My father had been a meteorologist while serving in the Military so; I’d seen my share of weather fronts moving in; that dividing line from warmth and sunshine into chill and clouds. And just like that, the Haight was thrown into the insidious world of drug addiction. The paranoid sickness became a constant.

Somewhere in our day-to-day contacts, Josh and I had made friends with another somewhat stable young couple, Mike and Paula. They’d recently married and lived in a commune on the lower part of Knob Hill. Sensing the immanent doom of the Haight and after a roommate had vacated a rather large, front-parlor room; Mike and Paula encouraged us to move in with them and join their little group. More viable than most, everyone in the California Street commune seemed to have some sort of real job, and would regularly contribute to the overall food and operating expenses of the commune.

Josh and I had lived a willy-nilly existence and weren’t used to a more organized way of life. Although Josh temporarily broke free of the harder drugs, he continued dealing, while I felt compelled to seek other employment. However, as an underage runaway, obviously, there weren’t any bona fide jobs available so I sought out a variety of under-the-table positions until I found one that was barely a level above hooker and for which my adaptable nature was well-suited: B-Drinking.

While I don’t profess to know the true etymology of B-Girl or B-Drinking, and at the time, although I wasn’t at all interested in the bar scene, the fast, easy-money fantasy environment was all about sustaining the biggest lie. In a short time, I became one of the best.

The only requirement for the job was that I’d be 18 years old and had some sort of legal document to prove it. Through Josh’s various connections, he’d secured a certified copy of a birth certificate for me. Although the surname could only be construed as Asian, earlier and faking an Irish accent, I’d convinced the club manager I was just off the boat from the ‘old country’ indicating my last name was of scots gaelic origin, with the accent heavy on the second syllable. The only thing I’m sure I’d really convinced the club manager of was that I was exactly the kind of person he was looking for. And, I found money and power with this nocturnal existence.

Ironically, my ‘home base’ was an after-hours club, called the Black Hawk. In its day, I hear the place had been quite a Jazz joint but had since fallen to the seedier element of the Tenderloin and it was here that I’d start out my dusk-to-dawn adventures and where I’d learn the rules, innuendoes and lifestyle of a B-Drinking.

After 2am, drinking alcohol was against the law but, there were numerous places like the Black Hawk that served expensive near-beer and fake champagne, touted as the real thing. Until I learned the ropes, I was expected to solely work out of the after hours club where I’d peel the ‘does not contain alcohol’ labels off of sparkling cider bottles, instantly turning them into $20 bottles of champagne and where I’d act as a waitress, with my tray prop, ‘waiting’ on the other girls who’d brought in their drunken ‘marks’ from satellite clubs, serving up the favored bottle of champagne or at very least, the somewhat acceptable $7 sparkling cider and 7-up ‘champagne cocktail’, standing next to the table with hands on my hips and pouting lips until I was slipped a fat tip for my table service. Occasionally when some lost, solo guy came in, we ‘waitresses’ would draw cards and highest card hit on him. Every champagne bottle meant $3; each champagne cocktail meant $1 and of course, any and all other money you’d come by, was yours to keep.

Although this seemed like a free-for-all environment, there were rules and there was a hierarchy. Two basic rules: don’t get drunk and, don’t get caught.

The establishment frowned on girls who were too drunk or too drugged up when they arrived after hours at the Black Hawk. Unless, of course, they’d picked up a high roller or two and it was the back room that was reserved for those ‘special customers’ where the girls made sure wallets were lightened.

I was also instructed to pay attention to the red light over the front door. A flashing red light meant the SFPD was about to enter the place. If I was sitting with a customer, I was instructed to make up an excuse to immediately leave the table, then with tray in hand, would act like I was waiting on the customer. Usually, the guys were too drunk to notice what was happening and from time to time and although the police knew fully what was going on, the club would be filled with tables of men and teaming with cocktail waitresses milling around. We were all part of the game and I would learn more as I ventured out into the satellite bars, picking up ‘marks’ of my own.

I remember my first B-date. I suppose I’d been working for the Black Hawk for a month or so when the manager decided I was trained enough to go out on my own and was sent to one of the satellite bars to scope out the clientele and pick up my first ‘date’. Entering the seedy Tenderloin area bar, I found a seat at the bar and ordered up the B-drinkers cocktail of choice, a screwdriver as that could easily not contain alcohol. However, The drink was loaded with booze and that was a no-no in the B-business so, I called the bartender over letting him know I was here on ‘business’ and mentioned the name of the manager who’d sent me to the establishment. Visibly alarmed, the bartender apologized and poured me a straight OJ and let me know he’d point out any ‘potentials’. The bar was hardly hoppin’ so I sat and waited…and waited…and waited and probably feeling pretty gassy by then from the juice when finally, the bartender nodded over at a table in the back where a lone man sat. Okay, this was it!

Fresh-faced and bra-less, I made my way over to the marks table. As I remember, the guy wasn’t all that bad looking: mid-thirties, short, blond hair, black horn-rimmed glasses, tall when he stood up and already pretty drunk. In a word: perfect!

My faux Irish accent was a sure turn-on for this guy when he introduced himself as ‘Tom from Kansas’. This was too perfect. And although, I’d like to say that it turned out badly and that he was a greasy, groping weird-o, he wasn’t. I continued to order more and stronger drinks as he pulled bill after bill from the big wad of cash he had in his pocket. Drunk and pliable, I eventually persuaded him to take me to the Black Hawk for some afterhours fun, promising to have sex with him in the backroom of the Black Hawk, for a price, of course.

Proudly, I entered the already packed Black Hawk around 3am, hauling my mark. Winking at the Manager with a ‘he’s loaded’ nod, I headed for the back room where there was a party in full swing. I spotted one of the regular girls on her knees attempting to give a blowjob to a limp dick, drunken ‘customer’ and parked my mark on the other side of the room, asking him for a ‘honey’ so I could buy a bottle of champaign. He was barely able to pull out his roll of money and when I returned to the back room with the bottle of fake champaign, the other girls and drunks had cleared out and there was Kansas Tom, passed out on one of the sofas with the remainder of his bank roll laying temptingly visible next to him.

With Tom’s thundering snores ironically syncopating to the muffled music coming from the bar, I snapped up the roll of bills and began counting…$200…$500…$800…$1500...$1670! My first date…this was my lucky day. With the room empty, no one would know and apparent from the tan line on third finger of Tom’s left hand, I don’t think Tom would be sharing this story any time soon.

Earlier, Tom had mentioned he was staying at the Hyatt on Market Street, so exiting the back room, I approached the manager and asked him to call a cab for the passed-out mark and as soon as we’d poured Kansas Tom into the vehicle, I called it a night. My palms sweating, I handed the manager a hun-and-a-half. Although there weren’t any hidden cameras in those days, so of course, the manager looked at me as if he could read my mind and knew about the wad of cash I’d snatched up in the back room.

Walking up the hill to California Street I sensed a queasiness in my stomach like I’d never felt before. Later, as I looked in the mirror to wash my face, the room started spinning and I puked into the basin until there was nothing left but bitter bile. Josh had been down the hall smoking up with Mike and Paula and had just entered the room in time to pull my hair back while I let go.

Stoned and with a silly grin on his face, Josh said something like ‘Are you okay? What didya eat today?’ At the time I thought that was the kindest thing I’d heard all day and I’d likely been purging the whole moral dilemma of having taken a large amount of cash from a man who hadn’t done anything wrong to me except spend some time with me or, maybe it was the overabundance of orange juice I’d drank? Several days later and still not feeling all that well, I’d find out the real reason: I was pregnant.

--->To be continued...