Induced Labor – Ch1

In 1981 I set foot in California for the first time.  

I saw San Francisco for the first time a year later during my second visit. From the momeant my brain received the message that my eyes were seeing I became fixated on living in San Francisco.  

It was the first densely populated city I’d seen – and the first view was from a spot on the 280 where below sat rows and rows of homes set side by side like shoeboxes on the undulating land on which curved streets become necessary.  I remember the starkness of it – the absence of trees and acres of impervious surfaces –  the seemingly, from that distance, bland color palette made up of neutral facades and flat rooftops.  A palette that anything might be possible here. 

It took just over another year to find myself living in California – I moved in March of 1985 and arrived with a suitcase.  My cousin picked me up at the airport.  My uncle, his father, gave me a job at his pool supply company in Chico, 175 miles north of the City.  It was a start.  A place to land.  And a place I’d expected would be a way station to my destination of San Francisco. 

Chico was a small town by my standards.  I’d grown up in Minneapolis with all the amenities of a city of which Chico had none.  I lived on the grounds of the business my uncle owned in a rather large one-story house that had deep set front porch and a palm tree in the front yard.   The back yard, about an acre in size, held space for the pool digging equipment as well as the small shop where I worked.  

I shared the house with one of the other guys that worked for my uncle.  His name was Len.  Len was a 40’ish tan Czech playboy who drove a Porsche and wore white jeans that highlighted exceptionally well his massive cock which was always visible down the one side of his inseam.  Atop his white jeans he wore polyester shirts unbuttoned one too far.  He was a salesman – and he knew his audience.  I’m not sure if wanted to be him or have him, but either way, I was fascinated by Len.  

The house wasn’t anything special save for it’s sheer size and huge kitchen, that my aunt spoke of as a ‘gourmet kitchen’ which implied that anyone living there would use it as such.  For Len and I it was merely a hallway to the rest of the place.  

In the supply store I worked alongside a receptionist, Kim, who hated my guts because I was the owner’s nephew – she felt I was being awarded special privileges, and an old effeminate man who was the accountant.  Eventually, in addition to working the retail side I began designing the pools as I had a background in drafting.  

I remember two very distinct days in Chico – the rest were blur.  The first was going to the DMV to get my California driver’s license and the other was the day I opened my account at Bank of America.  With these two cards in my wallet, I’d put myself on the map.  

The only other thing I recall about living in Chico was going to Tower Records on a Saturday night and hanging out listing to whatever music was being played in the store.  I was underage and there was nothing to do except hang out at Tower Records.  

I made enough money to pay the rent and on occasion take the bus to San Francisco.  Leaving Chico was the only worthwhile thing I found to do there.  It was Memorial Day weekend – I was scheduled to work and I opened the shop that Sunday morning and sat there doing nothing.  There was a parade in town, no one was around and after a few hours I took it upon myself to close the store and take the bus to San Francisco.  ‘Who is going to notice?’ I thought.  

I recall that day so well because the desire was so strong to be in San Francisco that I was willing to loose a day’s pay to be there.  The city was calling me. Beaconing me.  Pulling me in.  I had to go. It was a visceral need.   

While I have no idea what I did, if anything that day. I likely walked the streets admiring the sights and sounds of what I’d planned to be my new place of residence.  I walked for miles and miles thinking of what it would be like living behind one of the tall bay windows.  

I really only knew what was south of Market Street.  For one thing, it is a vast neighborhood that was near the bus depot.  Secondly, while naive at the time, I was smart enough to know that I couldn’t afford any of the nicer neighborhoods, and lastly, it was flat land.  The peeling paint of the facades, the wrought iron bars over the windows, and the need to step over drunks passed out on the sidewalks was no deterrent.   The grit of it all made it all the more alluring. 

I have no recollection of the bus ride back to Chico, but the next day I was fired.  My uncle had learned of my shortened workday by a customer who’d come to get chemicals for their pool only to find the shop closed.  Memorial Day – of course, the official first day of summer with all the associated back yard activities – which in California, typically involves a pool.  

Outside of the shame of being fired by my uncle, I felt no sense of sorrow or regret, but rather a sense of relief.  I called my cousin Toby in San Mateo – the one who picked me up at the airport a couple months earlier, told him what happened (though he probably already knew) and he suggested that I move in with him temporarily until I could find a job and my own place.  

The accommodations at Toby’s place weren’t so bad.  It was a small bungalow just off El Camino where the cool moist air of the bay filled the mornings, and brilliant sunshine filled the afternoons. Toby had one bedroom, his roommate Ken had the other, and I had the sofa.  Toby and Ken were both architects and with my background in drafting the three of us would often find ourselves hovered over the drafting table in the back porch that was Toby’s office looking over blueprints or sketches.  

Everything was within walking distance here.  Safeway was a few blocks away.  The bus ran down El Camino, and downtown San Mateo was about a mile walk. Halfway between downtown and where I was living was the residence of Mark, a friend of my other cousin Jim.  In the blink of an eye – and following the shameful firing by my uncle, I’d found myself in a setting that was quite nice.  Family and friends – all within a few square blocks. 

Toby gave me a deadline for finding a job and moving out.  I missed that deadline more than once.  Eventually I found a job working at Budget Rent a Car at the San Francisco Airport.  I had a week of training – orchestrated by a fair skinned red haired man named Harry who paid me an undue amount of attention and whom later became my boss.  Each morning I’d wait for the bus on El Camino after donning creased slacks, a shirt and tie – it was black and had the orange word ‘Budget’ as an abstract logo on it.  I felt great going to work looking good andI felt even better working at an exotic place that was the airport.  

On my days off I’ve venture into the City and from San Mateo I could take Caltrain – fast and convenient, and familiar, as the station was also south of Market.  Still wandering the streets but now with slightly more money I ventured into new parts of the city.  North Beach, Nob Hill, Castro, Haight among others. I rode BART because it felt futuristic and modern – and would take it to Oakland and back because of the rush of being under the bay in a sealed tube.  My knowledge of the City was expanding. 

Mark, my cousin’s friend who lived in San Mateo had a girlfriend who lived in the Western Addition.  He’d take me along from time to time and then sometimes we’d sit at the Abby Tavern on Geary and drink Guinness.  I wasn’t the legal drinking age, but that didn’t seem to be an issue in San Francisco. 

Mark and I had worked together before I moved to California, during the previous two summers when I’d traveled with my parents by car from Minnesota.   He and my cousin Jim dug and installed pools.  For me, it was fun and exciting working alongside my older cousin and his buddy.  I felt like an adult, doing adult things, and being away and somewhat independent from my parents for the first time.  Our shirts off working under the sun of the California summer.  Cramming into the cab of Jim’s Toyota pickup truck to drive off for lunch.  Having a beer at the end of the day at Jim’s place. More perhaps than feeling like an adult, I felt like I was experiencing being a man for the first time.  

While Jim was talkative and animated in nearly every situation, Mark was quiet, subtle and intentional.  He moved elegantly – almost as if levitating even under extreme conditions.  His skin was evenly tanned, his legs well muscled, his chest hairless, and he had the faint growth that officially constituted a mustache.  He had an almost permanent grin on his face and it appeared to me to grow into a slight smile whenever he and I talked.  

Now, Mark’s presence in San Mateo was a welcome addition.  Often I’d get off the bus before my stop and walk past his place hoping to see his truck in the driveway.  The excuse I planned was that I wanted to have a bit of a walk before going home – and since his place was along the way…  His truck was never there, until one day when it was.  I walked around to the back door. 

The inside door was open and I could see in through the screened door.  I called his name and he invited me in.

The bamboo shades which kept his place cool by day were still down and the darkness gave rest to my eyes once inside.  Stacks of paper, mostly invoices, sat piled up on the wood table near the door.  He turned the corner, emerging from his bedroom and greeted me.

It appeared as if he hadn’t worked that day because the shirt he was wearing – unbuttoned half way and showing his tan, smooth chest was not something he’d wear to a job site.  His glasses were still darkened, an indication the he had recently come indoors.  

He asked if I wanted a beer.  I said yes.  There we sat in the darkened living room, talking about nothing in particular.  As it happened he had spent the day at the city offices applying for permits which explained his unsullied appearance and the stacks of papers. 

After he retrieved another round of beers and before he sat down, he closed the front door, walked into his bedroom and returned to the living room in just his briefs, then sat on the sofa rather than in the chair in where he had been.  He leaned back with his legs spread and took a swig from his beer.  Only the slightest grazing of hair sprouted from the inside of his thighs.  

The silence in the room was a fuse to combustion.

I reached over and touched his smooth flat stomach and spoke of it in admiring terms as I’d never seen a man who had no body hair.   Then I brushed the inside of his thighs mentioning that what hair was there was faint and remarkably soft.  My actions were propelled by sheer curiosity though these actions were met by a turgid mass which increasingly made itself visible from from one side of his briefs to the other.  I brushed against this too.  It was the first time I’d felt another man’s cock.

He shucked his briefs and I got out of my clothes in a manner that was fluid and unassuming and despite this being my first time naked with another man there was little if anything awkward about it.  He put his arm around me and pulled me closer until we were sitting torso to torso, I with my hand gripping his erection and he, with his other hand, reaching across to hold onto mine.  

I felt safe and assured because I’d known this man for years.  His gentleness – something I’d always observed in him meant no harm would come from this.

“Do me a favor,” he asked.  “Go into the kitchen and open the freezer.  There’s a little brown bottle in there.  Bring that to me.”  Without questioning him I did what he asked.  

“What is it?” I asked as I handed it to him.  

“Open it and smell it,” he said.

I did what he asked me to do and within an instant I felt an insatiable desire to press myself against his body.  

“Pass it to me,” he said and I did while straddling his legs and sitting on them, our   rigid cocks now pushed against one another.  I leaned into him using the resistance of the back of the sofa to brace my arms.  He opened his mouth as it met with mine and we kissed deeply, entwined now from groin to jaw.  I repositioned myself to sit on his cock so that it entered me.  

I have no recollection of ejaculation – his or mine and I have no recollection of how that evening ended though I know that there was never a feeling of shame or misgiving.  It was what we were destined to do I suspect and perhaps he knew this years earlier – when those widened grins would pass across his face.

When the weekend arrived we drove up to City to have a beer then visit his girlfriend Linda.

Wanting to explore more myself and sample some of the nightlife I ventured to the City one night, likely a Saturday – taking Caltrain up and walking along 4th towards Market, then along Kearny and up to Broadway.   Along Broadway were several high-profile entertainment venues.  Because of the visibility and the tourism, the area was well lit, with plenty of foot traffic and thus generally felt safe.  At the entrance of each venue was a ‘barker’ – always a man, who enticed passer’s by to enter the club.  

The Condor Club was of note because of the large sign hung vertically on the building that’s key feature was two blinking red lights as the nipples on a likeness of Carol Doda, their star performer. The sign could be seen the entire length of Broadway.  

Having walked to the Embarcadero and back ready to head home the barker at Finocchio’s chatted me up – inviting me in.  I reluctantly declined due to my need for train fare – which was about all I had in my pocket.   He explained there was no cover charge and that I might as well have a look.  I couldn’t help but be curious.  And it was the reason I’d ventured into the city in the first place.  What harm could come from browsing in an establishment that had no cover charge?

Inside was a cabaret setting with small round tables in front of a stage that was slightly elevated from the main floor.  The show contained a series of female impersonators and the audience was filled with a variety of patrons.  Men, women, young, old, locals, tourists.  It was rancorous crowd. Fun and playful all around.  

A server came to my table to ask for my order.  I had enough money for a soda so I ordered a 7-Up.  When it was brought back to my table, I was handed a coupon for my second drink – how lovely I thought, and presented with a check for fourteen dollars. Not so lovely and quite unexpected.  While there was no cover charge, there was a two-drink minimum.  I’d expected the soda to be a dollar or two but not fourteen.  I explained to the server that I couldn’t afford that and that I was sorry for any misunderstanding.  She called over the bouncer who politely escorted me out after collecting seven dollars for the one drink. 

It was later than I’d anticipated, now preparing to leave the city and I had less money to get home – not enough for a Caltrain ticket though the last train had already departed. South of Market was not great during the day, and much less desirable in the late hours of the evening.  While I wasn’t panicked because I knew I could walk twenty miles if necessary – it wasn’t something that would have been safe or sane.  Nor was staying in the City with no where to go.  

Parked adjacent to the train station was a SamTrans bus.  I thought, worst case scenario, I’d get into the bus and wait until morning for it’s departure.  Certainly not ideal – but probably the safest choice. As it happened, it was the last bus of the night and waiting to depart.  I had enough money for the fare – though it took a few hours to get home.  It was one of those nights where had one more situation stood in the way I would have been left sleeping in a doorway somewhere. 

Housing in San Francisco was expensive.  At the time a studio apartment either side of Market Street was renting for about $850 per month which would have been about seventy-five percent of my income.  The potential existed for a part-time job, but having just landed the one at the airport, I was trying to find some balance in life.  Part of that would have been my own place even though I enjoyed living with Toby and Ken.  We’d looked into converting their garage into a sleeping room for me.  It was plenty large, but it had no insulation, it wasn’t seismically safe, and there was an issue with spiders.  

Toby and I spent time together in the City as well.  While his work as an architect was entirely suburban in nature, San Francisco as a center of commerce offered access to the design centers.  Mostly our time together was spent at Willam Stout, a small architecture-specific bookstore near the Transamerica Pyramid.  The tiny shop had the most exquisite collection of publications – no words can capture the vast array of what was available there and the sheer delight I had with every visit. 

Two years earlier the building at 101 California was completed.  Designed by Phillip Johnson, 101 displayed the timeless elegance that was the hallmark of Johnson’s work.  Toby and I always made a point to walk past, marveling at how utterly perfect it was.  

At the same time, plans had been approved for Johnson’s next tower in San Francisco, 580 California which was a radical departure in design as the building would have a mansard roof and atop its architrave twelve large sculptures of faceless humans.  This was Johnson’s second major project in Post-Modernism.  Toby and I talked endlessly about this – and it was noteworthy but in the back of my mind I always kind of thought that Phillip Johnson had become senile.  That, or he was flipping off the entire architectural community.  

It was an exciting time for design in San Francisco.  “Memphis” was a newly quoined term for style of interior design that spilled over into just about everything stylistically.  There was a showroom of Memphis inspired furniture near Willam Stout – and this too was a regular stop for us. 

Toby and I shopped together at Macy’s men’s store – an entirely separate building on Union Square.  Not far was Emporium-Capwell – a beautifully ornate department store on Market Street where I longed to work – simply because of the architecture, and at which I’d eventually apply for sales position. 

The years leading up to my move were focused on architecture and design.  I had been in an AP class for architectural design in high-school.  I had designed a concept house as in-fill housing for vacant lots in Minneapolis that was awarded a blue-ribbon at the Minnesota State Fair and I had been employed briefly during the summer as a draftsman at the top interior design firm in Minneapolis. A trajectory was present here – and living with two architects made the future appear to be very appealing.  In my mind I had hoped that Toby and I would work together as a team. 

But also at this time, finally removed from the puritanical requirements of living with my parents, a bifurcation was taking place. One where by day I was exploring professional pursuits and the other by night, feeling the need to explore something yet undefined but percolating up from inside of me.  

A few blocks from where I was living in San Mateo lived a guy from work, Skip.  He was a slender, balding, 30-something gay man.  Professional enough about work but with a bit of an edge that I found both intriguing and repelling.  Extremely polite on one side, but with ample double entendres that tipped the scales.  While I was unfamiliar with the term at the time as it related to homosexual behavior, the other side of him hinted at total raunch. 

Skip invited me over one evening for a glass of wine.  His home was a classic Spanish bungalow – terracotta roof, tiled front stoop, large arched window in the living room, and a perfectly manicured lawn and garden.  

Inside, a step-down living room, white stucco walls and white furniture.  It was stunning – something I would have happily lived in – and I was perplexed by how he could afford to live like this.  Perhaps there was something I could learn from him about all of this.  

Chip’s invitation was more than what I’d initially thought.  He sat on the sofa in such a way that I could see up the legs of his shorts – spread wide, and ensuring I had a view.  As the conversations went on he began sprouting an erection which crept out from behind his shorts along his right leg.  His actions were casual yet overt.  

The time spent here was an example of Skip’s overall demeanor.  Proper and manicured as visible to the public with sleaze and seduction lurking right below the surface.  And although this was essentially the battle that was taking place inside of me, seeing it on display here made me very uncomfortable and I found a way to finish my glass of wine and came up with an excuse to leave. 

I had rental car for a weekend once because I’d been invited to Linda’s house for dinner with she and Mark.  I have no recollection of what else I was doing, let alone driving a car, but I suspect it was a trial run for how I thought my life would progress once fully established. Or maybe it was just a way to feel in control of something – a mechanical device.  A thing over which I had some power in a world of feeling overpowered by trying to find balance in every other situation. 

After dinner and heading back to the 101 I took a little detour down to South of Market, along Howard Street, then along Folsom which at the time was the location for the seediest gay bars in the city.  I didn’t know their names.  I didn’t know their addresses. But I did get a sense from what was going on, and the people seen on the streets that something very alluring to me was happening here.  

I hadn’t defined myself as ‘gay’ at that time.  The only thing I was at that time was poor, eager, optimistic, and on the brink of homelessness.  Still, there was a sense that I somehow belonged in this area. Off the beaten path.  Hidden from the mainstream but inside of something completely different.  As one of the lurking shadows. I cruised slowly down the streets in the car not knowing what I was looking for – but feeling that whatever it was was quite near by.  

Eventually I decided to leave – and continued on the entrance to the 101.  At a stop light I pulled out a map to confirm my directions and didn’t notice that the light had turned green – I was still getting my bearings.  When I finally drove on after the light had turned green again, I was swiftly pulled over by SFPD.  

The officer asked why I’d remained stopped at a green light. I explained the map situation. He asked if I’d been drinking – and I had.  I had had wine with dinner at Linda’s house. I was asked to step out of the car and given a sobriety test of walking, touching my nose, etc… I passed – and figured I would.  It was only two glasses of wine from well over two hours ago.  Humiliating as it was it could have been a lot worse.  The officer encouraged me to go straight home  and I was more than pleased to follow his directions.  

In another attempt to create stability I wrote to a good friend from high school and tried to lure her to California by extolling all the benefits as I saw them.  I thought we could find a place and live comfortably together.  The mail took a couple of weeks to and from. She declined the invitation.  

It wasn’t long after this that I came to the conclusion that I could not afford to live here.  There was no housing available within my price range.  I didn’t know anyone with whom I could have shared the rent.  And while at times it felt as though there was the potential for professional progress I got the feeling that I’d never be able to keep up.  

With defeat I made plans to move back to Minneapolis.  

Years later I would return to San Francisco multiple times, on layovers with my job at the airlines and I found the city retained a level of charm that I continued to admire though this time in hotel rooms paid for by my employer and with a per-diem to cover expenses.  

As time went on however, both myself and San Francisco had evolved.  After living in various cities I’d returned to the mid-west to live a structured life more akin to the environment where I grew up.  San Francisco moved in the other direction becoming more and more liberal – if that’s even possible, while at the same time becoming more and more expensive. 

Recently I was back in San Francisco for a long weekend and was out unassumingly walking the streets with a friend.  Miles and miles over the course of three days, and back on the same streets where the previously shared events had occurred.  And while the names of the streets and intersections remained familiar what hadn’t were the feelings and emotions that were long tucked away inside my memory.   

I had forgotten feeling excited about the city.  I’d forgotten the feeling of being intimidated by the city.  I’d forgotten the feeling of trepidation as I approached an unknown intersection or when I attempted to gain my bearings – when I’d look up and around to reference a sightline to a building or landmark only to remain confused. I’d forgotten the peeling paint, barred windows, and heaping trash cans. 

I’d forgotten about the narrow clandestine streets South of Market – and the wide boulevard that is the length of Market Street.  I’d forgotten about they grand vistas provided by the topography.

I’d forgotten that at one time I wanted this.  I’d forgotten the emotional pull of wanting it so bad and the overall desperation of trying to obtain it.  And now, back again feeling so fortunate that I didn’t get what I wanted then. 

Unbeknownst to anyone at the time was HIV and that it was about to reach it’s boiling point.  Unbeknownst to anyone was that San Francisco would become the epicenter of the epidemic.  Unbeknownst to me at that time is that I would have likely become a victim had I gotten what I wanted.  And unbeknownst to me at the time was the fact is I didn’t entirely know what I wanted.  

The smack of emotions that occurred on this recent visit that have come with age, wisdom, and experience made me realize that I had gone to San Francisco at the time looking for what I didn’t have at home.  I was looking for love, acceptance, and community – a series of social connections that would have been my thread in a tapestry, even if I were tasked with weaving it myself. 

I would have made bad choices.  Because there wouldn’t have been means by which to weigh them.  Because there wouldn’t have been an alternative.  Or so I would have thought. 

I would have followed alluring cravings to the wrong places and wrong people.  What I’ve written above – what had happened in the past hints at where I would have gone.  

I would have had a shitty little apartment that I would have had to say I loved.  I would have spent what little money I’d have had hanging out at bars long past when I should have been in bed.  I would have pined for attention – and gotten it from the wrong people – this had already begun as you have read.  

A couple years ago I attempted to find Mark, the friend of my cousin with whom I’d fucked around.  Searches on the Internet narrowed him down to an logical address in a location that was entirely obvious.  I wrote an innocuous letter, addressed it to him, and sent it off – knowing that if it landed in the wrong hands it would have meant nothing.  

A week later I received an email.  The letter had been sent to the correct address but opened by the woman who had become Mark’s girlfriend.  She thanked me for writing.  She wrote that she remembered Mark talking about having worked with my cousin Jim building pools.  She wrote that Mark was dead.  

She wrote that Mark had died due to complications surrounding diabetes induced by alcoholism.  One of his legs was amputated.  Then his kidneys began to fail but he continued drinking. He eventually landed into a coma.  And his body couldn’t take it.   

Though I never knew anything of what Mark was thinking – it was always that disarming grin on his face, I do know that Mark’s behavior presented a conflict within himself.  Somehow I think that it is that conflict that lead him to drinking.  And somehow that could have been me.  

Had I gotten what I wanted them I would have been trapped in a self-induced poverty.  Because unbeknownst to anyone at the time was that San Francisco would become a bifurcated city of the haves and have-nots.  I didn’t have the education to become one of the haves and I wouldn’t have had the time to obtain it.  

I would have been been employed on the sales floor of a retail store that would eventually close and I would have had to scramble again to get another job.  I would have been subject to rising rents and being forced to find yet another apartment.  I would have struggled constantly and in the attempt to weave my own tapestry I would have been a victim.  

Forty-one years have passed since I first saw San Francisco.  Forty-one years have passed since I felt what I did recent visit but now I have a way to measure these feelings and they’re still unsettling. 

I got out before I ever got in.  I got good jobs that kept getting better.  I had a career that spanned the globe and saw places I never thought I’d see.  I eventually bought a house, gained enough equity to buy a new one and pay cash for it.  The equity from that allowed me to move again into a beautiful place on Lake Michigan with a panoramic view from its floor to ceiling windows.  I changed careers again and landed in a situation where I now have a standard of living that I dared only imagine.

It’s been thirty-eight years since I left San Francisco and I have been so fortunate to have survived.  Because many did not.  Hundreds of thousands of men just like me did not survive.

Eric, a friend from a Ohio where I had lived, moved to San Francisco to start a new life.  After years of struggling he found himself in an exceptionally favorable financial situation and made the decision to leave memories of the struggle behind. 

I’ll never forget the day that he and I met because the moment he walked into the room he filled it with an energy that was larger than all the lives in the room combined.  It was that moment that I knew I wanted to befriend him because I’d never experienced anyone that could do that.  

We did become friends and spent seven years palling around together before he moved.  We vacationed together.  Went to the movies together.  Enjoyed summer time beers in our respective back yards.  His laughter could be heard from the down the street.  

I visited him once in San Francisco and our time together was exactly as it had been in Ohio.  We didn’t leave the little corner of the city where he lived but just like Eric, it was more than adequate just as it was. 

Eric had made al the right decisions until one day a bad actor destroyed all that he had earned.   This led to the domino effect that impacted every aspect of his life so much so that he returned to Ohio unemployed and struggling once again.  A few years later I learned of his death by suicide.  It was all just too much for him.  I was devastated to learn of his death.  

There’s a chance that none of this would have happened to me.  But today I know myself better and I know now who I was then.  I was trying so hard then.  And I thought that who I needed to be was going to be offered to me by others.  It took me time even after having left San Francisco to have learned otherwise. 

I have only written about two deaths associated with people in San Francisco and I have cried with every thought about them through this exercise.  It is minuscule in relationship to the number of deaths that occurred in the City and yet the depths of sadness and bewilderment stab through me.  I cannot imagine what pain there must be in the lives of those who survived and still live there, everyday walking the streets where they and their friends once walked together.