‘Two-Drink Minimum, Kid’ - How the San Francisco of My Youth Was the Wild, Wild, West

Or, why I love the ‘70s

I will be writing a lot about San Francisco, where I left my heart half a lifetime ago. I was such a stressed out kid, I had no idea how lucky I was to live in such a paradise.

Transgenerational trauma will do that to you.

Tension was my middle name, and I escaped, nightly, frequently, and no one seemed to notice. The benefit of being the middle daughter was I could disappear for long stretches, and it would go unremarked.

Oh the glory days of my youth, when I could dance at the Stud with newly liberated men, who loved my white Gloria Vanderbilt jeans and braces. I had learned how to disco dance at 13 at a Ramada Inn in Burlingame, so I was good there.

I would take the train into The City from my home in San Mateo, and befriend all kinds of miscreants and troublemakers. I thought I had some sort of magical powers, as I seemed to attract friends wherever I went. I learned later, it’s that I never stopped making eye contact with even the most piratey of pirates. I was inquisitive.

My dad owned a print shop in North Beach, and I knew my way around.

I would prowl the venues of Broadway and poke my head in to all kinds of nefarious nightclubs. I bumped into a tennis team friend at the Condor Club, who was working the front door in a va va va voom ensemble. I promised to stay mum.

The barkers at these seedy institutions were eager to attract anyone with a pulse, and even my braces did not discourage getting beyond most velvet ropes.

I do recall one night when I was prowling the streets hearing a doorman bark at me, “Come on in, no cover, two-drink minimum, kid.”

So I thought that sounded fine, and I ordered my two drinks, and sat in the back of the room. A stripper was on stage, and I could tell her heart wasn’t really into it. She was thin, and older, and even as an inebriated teenager, my heart went out to her. The only other people in this dump were Japanese tourists, who were riveted to her performance.

The gentlemen appeared to be studying her like a science experiment. I couldn’t wait until my two-drink sentence was over, and I could get back on the train home.

I would crawl in through my bedroom window, and dream of neon lights and swashbucklers. Eight years of Catholic schooling had prepared me well for the human condition.

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