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It, too, later burned. The Baskin-Robbins where I worked is gone. We sat down in a booth for two, and I was plunged into sense memory. A residue was on everything, specific and personal. The YouTube footage of Market Street in is professional-grade cinematography, perhaps shot to insert in a dramatic feature.
The camera pauses at an intersection just beyond a glowing pink arrow pointing south. This is how I know that we are near the intersection of Seventh and Market. The Greyhound station was still there when I moved to San Francisco, in , at age ten. It had an edge to it that was starkly different from the drab, sterile, and foggy Sunset District, where we lived.
This was the eighties, and tattoos were not conventional and ubiquitous, as they are now. There were people in the Sunset who had them, but they were outlaw people. Later, I briefly shared a flat on Oak Street with a tattoo artist named Freddy Corbin, who was becoming a local celebrity. Freddy was charming and charismatic, with glowing blue eyes. He and his tattoo-world friends lived like rock stars.
They were paid in cash. He had a diamond winking from one of his teeth. Women fawned over him. Our shared answering machine was full of messages from girls hoping Freddy would return their calls, but he became mostly dedicated to dope, along with his younger brother, Larry, and a girl named Noodles, who both lived upstairs. Larry and Noodles came down only once every few days, to answer the door and receive drugs, then went back upstairs.
Freddy lived, got clean, is still famous. The shadow over that Oak Street house is only one part of why I never wanted a tattoo. I find extreme steps toward permanence frightening. Plush, elegant furniture bought by someone living a perilous high life. On the other side of the street, out of view, is Fascination, a gambling parlor that my friend Sandy and I went to the year we were in eighth grade, because Sandy had a crush on the money changer there. We wasted a lot of time at Fascination, watching gaming addicts throw rubber balls up numbered wooden lanes, smoke curling from ashtrays next to each station.
It was quiet in there, like a church—just the sound of rolling rubber balls. The camera pans past the Warfield and, next to it, a theatre called the Crest. By the time I worked as a bartender at the Warfield, the Crest had become the Crazy Horse, a strip joint where a high-school friend, Jon Hirst, worked the door in between prison stints.
I was with a new boyfriend. Jon was prison-cut and looking handsome in white jeans and a black leather jacket. He was in a nostalgic mood about our shared youth in the avenues. His prison life continued after he pleaded guilty to stabbing someone outside the Club, on Seventeenth and Guerrero.
A dispute had erupted over an interaction between the guy and a woman Jon and his friends were with, concerning the jukebox. The camera moves on. I remember a female officer with a Polaroid camera. I would be banned from the store for life, she said. This was the least of my worries, and I found it funny. She took a photo to put in my file. I gave her a big smile. I remember the moment, me chained to the pole and her standing over me.
As she waved the photo dry, I caught a glimpse and vainly thought that, for once, I looked pretty good. You get full access to the bad and embarrassing photos, while the flattering one is out of reach. But the Emporium-Capwell is gone. I have outlived it! The camera swings south as it travels closer to Montgomery, down Market. Every Sunset girl had a pair, delicate boots that got wrecked at rainy keggers in the Grove, despite the aerosol protectant we sprayed on them. So many of my hours are spent like this, but with me as the camera, panning backward into scenes that are not retrievable.
I am no longer busy being born. It gives testimony. It talks. His name was Tommy. He was a regular during my shifts at the Blue Lamp, my first bartending gig, on Geary and Jones, at the top of the Tenderloin. This was the early nineties, and all the girls I knew were bartenders or waitresses or strippers and most of the boys were bike messengers at Western or Lightning Express, or they drove taxicabs for Luxor.
It could have sold products, maybe cereal, or vitamins for growing boys. And he was blank like an advertisement, but his blankness was not artifice. It was a kind of refusal.
He was perversely and resolutely blank, like a character in a Bret Easton Ellis novel, except with no money or class status. He wore the iconic hustler uniform—tight jeans, white tennies, aviator glasses, Walkman.
He would come into the Blue Lamp and keep me company on slow afternoons. I found his blankness poignant; he was obviously so wounded that he had to void himself by any means he could. I knew him as Tommy or sometimes Thomas and learned his full name—Thomas Wenger—only when his face looked up at me one morning from a newspaper. There were times, working at the Blue Lamp, when I felt sure that people who had come and gone on my shifts had committed grievous acts of violence.
There are experiences that stay stubbornly resistant to knowledge or synthesis. It evades comprehension.
In any case, people would think I was making it up. The owner of the Blue Lamp was named Bobby. I remember his golf cap and his white boat shoes and the purple broken capillaries on his face, the gallery of sad young women who tolerated him in exchange for money and a place to crash.
Bobby lived out in the Excelsior, but he and his brother had built an apartment upstairs from the Blue Lamp, for especially wild nights. I never once went up there. Drank forty bottles of Budweiser a day, and resorted to harder stuff only on his periodic Greyhound trips to Sparks, to play the slots.
Whole parts of Jer, I suspected, were missing, or in some kind of permanent dormancy. I wondered who he had been before he lived this repetitive existence of buckets of ice and Budweiser, day after day after day.
He owned nothing. He slept in his clothes, slept even in his mesh baseball hat. He lived at the bar and never went out of character. He was a drinker and a swamper. He said little, but it was him and me, bartender and barback, night after night. And Jer had my back literally. After 2 A. He insisted that I call the bar when I got home. I always did. There was another bar up the street from the Blue Lamp that had a double bed in the back where a man lay all day, as if it were his hospice.
I remember a man, youngish and well dressed, who would come into the Blue Lamp and act crazy on my shifts.
Once, he came in threatening to kill himself. There was a girl who started cocktail-waitressing at the Blue Lamp on busy nights when we had live bands. She was a recovering drug addict who missed heroin so much she started using it again in the months that she worked at the Blue Lamp. She bought a rock from one of the Sunday blues jammers and that was literally what he sold her.
A pebble. He ripped her off, and why not. If Johnny is still alive, which may not be the case, do I really want to know the long and likely typical story of her recovery and humility and day-to-day hopes, very small hopes that, for her, are everything? The glamour of death, or the banality of survival: which is it going to be? My friend Sandy, whose real name I have redacted from this story, came into the Blue Lamp asking me to hock her engagement ring for her.
My parents loved Sandy and love her still. They did their best. By the time she was looking to sell her ring, she had been living a hard life in the Tenderloin for a decade, working as a prostitute, and had become engaged to one of her johns. Who knows what happened to him. Maybe he bought a wife somewhere else. I did a lot of other things for Sandy. Tried to keep her safe. Kept a box of baking soda in a kitchen cabinet of every house I lived in, so that she could cook her drugs.
She had a dealer who liked to eat cocaine instead of smoke it or shoot it. He would slice pieces off a large rock and nibble on them, like powdery peanut brittle.
Sandy giggled about this idiosyncrasy as if it were cute. Anything she described became charming instead of horrible. That was her gift. She was blond and blue-eyed and too pretty for makeup, other than a little pot of opalescent gloss that she kept in her jacket pocket and which gave her lips a fuchsia sheen.
Hi, Pinky! Hi, Peter! Under the radar. Bench warrants, failures to appear. I wrote to an ex-husband of hers through Facebook. No response. Probably he just wants a normal life. I never wrote about most of the people from the Blue Lamp. The bar is gone. The main characters have died. Or perhaps a person can write about things only when she is no longer the person who experienced them, and that transition is not yet complete.
In this sense, a conversion narrative is built into every autobiography: the writer purports to be the one who remembers, who saw, who did, who felt, but the writer is no longer that person. In writing things down, she is reborn. And yet still defined by the actions she took, even if she now distances herself from them. Might fill the pages of a book. Oliver Stone was making a movie about the Doors and attempting to reconstitute the Summer of Love for his film shoot.
Shes got nice feet actually. The road to el dorado has many perils, for chel, a long trek through the jungle is very hard, especially when her feet itch so bad. Displaying page 1 of 8. May be used as reasons to report this subreddit is dedicated to feet; I was looking at her thinking she looked so cute, innocent and naive and then i read the wikipedia description and was like wow.
Stadium, arena and sports venue. Have fun with the feet of chelsea feisty feet! Can i use a coupon in the clearance section of your shop? May be used as reasons to report this subreddit is dedicated to feet; Rules that visitors must follow to participate. View 11 nsfw pictures and enjoy feet with the endless random gallery on scrolller. Each chapter tells part of the story and often ends with multiple choices.
Dima chel feet k o b a alisher. The weekend of the 13th chelsea was out with her friends and tripped accidentally resulting in a… chelsea miller needs your support for chelsea's foot surgery. This is an interactive story containing 16 chapters.