Rocky when he saw him in the Drummer spread. I took Father Jack to the Leatherneck one night. I covered for Rocky at the front bar while the priest tongue-polished the malefactor’s boots in the back toilet. Rocky received an extra generous tip for allowing the good father to express his admiration. I arrived at the Leatherneck fifteen minutes early my first Jack Fritscher, Ph.D., All Rights Reserved HOW TO LEGALLY QUOTE FROM THIS WORK Folsom Street Blues91 night of bartending. I was to open the back bar at 11 p.m. When I picked up my cash drawer in Allan’s office, he had something special for me. “Want a little toot before you go on?” he said. “Sure, why not.” I’d snorted coke once before, with Bill Essex, when we’d first met. It didn’t make me feel hazy the way a joint did. I just felt great, only better. Allan laid out four lines on a mirror tile on his desk top. Two for each of us. He handed me a rolled-up hundred-dollar bill. Since it was his treat, I got to pick which two lines I wanted. I chose the two shorter ones. I was new at this. “You’ll need this if we’re as busy as I think we’ll be in that back room.” Allan was right. We were busy as hell in the back room. If it hadn’t been for that toot, and Rocky keeping me stocked with beer and ice, I never would have made it through to closing time at 2:30 a.m. My tips came out to twice as much as I got paid for the shift. I shared them with Rocky, as was the custom. There were bonuses better then tips, however. I met a man with a shaved head called Tuffy Turtletail. He was a super-realist artist who drew jockstraps hanging on clotheslines. I met a poet from Eng- land who taught at Berkeley. Thom Gunn wrote about sex at the Geysers in Sonoma County. I wanted to go. Best of all, I had Rocky waiting on me all night. He worked stripped to the waist. Sweat poured down his torso as he made his way through the packed mass of male flesh, keeping my bar stocked. I discovered the high one gets being a bartender in a hot bar. I liked it. It was better than a runner’s high. San Francisco in the 1970s was home to hordes of expats from around the world. Many hung out South of Market. These expa- triates were quite different from immigrant families from Mexico and the Philippines or the Vietnamese boat people. Expats usually arrived in San Francisco unburdened with family. Often they brought independent incomes. Most were single. A lot were gay. Some were leathermen. They found San Francisco a better place to live than where they came from. Jack Fritscher, Ph.D., All Rights Reserved HOW TO LEGALLY QUOTE FROM THIS WORK 92Jim Stewart Tony Baker was such an expat. Luc, himself an expat from Belgium-Switzerland-France-the-World, introduced me to Tony. He spoke with a British accent. “Are you from England?” I said. “No,” he said, with a charming smile, as if playing a pleasant joke on me. “Australia,” I said in triumph. “I bet you’re from Australia.” There were lots of gay Australians who made their way to the City for a vacation and stayed. “No,” Tony said again, as he gave Luc a sly wink. “You have some sort of accent,” I said, becoming frustrated. “What do you speak?” “I speak Empire,” Tony said, then laughed. “You speak Empire?” “I grew up in Kenya. We left when it was given home rule.” Tony was not the only one who spoke Empire. Bill Essex introduced me to a friend of his, John. He and his sister, Anne, had left Rhodesia after Ian Smith had declared its independence in defiance of Britain. The family left Rhodesia, but had to leave part of their fortune behind. They had already transferred con- siderable sums into British banks before their move. Anne settled in London, when it was the place to be in the 1960s. John came to San Francisco. Once a year the brother and sister would meet in what was still Rhodesia and spend as much money as they could in a month, entertaining friends still there. John maintained a suite at his sister’s place in London. At John’s place on Church Street there was Anne’s Room. One day I got a postcard from John. It was postmarked San Francisco. It looked like it had been torn from the Personals sec- tion of the want ads. Sandwiched between more salacious ads, circled by a red pencil, was the announcement: “GWM com- mands you to celebrate his big four oh.” A date and address on Church Street were given. “Activities begin @ 11 p.m. Be there. That’s an order.” An offer I couldn’t refuse. Jack Fritscher, Ph.D., All Rights Reserved HOW TO LEGALLY QUOTE FROM THIS WORK Folsom Street Blues93 One of the bartenders at the Leatherneck was caught with his hand in the till. It was very clever how he pulled it off. Since he was a star, no one thought to watch him. He brought in lots of business. That was the tip-off. He had a lot more customers than were indicated by his register tapes. There was no smoking gun. Allan decided to hire a private investigator. Right out of Dashiell Hammett. San Francisco, fog, the seedy side of the City. This private Dick didn’t wear a threadbare trench coat and weather-worn fedora. He wore black leather chaps and a motor- cycle jacket. Those who saw him lusted in their loins for this bad boy. He sat at the bar. Always paid for his own drinks. At closing time he left alone. After a week he reported to Allan what he had discovered. The beautiful blond bartender from Appalachia had used the principle of the abacus to shortchange the till. When two custom- ers would order a drink of the same price, he would ring it up only once. This wasn’t hard in a beer/wine bar. Each customer assumed what he saw rung up was for his drink, if he bothered to look at all. Money for both drinks was put in the till. To keep track of how many drinks were not rung up but money put in the register, a crude abacus was used by stacking quarters from his tips. When coins got low in the till, he would “sell” quarters to the till for fives or tens, which would then go into his tip jar. He knew how much extra to take from the till for the drinks not rung up by the position of his silver-quarter abacus. At the end of the shift his register tapes always matched his cash drawer to the penny. The other bartenders’ tapes and cash drawers never matched to the penny. With the blond bombshell gone, Rocky was promoted to full bartender at the front bar. I lost a hot barback but not for long. Juan was my new barback. He was of the Taos Pueblo in New Mexico. Georgia O’Keeffe had once hired him as a houseboy. She liked young men to work naked around her estate. He was studying to be an opera singer. “Did you ever try peyote?” I said one night, during a slow period at the bar. “You mean mescaline?” he said.Jack Fritscher, Ph.D., All Rights Reserved HOW TO LEGALLY QUOTE FROM THIS WORK 94Jim Stewart I nodded. I guessed they were the same. “I did my vision quest with peyote buttons I had collected in the desert. I went up in the mountains for three days,” he said. “What happened?” “I discovered my special gift.” He looked up at me with a soft innocent smile. Dare I ask? “What is your special gift, Juan?” “Singing,” he said. Again with that innocent smile. “That’s why I’m studying voice.” After the bar closed, the cash register banks counted, the coolers stocked and the floor swept, I asked Juan if he would like to come over to my place. It was nearly 3:30 in the morning. “I have to go home now. I have voice lessons in the morning. I need sleep.” Any vision quests of my own would have to wait. Allan was on a much-needed vacation. He had promoted me to bar manager before he left. One evening, while I was in the upstairs office preparing the cash drawers for the bartenders, I heard somebody unlock the front door and enter the bar. I quickly put the cash drawers back in the safe, closed it and spun the dial. I turned out the office light and slipped out the door. There were three rooms on the second floor. The first two were toilets. The one at the end was the office. I stood in the dark on the narrow balcony that was the pas- sageway for the three rooms. The cavernous room below was lit by just a few dim lights near the sinks under the bar. Somebody was walking around down below. I saw him go to the meat racks, pull out a beer case and remove a bottle. It was full. It was room temperature. Why would anyone want a warm beer? I watched as he opened the bottle, put his thumb over the top and shook it. By now my eyes had adjusted to the dark interior of the bar. I could see who it was. It was Rocky. I watched as he walked to first one corner of the room and then the others. At each corner he shook the beer bottle and then Jack Fritscher, Ph.D., All Rights Reserved HOW TO LEGALLY QUOTE FROM THIS WORK Folsom Street Blues95 slightly lifted his thumb and allowed some beer to spray out. He was moving his arm in some configuration while he did this. It wasn’t until the third time I realized what he was doing. Rocky was spraying the sign of the cross into each corner of the room. I was intrigued. I didn’t want to disturb him during some personal religious rite he might be performing. On the other hand, I was curious. He headed for the double front doors that were below the balcony. I crept down the narrow curved stairway that wrapped down to the main floor. I heard the hiss of warm beer as it was released against the front doors. I didn’t want to startle Rocky, so I stomped my boots rather loudly on the last three steps as I came down. “Hello?” I called out as if I wasn’t sure who it might be. “Hi,” Rocky said, sounding only a little surprised. There was a long moment of silence as I looked at his glisten- ing torso in the dim bar light. Some of the beer was running down his naked chest. Had he sprayed himself with a cross as well? I couldn’t wait any longer. “What were you doing,” I said, in my best nonjudgmental tone. “My grandmother told me to do it,” he said in a perfectly level tone, as if that explained everything. “Why?” I said, hoping yet to get an explanation. “The crowds here haven’t been as large as they used to be. I think that new bar, the Black and Blue, over on Howard, is draw- ing a lot of our customers away.” I nodded agreement. “My tips are way down.” Again I nodded my understanding. “I asked my grandmother if she could do anything about it. She told me to spray the cross at the door. It would attract more people. I thought maybe the cross in the corners would help too.” “What is that, Rocky?” I said. “A religious rite?” His eyes lit up and he smiled showing his perfect white teeth in the dim light. “Yeah. Santeria.”Jack Fritscher, Ph.D., All Rights Reserved HOW TO LEGALLY QUOTE FROM THIS WORK 96Jim Stewart I felt the same excited uneasiness I had one night years before when I was an undergrad. Then, I’d had two different dates on the same night. One with a good girl, one with a bad girl. Now it was Saturday night again. I was slated to attend a Puerto Rican Santeria ceremony in the Mission at eight and a rich white Rho- desian’s 40th birthday party at eleven. Rocky met me outside the double storefront on Guerrero in the Mission District about a quarter to eight. He was dressed in white, wearing sandals. A small crucifix hung in the open V of his shirt and winked at me in the streetlight. I had on my “dress” black leather pants, a midnight-blue longsleeved police shirt, and a black leather vest. I wore black engineer boots. No crucifix. We went inside. The wall between the two storefronts had been removed to provide one large room. The walls and ceiling were painted white. The narrow maple flooring had been sanded and refinished. It was patched in the middle where the wall had been removed. Heavy white drapes were pulled across the street windows. Near the back were two doors that must have led to the back rooms and yard. A wooden table between them held a collection of candles. Candlelight gleamed off small statuettes and a bottle of Bacardi Gold. Beside the rum lay a large cigar. Above the table hung a faintly foreign picture of a saintly woman. Was it the Madonna or perhaps some virginal martyr from the Caribbean? I couldn’t tell. When we entered, Rocky was immediately greeted by several extremely handsome and beautiful young people, of both sexes. All wore white. Everybody seemed busy preparing for the service. A young man, every bit as handsome as Rocky, but perhaps a little older, hid a large machete behind the floor-length drapes. “That’s my brother,” Rocky said. The room had started to grow hushed. “What’s the machete for?” I said. “There’s a goat in the back that will be sacrificed if things go right. People are starting to sit down. Let’s find a seat.” A goat in the back, I thought, that will be sacrificed if things go right? What kind of “things,” I wondered.Jack Fritscher, Ph.D., All Rights Reserved HOW TO LEGALLY QUOTE FROM THIS WORK Folsom Street Blues97 About 25 old wooden folding chairs formed an open-ended circle in the room. Everybody was to have a front-row seat. We found two chairs together about in the center of the circle. The Spanish-whispered chatter ended. A young girl of about 16, again dressed in white, brought in a clear glass bowl filled with water. Flower petals floated in it. She set it on the table and sat down. I thought of Vestal Virgins. There were three empty chairs near the table. One of the doors opened and a middle-aged man and woman helped a hobbling old woman with a cane to one of the empty chairs. All three sat down. “That’s my grandmother,” Rocky whispered very close to my ear. His warm breath made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Another part of my anatomy was getting the same idea. A low Spanish chant slowly filled the room. The young virgin picked up the water bowl of petals and moved around the circle as she dipped her finger tips in the water and, like a priestess, flicked it on each person, as she made her way around the circle. When she came to me, she hesitated for a very fraction of a second. I saw Rocky give a nearly imperceptible nod, just before she anointed me too. When she was finished she sat down. The middle-aged man who had escorted Rocky’s grand- mother into the room, retrieved the cigar from the table. He didn’t smell it, or crinkle it between his fingers near his ear, as I have seen many cigar smokers do. He didn’t trim the end with tiny special scissors. He simply lit it with a large wooden match he scratched on the end of his thumbnail. Once lit, he passed it to Rocky’s grandmother. She inhaled deeply and passed it down the line. Each in turn inhaled the strong tobacco smoke. When it was my turn, I was glad I had practiced smoking cigars. It had preceded a special interlude in The Other Room on Clementina. I French inhaled. No cough. Show off, I thought. I passed the cigar along to Rocky. I exhaled, remembering my previous cigar session. Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar. But then sometimes it isn’t. Next came the rum bottle. It too made the rounds of the circle. Most took tiny sips, reminiscent of consecrated wine from a communal cup. Others gulped thirstily from the bottle. More Next >