< PreviousJack Fritscher, Ph.D., All Rights Reserved HOW TO LEGALLY QUOTE FROM THIS WORK 174Jim Stewart of their car. Now I could make out the license plate number. “079-RNB! 079-RNB! 079-RNB!” I kept yelling their license plate number as loud as I could. There were a few cabins nearby. At least one of them had lights on. Would anybody hear me? The redneck boys finally figured out what I was doing and squealed off toward Guerneville. “Michael, we have to remember that number!” We both kept repeating it out loud while cars going in our direction whizzed past us. “079-RNB, 079-RNB.” Would anybody stop? Finally a pair of headlights slowed down as they approached us. Were the redneck boys back? The lights were so bright we couldn’t tell what kind of car it was. It stopped just before it reached us. Then I saw a Mercedes hood ornament. I heard the soft sound of a window being lowered. “Would you boys like a ride?” a culture-aged voice asked. Would we? You bet your sweet ass we would! We climbed into the back seat as two perfectly coiffed and immaculately dressed gentlemen turned their smiling faces toward us. They looked in their 80s. Thank-god for rich old ladies of any gender. When we reached the Rusty Nail we invited them to join us for a teeny-tiny. After just a hint of hesitation, they declined. We called the sheriff’s department in Guerneville with the 079-RNB number. We learned later the deputies had stopped the car and talked to its occupants. Since they had not actually done anything to us, except call us faggots, they couldn’t arrest them. The boys were warned that if anything happened later, they would be on the top of the sheriff’s shit list. Not quite half way between Guerneville and Jenner by the sea is the little town of Monte Rio. Under the redwoods nearby, on nearly 3,000 acres, is Bohemian Grove. Bohemian Grove is the summer encampment of the Bohemian Club, an all-male fra- ternity of the most wealthy and powerful men in the country. Founded in San Francisco in the 1870s, the club started accu- mulating redwood acres in the late 1800s. The Grove, especially during the July encampment , is an all-male fantasy land, where Jack Fritscher, Ph.D., All Rights Reserved HOW TO LEGALLY QUOTE FROM THIS WORK Folsom Street Blues175 the rich and famous can revert to the adolescent hijinks of a boys summer camp. As private jets landed at Santa Rosa airport, disgorging the masters of power and wealth, another group of bohemians was quietly converging at the River. They too, came from San Fran- cisco, Los Angeles, and even as far away as Nevada. These mod- ern-day courtesans were part of the fantasy. They knew where the money was. One night Michael and I decided to hike into Guerneville and out to the Highlands. The Highlands Resort, near the red- woods of Armstrong Woods State Reserve, was a collection of old 1940s-style tourist cabins that had “gone gay.” There was a community room with a bar and dance floor, where guests and locals could mingle. We got there early. It was quiet. We both sorted through our pockets for loose change and ordered draft beers. A young woman in a summer dress came in. As she approached the nearly empty bar, I could tell by the way she walked that she liked being the center of attention. Out of all the empty stools at the bar, she sat on the one next to me. She was so close I could feel the heat from her body. I tried to ignore her by horning in on the conversation Michael was having with the bartender. Michael gave me a dirty look. He was trying to set up something with the bartender for later. “Well, are you going to buy me a drink or not?” she said. I turned in her direction and covertly eyed her breasts. They were way out of proportion for her petite body. “I don’t have any money,” I said. Mammary augmentation implants, I thought. “Well,” she said, “why don’t I buy you and your boyfriend a drink then?” “Sure, why not?” I said. At least she seemed to know the score. “Bartender,” she said. “Get these two gentlemen whatever they want and a margarita for me.” The bartender pulled two draft beers and set them in front of Michael and me. He proceeded to build her margarita. “When you’re done, set up a round of teeny-tinies for us. One for yourself, too,” she said.Jack Fritscher, Ph.D., All Rights Reserved HOW TO LEGALLY QUOTE FROM THIS WORK 176Jim Stewart “You got it,” the bartender said. “I’ll take mine when I get off.” She reached between her robust breasts and pulled out a rolled-up bill. She unrolled it on the bar. It was a 100-dollar bill. I thought I could see white powder along one edge. “Can you break that for me?” she said. “Can do,” the bartender said. For as early and as quiet as it was in the bar, I was surprised. He totaled up all the drinks, including his own teeny-tiny for later, and counted out her change on the bar. “This is for you, honey,” she said. She pushed the coins and a 10-dollar bill toward the bartender. She folded the remaining bills and put them somewhere in her skirt. “Cheers!” we all said as we downed our Stolichnaya and schnapps. “Want to dance?” she said, as she stood up, grabbed my hand, and started pulling me toward the dance floor. The sexual energy of the disco music seemed misplaced. Nobody was dancing. “Want to see something pretty?” she said, when we reached the dance floor. Before I could answer, she unzipped the top of her dress. I realized it wasn’t a dress at all but a bustier with a matching wraparound skirt. “Aren’t they pretty?” she said. Her mammary augmentation implants were now on full display under the mirrored ball above the empty dance floor. Donna Summers sang on: “Love to Love You Baby.” I wasn’t sure what to say. She bent over slightly as she danced. Her tits swayed to the rhythm of the music. Then I got it. “Why’d you come here tonight?” I said. “Practice,” she said. “Practice?” “I have an appointment out at Bohemian Grove later tonight,” she said. “I always come up here in July when the big boys are at midsummer encampment.” She carefully zipped the bustier up around her tits. I felt a little more comfortable. “But why a gay bar?” I said. “I’m safe here,” she said. “I can try out my act without being hit on.”Jack Fritscher, Ph.D., All Rights Reserved HOW TO LEGALLY QUOTE FROM THIS WORK Folsom Street Blues177 “And you get yourself turned on for later, out at the Grove?” I said. “Something like that,” she said. “Got to go.” I was just getting interested, not sexually, but in her modus operandi. “But what do you do the rest of the time?” I said, as she started toward the door. “I teach sociology at San Francisco State,” she said over her shoulder as she left. After 18 months at the River I’d learned to mix a bull shot, make hollandaise sauce, shuck oysters, play penny-ante poker and liars dice, and be wary of a teeny-tiny. As Kenny Rogers says, you got to “know when to fold , em/Know when to walk away…” I bought an ancient Volvo 544 that had faded to dusty Wedgwood blue and fled the River back to the City.Jack Fritscher, Ph.D., All Rights Reserved HOW TO LEGALLY QUOTE FROM THIS WORK 178Jim Stewart Camille and Sybil 1979: photo by Jim Stewart at 11th and Folsom Streets, “Nelly Belle,” Jim Stewart’s GMC pickup truck, parked at curbNext >