Honeymoon (Part 10)

     There was one club we haven't visited yet, just out of chance.  Actually it was instinct, as it was an all-black club, both dancers and patrons.
     To say our arrival was greeted with hostility would be an understatement.  While nobody threw anything at us, we were the subject of plenty of dirty looks.  I finally had to go up to the bar to get our beers.  We finished them quickly and got the hell out.

Honeymoon (Part 11)

     "Mew.  Mew.  Mew.  Mew.  Mew.  Mew.  Mew.  Mew.  Mew.  Mew.  Mew."
     The sound of an unhappy cat being carried through an airport..  Too many sights, too much movement, too many smells.  Squeak was not a happy cat in his carrier.

Honeymoon (Postscript)

     I was welcomed back to Inana like the prodigal son.  Frankie didn't understand how I got everything done in one day, and the crew and performers were happy with an administrator who didn't insist on watching all the shoots.  For his part, Frankie had kept up on the bookkeeping so I didn't have to play catch-up.

Part One: Scramble and Hustle

 1990....    

So how did I end up living in a punk rock nightclub?  Lemme tell ya....
     First, I was laid off from the car wash in Oakland I worked at because it was winter.  My roommates, having been in the same boat, demonstrated their compassion by promptly giving me the boot.  (A couple years later, I was comforted to find a couple of them living in a tenement on Pill Hill, and others having moved back home.... In their mid-twenties.  Fill in Simpsons "Nelson" laugh here.)  A friend down in San Jose was able to help me out by letting me sleep in the garage of the house she was living in.  There was just one tiny problem: the guy who she was renting a room from couldn't know I was there, so I had to sneak in the house around six in the morning and hide under her bed until he left for work.  I'd built a small cave to live and sleep in in the rafters, and the guy never went in the garage past seven p.m.  I just had to sneak in the side door after seven and stay quiet.  I did plenty of laps around the block until the lights at the side of the house went off, the signal the coast was clear.

Part Two: My Life As A Non-Pimp

     At that point, circa 1990, there were quite a few hookers working San Pablo Ave. around Gilman St.; they've since moved south to Alcatraz and the Oakland city limits. They migrated.  All the working girls moved south to Oakland, and I'm not sure why.  I'd rather get arrested in Berkeley --- for anything --- than in Oakland.