stories from the haight

The bartender at Martin Macks just kept serving us guiness, and we had only paid for 1 of every 3 rounds, it seemed. Greg was trying to pick up a young woman at the bar. I had long since given up on that. I was too drunk to think about it. Too drunk to think about anything except pissing again and how was I going to get home tonight, and where was I going to get a job. I left the bar when I realized that Greg was long gone. The mist seemed to fit my mood and carried me towards the greyhound station in a blur of smoky darkeness. And there she was...sweet little blond haired mexican... Together we went to the ATM. Together we checked into a hotel. Sweet shaved mound...small breasts... I thought I would never stop...but exhaustion overcame me finally. Strange sheets...so comfortable... In the morning she was gone. The polica were oustide on the street. Had she called them about me? Did she tell them I raped her or something? I was nervous as hell until they left. San Francisco will be a ghost town someday...full of the memories of restless souls...weird energy rising from the sidewalks...puppets on strings believing they were once free to pierce the heart of their own true nature...

Bernie

It had been drizzling all morning, and the air smelled that smell of wet wool and the homeless. And after awhile, a drink was proposed. The gray sky dimming with the slant of November fall, the day fuzzes around the edges as I recall drinking gin & tonics at the punch house. One, then another, then another. Ran out to buy a shirt, came back to find shots from the bartender. Cinnamon floating on top, too sweat what was it? Laughing, why didn’t I buy those crazy shoes, why did I only buy a book? More sips, extra lime, extra extra lime so tangy and biting the tonic fizzing, missing my mouth. Outside smoking a cigarette, handing out smokes to people, a teenager, too young! talking more, karma and the world, laughing more, back inside for another gin, then Julies, standing, falling on top of the table, glass everywhere, shattered shot glasses, a broken beer mug, looking at the jagged handle, glass everywhere. Panic. We’re leaving now. Running down the street damp and dark and drunk, running down the street towards home.

Meg

I don't remember why I was leaning against the wall of the Ben & Jerry's on Haight street, or who I was waiting for, but I do remember that I was upset. I was near tears, but trying to hide it from all the runaways and such around me who had many more problems to deal with than I. A guy with dreads walked by, looked at me and smiled. "It'll be okay, honey," he said. I smiled and thanked Whoever for the kindess of strangers.

zora

I just came back to Cole Valley in the Upper Haight after four months in New York City.

I knew something would change in my neighborhood while I was gone; it turned out to be something I cared deeply about. Bubba, the huge black man who sat on his stoop at Cole and Frederick in all kinds of wild hats -- cowboy hats, sombreros, mystic turbans, outrageous crowns, antlers -- saying "Bless you" to everyone who walked past -- died while I was away.

Everyone in the neighborhood seemed to know Bubba by a different name, but everyone knew him. I once asked him his name and he said, "Bubba -- or David," which was specific enough for me.

His freelance blessings often made my day, as I spent a few rough years passing by his stoop, tumbling in and out of love, weathering the end of an 11-year relationship, sometimes out of work.

"Bless you!" he'd say, and smile.

There was more to Bubba than met the eye, as much as there was that met the eye. One time I walked by with an exceptionally handsome young blond kid, my friend Ryan.

"Oooooh -- you're so pretty!" Bubba said.

Another time I asked Bubba about his past.

"When I was a kid, a doctor told me I had the power to heal the sick," he said. "I refused the power for a few years, but then I got used to it."

I believed him -- almost.

Another time, I got a free ticket to the opera, and walked around the Opera House gawking at all the old-money fancy dressers, the old-San Francisco opera ladies and witty, mannered queens.

To my utter shock, Bubba was sitting in the first or second row, in an elaborate tuxedo with a red cummerbund.

"I saw you at the opera last night!" I told him the next day on his stoop.

"Well, some of the white folks don't like it when we sit so close," he confided. "They'd rather I'd sit farther in the back."

Another day, Bubba had a Hasselblad camera with him, and he asked to take my picture. A couple of weeks later, he gave me a print -- and it was a fine portrait taken at such an unusual angle it seemed very modern.

So I'm back from New York, tumbled in and out of love, with a new ache in my heart on the fog-damp streets of Cole Valley. But now Bubba isn't around to heal the sickness that feels universal.

Steve Silberman

I'm not from the bay area. Denver actually. But I will never forget all I had heard about the Haight-Ashbury district back in the late 60's.

So here it is, 30 years later, my wife and I are on a weekend trip to San Francisco. It hit me. I had to go there. If nothing else just to say I've been there. Got the map out, found my way there.

As I stood on the corner of Haight and Ashbury I drifted back 30 years. To the way it might have been. It was that way to me. Was it now - or 30 years ago.

Chris