Call Meets Brigs and Gay SF

We arrived in San Francisco from Atlanta in mid August, after stopping in St Louis to visit a college friend of Coop’s, a beautiful, charming girl (way out of his league, I might add) whom Coop had been enamored of at school, but who had put him in the “friend” zone immediately, a place where he had not so happily remained. 

The drive from Atlanta took us across Tennessee and Kentucky before stopping just off  I-55 at a Motel 6 after midnight, in the not so charming town of East St Louis, Illinois, just across the Mississippi. He called Shannon to tell her he’d be arriving the next morning, but was too exhausted to drive the last half hour that night. She was a little groggy but asked him to hold for what seemed like forever. Eventually, her father, a rather imposing figure whom Coop had met several times in Atlanta, picked up the phone. 

In a very serious tone, Dr. Deutsch brushed off the niceties, and got right to the point. “Son, I want you to listen carefully, and follow my instructions to the T,” he commanded. “Get back in your car, if it’s still there. Lock all the doors and roll up the windows. Get back on the freeway and leave East St Louis - NOW.” 

“But,” he stammered. “I’ve already paid for my room and I’m really tired.” 

“How much did the room cost,” Dr. Deutsch asked, clearly exasperated. 

“$50 dollars,” Coop croaked.

Dr. Deutsch did not miss a beat. “Is your life worth more than $50? Because if it is, I’d highly suggest you get your ass out of East St Louis. That town, especially near the riverfront, is one of the most dangerous cities in the US. For several years it’s been the murder capital of the country. A white boy travelling with a car full of stuff would be easy pickins for one of the crews that work the cheap motels.”

With that, Coop hustled us down the rickety stairs from the second floor balcony, purposely not bothering to put me on a leash. Several of the corner boys whom we’d passed on the way into the parking lot were now loitering near the car, giving Coop the once over. When one of them glared menacingly at Coop, I started growling and barking. This was enough to back them off momentarily, long enough for Coop to throw his bag in the back and for me to jump in the passenger seat, while continuing to growl and bare my teeth. I could see our new “neighbors” sizing me up, deciding on whether whatever Coop might have in that beat up Rabbit would be worth a tussle with me. While they hesitated, Coop got that thing fired up, and just as fast as a diesel Rabbit could motor we kicked up a little gravel and “raced” towards the onramp, half a mile down the garbage strewn frontage road, before they had reached a decision. Hearing several gunshots, and passing several other clusters of “locals,” loitering around large industrial oil barrels, glowing beneath the freeway overhead, we reentered the freeway without further incident, crossing the Poplar Street Bridge into Missouri a little after 1am, just barely awake enough to appreciate the beautiful Gateway Arch. We arrived at Shannon’s home in Clayton, a few miles west of downtown 20 minutes later.  

After three days visiting Shannon at her family’s palatial estate in the St Louis suburbs, the sad sack soon to be law student, suffering and pathetically morose with the realization that this unrequited love would remain forever so, piled back into his beat up ancient VW Rabbit, with me and everything he owned, and headed west on Interstate 70, destination San Francisco.

The drive from Atlanta to the Mississippi River had taken 14 hours. While Coop had visited the west coast to scope out law schools, he had done so by air. Coop had this absurd idea that “Old Man River” was somewhere near mid-continent and told JD’s friend Brigs, with whom we’d be staying while looking for a suitable apartment, that we’d be arriving in a couple of days. 10 hours later, having reached only as far as the Colorado border, it dawned on my sometimes dimwitted human, that his eastern understanding of distance and scale were sadly misplaced in the west.

Coop and I spent the night at a sleazy motel on University Avenue across San Francisco Bay in Berkeley. It was all he could afford. The fact that the rooms advertised could be rented overnight or “by the hour” should tell all but the hopelessly naive what type establishment it was. If that were insufficient, the condom dispenser in the lobby, stained blankets, and mirrored ceilings put any thoughts of respectability to rest.

What made the not so restful night worthwhile however, was the drive across the Bay Bridge the following afternoon. We had a late breakfast at a little cafe on Shattuck, waiting for rush hour traffic to clear and Brigs to arrive back from work. The trip into San Francisco atop the upper deck of the bridge was magical. Coming out of the tunnel separating Yerba Buena and Treasure Islands, the first glimpse of San Francisco even today takes my breath away. Wedding gown white Coit Tower peaked above the fog, beckoning visitors to “The City” from Telegraph Hill. Alcatraz was visible briefly in the middle of the Bay. Beyond the densely packed city the north tower of the Golden Gate Bridge winked in and out of view, the almost human fog tendrils initially obscuring, then parting, to reveal the magnificent engineering masterpiece and the Marin headlands stretching beyond. This erotic dance repeated seemingly every 5 seconds, before we exited at Fremont Street and entered the dark canyons of mist enshrouded buildings, barely visible through the dense fog. People moved like ghosts, covered from head to toe, fighting vainly to keep warm in the damp chill of a San Francisco summer.

Brig's apartment sat upon Cathedral Hill on The Great Geary Way. Brigs knew Coop was arriving with a dog, but I do believe he was as taken aback by my size, copious amounts of constantly shedding white hair, and continual drool as we were by his height and elegant demeanor. The man was fastidious to a fault - a tad priggish in my opinion, but clearly a dog lover. Must admit I was a little worried about our future relationship when he informed us he had grown up with a dalmatian that his parents had bought him when he was young - and named it Spot! 

Brigs, dark complected, with piercing intelligent deep set eyes, was gifted with a deep baritone, a hearty rumbling laugh, and a slightly pretentious manner, befitting a rising corporate star, but he and Coop hit it off immediately. The Giants were at home that night at Candlestick Park, and Brigs had gotten two tickets behind the Giants bench. So after a wonderful two hours spent talking about everything from sports to girls to politics, Coop dragged his suitcase into the bedroom, took a quick shower, and emerged wearing shorts and a T-shirt. Brigs was standing by the door, all 6’6” of him, wearing jeans, a long sleeve shirt, a full-length parka, and carrying two heavy wool army blankets. When he saw Coop, he could not stop laughing. “Where are you going?” He asked incredulously. 

“To a ball game, I thought,” Coop answered, somewhat perplexed at what his new friend found so funny.

“You have no idea, do you?” Brigs said. “Ever hear that line attributed to Mark Twain, though he likely never said it, ''the coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco”?

“Historical research indicates he probably came up with the line while watching a Giants game in August,” he laughed. “Candlestick was a classic California land scam. In most of the city during the summer it’s cold and windy, but if you were to search San Francisco for the single coldest and windiest spot, it would be Candlestick Point. A couple of years ago they held the All-Star Game there, and a diminutive pitcher named Stu Miller was driven from the mound by a sudden gust of hurricane force wind as he wound up to throw! Please, go get more clothes.”

As it turned out, much to Coop’s chagrin, having just moved from Atlanta, and it being August, he did not completely buy what Brigs was telling him. While he was in the bedroom getting dressed, he said to me, “I figure Brigs is from south Florida, and you know, southern brothers especially do not like the cold. This sweatshirt should do.” 

He put on some jeans, a t- shirt and the thin University of Georgia sweatshirt he had picked up just before we left Atlanta. Despite repeated offers of additional layers by Brigs, all politely refused, they put me out on the balcony and headed for the door, with Brigs shaking his head in disgust. I luxuriated in the cold and fog creeping in from the Golden Gate, having experienced this weather before, quietly laughing at the San Francisco summer virgin.

When they got back, I could hear Coop’s teeth chattering before they even entered the apartment. “I should have listened,” he said. “I am pretty certain I have never been that cold in my entire fucking life….and I grew up in Jersey where winter ice storms occur with regularity!. Sitting in that box behind the Giants dugout, it felt like the devil was running icy fingers across my body.” 

“The wind gusts felt like Zephyr himself had been insulted by the stupidity of playing baseball on that little spit of land. Hotdog wrappers swirling around the upper deck would come down towards the field and then blow back up for gods sake! People behind us were flinging popcorn to see where it would land in the fucking upper deck! The players looked like they were dressed for hockey, not baseball!  You could not even see their faces with their turtlenecks pulled over their noses! At least they have space heaters in the dugouts, though I think there could be a battle to the death if there are not enough to go around!”

“I’m pretty sure my cajones crawled up behind my gallbladder to fight for future generations of Coopers,” he whispered through still clacking teeth. “My god those umpires looked particularly miserable. They could not even get off the field between innings. There were times they almost disappeared into the dust devils swirling mercilessly around them.” 

They had only lasted six innings, though Brigs had stayed reasonably warm in his parka and hidden beneath the army blanket. When Coop finally warmed up enough to stop shivering, he dragged me into the bedroom where he squeezed tight for warmth. 

“Why the hell didn’t you warn me you miserable mongrel? You’ve been here before. You told me you LIVED in San Francisco. You set me up.”

“Look, you schmuck! You think you are oh so smart. I am just a dog you tell me. What could I know? You still claim not to believe I am who I say I am, but then, when shit goes wrong, it’s oh, you shoulda told me! I am not your fuckin mother? You’re a big boy. Brigs tried to warn you. But noooo, you knew better. Pick one. Either you believe me when I say I am an ancient Goddess, or not. Your choice. But if the latter, do not blame this doggie when you do it your way and fuck things up. Now good night. I am beat. By the way, it was delightfully cool out on that balcony, what with my winter coat and all,” I snickered. 

Several weeks later JD arrived from New York. While we initially rented a small 2 bedroom apartment in Cow Hollow near Lombard, it became quickly apparent that Brigs would be part of our life, and we soon found a three bedroom Victorian flat on Nob Hill, where Brigs could join us. One little aside. Brigs loved Twinkies. Sadly, so do I. He’d keep them in a drawer in his room to hide them from JD. The drawer was easy enough to open and I regularly helped myself when the boys were gone. 

Brigs kept blaming his roommates for purloining his junk food, which both vehemently denied. It was causing some tension in the house until the true culprit was outed. One day, I was calmly munching on a couple of those toxic non- carbon based nutritionally deficient morsels when unexpectedly Brigs arrived home mid afternoon from work. I didn’t hear him enter and only reacted when he was halfway down the long hallway to his back  bedroom. I’d only gotten half way under the bed with my booty when he entered the room! The gig was up. I sheepishly crept out from under the bed. He peered beneath, and there discovered the evidence of my thievery. Numerous wrappers that I’d stashed there to avoid detection! Coop and JD had been exonerated giving Brigs unrelenting shit for his repeated false accusations. The guilty party had been discovered and my previously inexplicable weight gain now fully understood!

On Saturdays we would walk over to an outdoor basketball court on Russian Hill and challenge the locals to some three-on-three hoops. The boys would play basketball and I’d explore and simply enjoy the cool weather. From the court you have an expansive view across the Bay to Angel Island, where a million immigrants, mostly from China, were detained under the Chinese Exclusion Act of 1862. The cable cars would rumble by every few minutes, sail boats and wind surfers scooted across the bay, and when the fingers of fog reached under the Golden Gate, it remained almost impossible to focus on anything but the sheer mesmerizing beauty of it all. 

One of  Coop’s biggest attitude adjustments he needed to make had to do with homosexuals. He told me that to this point in his life no one he knew was an “out” homosexual. I told him that I didn’t understand western humans' obsession with sex and homosexuality. Among the indigenous tribes with whom I’d spent millennia, there were differing attitudes, but nowhere the obsession I saw among Christians. 

What perplexed me the most was the blatant hypocrisy or at the very least inconsistency in belief. On one hand, western religion claimed their God was infallible. Also, that “man” was made in his image. So how then to reconcile the fact that homosexuals existed and had always done so? Had their God made a mistake? If so, then he wasn’t infallible. Had he made gay people in his image? If not, then how to explain them? These were questions none of the so-called holy men, whether Christian, Muslim, or Jewish, could  never reconcile to my satisfaction.

As I explained to Coop, I am certain (based on simple math) that he must have known gay people, but in both Jersey and Georgia they remained closeted. He grew up in locker rooms with the usual gay slurs, but until moving here, admitted he’d never given it much thought. 

In his naive 20 something young hetero male world it seemed he was as likely to meet someone who was gay as he was to meet a Babylonian, or so he fervently believed. Sure, he had read about gays in books and seen them in movies, but in real life, not so much. San Francisco, to his ignorant surprise, was the gay mecca. Guys were out holding hands and kissing in public. The most active social group on campus was LIL: Lesbians in Law. As it turned out, two of the guys in his study group were gay. Truth be told, Steven, an ex-UC Santa Barbara drama professor, was one of Coop’s favorite people in the class. The other gay guy was a douchebag. The lesson he belatedly learned was that gay people are like everyone else - he likes some and dislike others. Who knew?

Coop had never perceived himself to be old fashioned, and I didn’t give a shit, but I must admit that the blow jobs in Buena Vista Park, the rumored glory holes at gay bars, and Polk Gulch were just a little beyond even my liberal views on the world. While the area around Castro Street was gay Harlem - and honestly not all that different from other city neighborhoods once you got used to the public displays of affection - Polk, only three blocks from our digs, took a little getting used to. 

This neighborhood was sprinkled with gay leather bars. You were as likely to see a guy in a leather speedo with cowboy boots and nipple rings as a butch mom, bare chested, pushing a baby tram. My personal favorite, and Coop’s as well, was the guy in the shorty priest’s hassock, cut to the waist, with red leather assless chaps for bottoms. Every time I would see him I’d break away to stick my cold wet nose where the sun don’t shine - and I’m pretty sure he got off on it. 

But it did take some getting used to. Steven lives in Ashbury Heights. On a study break walking through Buena Vista Park, you couldn't go twenty feet without running into gay couples on the benches snogging or in the bushes felating each other. No exaggeration here. One month, while waiting for the Metrobus on California, Coop was propositioned by a hard hat! Coop had to admit that he was a good-looking guy, and that he was actually flattered.

Then one weekend, Coop  finally came to grips with this new reality. A friend from Atlanta visited. He was a north Georgia mountain boy, very artsy, very funny. They had worked together in a restaurant and been mates at university. Mark was a little effeminate, but during the time we knew him he was dating one of the more beautiful women in their group, so Coop truly never gave any thought to some of the clearly gay aesthetes who would approach Mark at the bar. 

After a day of wine tasting in Napa with JD and Brigs, we were back at the apartment, the roommates having drifted off to their rooms, when Mark got up and slid the door to the hallway closed, pulling a chair up on the opposite side of the fireplace where I was dreamily staring into the flickering blue gas flame and Coop was dozing off listening to some Coltrane.

“Coop, I have something important to talk to you about,” he almost whispered. “I’m gay.” 

At first, Coop clearly wasn’t quite comprehending. All he could think to say was, “So you wanna sleep with me?” 

Mark feigned horror. “God, no. First, you are the most disgustingly hetero of all my friends, and second - please don’t be offended - you are neither particularly attractive nor my type!” He said, smiling. 

All Coop could think to say after that was, “So, can we still be friends? Because unless you’re going to try to kiss me with that grungy ass beard you’ve been unsuccessfully working on for three years, I don’t see an issue here.” And that was that. 

Haight Ashbury, or “The District” as the locals call it, was seedy where it had not gentrified. The real hippies were gone, in their place were lots of lost kids and hard drugs. While Recycled Records on Haight remained a mecca for music lovers, the posters harking back to the glory days of The Grateful Dead, Jefferson Airplane, and Janis Joplin, the remaining head shops hung on selling kitschy ‘60s paraphernalia with mass produced Summer of Love silk screens. The streets around the panhandle, once the mecca of youthful rebellion had been taken over by the homeless and drug addled, a depressing reality.

Classes ended and Coop was in the midst of studying for finals, though it had been hard the last few weeks. First, the mass suicide at The People’s Temple in Guyana had many San Francisco connections. Jim Jones, the cult leader, took the mostly poor and black congregants to the South American jungle only to slaughter them all with cyanide-laced grape Kool Aid. Jones, who plotted the murder of Congressman Leo Ryan and three others on an airstrip at Port Kaituma, had been supported by Governor Jerry Brown, the Assembly Speaker, the Mayor of San Francisco, and numerous local political leaders from the Democratic establishment, including First Lady Roselyn Carter. 

Like any skilled con man, he had convinced them all, including those that should have known better, that he could provide meaning to desperate lives if only they were freed from American shackles. The warning signs were there, but Jones played on hope leading to tragedy, as blind allegiance to messianic leaders so often does.

The city was still in shock when less than two weeks later, we were struck with a second tragedy. The murders of Mayor Moscone and Supervisor Harvey Milk, the city’s first gay supervisor and most prominent gay leader, by another Supervisor, Dan White, who had resigned several days before, shook the City to its core. White, a Vietnam vet and former police officer, saw himself as the Board’s defender of the home, the family, and religious life against homosexuals and hippies who he believed were destroying his beloved city. He sneaked in through a basement window at City Hall and murdered both men at their desks. 

One last tragedy was alive in the city, though barely understood that first year. Aids was attacking the gay community with a vengeance. Steve lost many friends. Gay bars would empty as the death toll mounted. The tragedy, first described by perplexed doctors at San Francisco General as “gay cancer” would not be identified for some time, but the mood in the city turned dark.

Coop did get in some time on his first political campaign, working the phones out of election headquarters on 1st Street for Governor Jerry Brown’s reelection. A brilliant but very strange man, the boy governor. He would wander in after a hard day campaigning, plop himself in a chair, and then entertain a discourse with the staff until late in the evening on subjects wide and varied. 

He was as likely to quote St. Thomas Aquinas as the Whole Earth Catalog. On election eve he provided everyone with copies of Ernest Callenbach’s Ecotopia, a futuristic novel taking place in a revolutionary California after it has fought a war of liberation against the United States and created an environmentally based society. 

The day of Coop’s last finals, Brigs and JD took Coop down to the Buena Vista Cafe. On a cold December afternoon they imbibed far too many rounds of their legendary Irish coffee. The three friends arrived at noon, seating themselves at one of the large family style oak tables along the window facing Bay Street across from Fisherman’s Wharf, and over the course of the next six hours enjoyed the company of many tourists from places far flung, as well as the occasional local off from work. A glorious end to Coop’s first semester of law school in the year 1978!