PEACE, LOVE AND

SAN FRANCISCO STREETS

The Kenmore Residence Club,

Sutter and Van Ness

San Francisco

May, 1969

A classic Victorian dating from the 1880s, the five-story Residence Club housed an eclectic group of tenants in 1969. The top floor was reserved for elderly single women, “old maids” we called them in those days. The fourth floor were those attending mortuary school. The third floor was for young working men and the second floor for young working women.

I pushed open the heavy carved doors that Saturday in May and entered the foyer dominated by a huge reception desk, probably original, a switchboard and one small black and white TV mounted to the two-story ceiling.

Hi, I would like to rent a room”, I smiled at the receptionist sitting high on a podium.

“For how long?”, she began shuffling paper.

“Month to month, if that is possible”

“Are you working full time?”

“Yes, at Bank of America. What’s the monthly rent?”

She handed me an application.

“$200 a month, including two meals a day. You have one room with toilet and sink. The showers are down the hall. Young women are on the second floor.”

I filled out the short application, which did not ask for much.

“You can move in on the first of the month. Payment of one month rent and $100 deposit is required.” She checked off various parts of the application.

I pulled out my checkbook and wrote a check for $300, almost everything I had in the bank. But I didn’t have much of a choice. My sister, who had been my roommate in Berkeley, called me the previous weekend saying she quit her job and moved into a milk truck in a commune called Esalan Institute in Big Sur, CA. She wanted me to sell her car and as much of her furniture as I could, which was in the works.

But my main focus was finding somewhere to live because I could not afford her rent.

Three weeks later, I was rolling my suitcases onto the deep red carpet and collecting my key from the desk. The entire building was deeply carpeted, with deep tracks of heavy usage in several areas. The wallpaper spoke of another era and the heavy blue drapes hung around every large window.

My room was a single, with a sink, toilet, bed, dresser and the closet, which was small, so I put as much as I could in the dresser. The walls had been richly wallpapers many years before but were still beautiful. I stood before the beautiful bay window that was almost floor to ceiling and stared out at my new life in The City.

That night, I went to my first dinner. Meals were an experience in itself. The enormous carved table, with equally enormous carved chairs, held one of the most eclectic groups of people I had ever met, which was saying a lot for San Francisco in the late 1960’s. Four of the girls worked at insurance companies and publishing houses, Toni was a hairdresser, and former hooker, with her expertise showing on her long multi-colored mane and tattooed arms. The three girls on the end were in mortuary school, as anyone could tell, dressed all in black, powder white complexions, which made their teeth look a ghastly yellow, with multiple earrings and tattoos. Margie, Florence and Hazel were elderly women dressed in flowing gowns and gloves, hats with feathers, and heavy lipstick. Three of the guys worked in finance and public relations, Marcus was from New York, heavily accented with beady eyed and tight leather pants and forced his way into most conversations Three male mortuary students sat around the girls, were also dressed all in black, with tattoos on bald heads or long shaggy locks. Dennis worked at the Fillmore Auditorium and was into anti-war demonstrations and voter rights and peace. He had long hair in a pony tail, Grateful Dead Shirts, jeans with embroidery and pierced ears and lip. My kind of guy!

I became friends with Toni, who lived next door, and Dennis who joined me in demonstrations. I was very fascinated with the “ladies of the evening” that walked the streets at night, and was intent on writing a book about the ‘why’, the ‘where’, the ‘who’ and, of course, all the ‘what’ in the sexual solicitations. My upbringings had been completely voided of “sex”, a word that was always whispered at home. Toni helped indoctrinate me into the verbiage and movements in the world of the streets as I embarked on late night forays’, armed with a yellow notepad and lots of questions. I met hookers, trans, gay, and others as I asked if I could interview them for my book. The first night out, I met two “girls” on the corner, explained I was a journalist writing a book about the lives on the streets of San Francisco. I think they agreed to talk because it was slow and because I looked so innocent and, maybe, honest. As I begin to ask the questions I had carefully laid out on my note pad, I noticed both had unusually low voices for girls. So, I asked if being on the streets had changed the pitch of their voices. They both laughed, asked me if I knew what “trans” meant? I thought of transit systems, transistor radios and they laughed again, explaining they were actually men dressed up as women to pick up men. I was completely confused, but took notes and brought them back to Toni, who explained everything to a girl who was so innocent but also so fascinated. Over the next few months, I met many “people of the streets” in the early morning hours, interviewed them about their families, their reasons, their future, their experiences. I wish I had that yellow pad today because it was the bible, along with Toni, that taught me so much about life.

I was also very involved in many demonstrations, mostly for black rights (who were called Negros then). I walked, unwittingly, into a few violent demonstrations, one in People’s Park where we were trying to protect a vacant park to be used for small gardens and children’s games. In April, 1969, individuals begin building areas for gardens, for children’s activities and in May, the mayor of Berkeley, without warning, installed an 8’ fence around the park at midnight, drug away people and bulldozed all the development. About 3,500 people turned out to protest, most belonging to ASUC (Associated Students of the University of California), where I belonged, as well. We initially were there to hold a symposium of Arab-Israil tensions. That demonstration turned deadly and violent as police came on horses and trampled many of us in the sit-in. The demonstrations at the park began to attract over 6,000 people and the students of US Berkeley, who owned the land but had not developed it, voted overwhelmingly (12,000 to 250) to keep the Park as a Peoples Park but the university refused and more demonstrations ensued over several weeks. It was the first time I was tear gassed, which is incredibly scary. My eyes burned, my throat ached and I could barely take a breath, coughing and wheezing. When the police started firing real bullets (which they denied until someone died and the coroner showed the bullet to the public), that I ran away. I went back a few times but never could get close to the park due to heavy police and National Guard presence. Yes, the lovely governor of California, Ronald Reagan, called out the National Guard. He hated peace, demonstrations, or change. Eventually, after years and years of fighting, Peoples Park was declared a historical landmark in 1984 but even today, Berkeley is fighting to take it away for student housing.

I protested at San Francisco State College for a Black studies programs. Dr. S.I. Hayakawa was their president and did not want the department to succeed, putting roadblocks that caused demonstrations for several years. One afternoon, as we were protesting in a circle, he came out of one of the buildings, yelling and waving his fist, trying to pull the placard about installing a Black Studies Department out of the ground. He was purple-faced, spitting in words we didn’t understand. Of course, the police arrived, took all our signs and ordered us off the property. We came back multiple times and, later that year, he installed the Ethnic Studies Department, the only one at a university in the US today.

The group I was most involved with were those fighting for black rights. None of the hotels in San Francisco hired blacks. It was said that no black people had interviewed for jobs at the hotels, which we all knew wasn’t true. We sent black people to several hotels to interview but they were all turned away, saying there were no openings. Then, we sent white people to interview the same day and, lo and behold, there were plenty of openings. Once we did these investigations, we coordinated a “lay-in” at the Fairmont Hotel, which was a luxury hotel in the heart of The City. We went in groups of 4, entering the lobby and laying down with signs saying ‘Equal Hiring, Equal Justice. Of course, the current guests were caught in various locations in the lobby and couldn’t get out and those trying to enter the hotel couldn’t get into the lobby. We told those that would listen about our surveillance of the hiring practices at that hotel and told the manager, who arrived soon, that we would continue these until they hired Negros. Of course, the police came and drug some out, handcuffed others, and marched us to waiting paddy wagons. We did not scream or protest loudly, just saying ‘equal hiring, equal justice’ over and over. The police were brutal, something I still carry today, in twisting our fingers and arms until we screamed. They spit on us, trampled our feet, shoved us up against walls and grabbed breasts, vaginas and penises while others laughed. They tried to kiss us with tongues stabbing at our throats, they pulled out their guns and ran them down our bodies, threatening to blow us up, and shoved us into cells, calling us ‘Nigger lovers’. We were not charged or fingerprinted, I suppose because there were close to 100 of us (both Blacks and Whites), but kept for several hours, then released and forced to walk through a line of police who hit us with batons, spit and kicked us. I will never look at a police person again without remembering all the brutality I have suffered from police the years while trying to instill equal rights.

I told my stories at the dinner table every night and, depending on the person, I heard hoots of laughter, chuckles, clucks, and one guy, Al, who tried to give me lectures on the dangers of the streets and the damage caused to beautiful hotels and asking over and over why I would want to do something like that. I told him it was a brave new world and I wanted to be a part of changing all of it!

And I was fired for the first time that spring. Working at Bank of America down by the wharf was an incredibly stifling experience. Women were expected to wear a skirt to their knees (with mini skirts in vogue), light brown nylons (they even listed the color), brown or black closed toe shoes (even in summer), cream or white blouses with a bow tied under the chin and our hair must be above the shoulders, which meant a chignon every day. We must arrive fully dressed 15 minutes before the bank opened at 8am. I put my hair up with pins while riding the trolley and, once, entered the building still pinning it up. I was immediately called into the manager’s office and given a warning. If I came in undressed (?) again, I would be fired. Well, a couple of months later someone bumped me getting out of the trolley and pulled a bag across my head, taking my pins with them. I scrambled to pick up as many as possible and leapt out at my stop. I was going to be late and I pulled my hair up and pinned it wildly. As I entered the building, the manager was waiting and summarily fired me on the spot. I was undressed, in his opinion. Well, I thought, I could show him undress, but just walked away, I actually was really glad to be out of that nightmare.

I quickly found a job at the National Council on Crime and Delinquency (NCCD) who were putting on a huge event for Reagan and I was hired to market, set up, etc. I was assigned to work with Mrs. Nancy Reagan, one of the haughtiest, nastiest women I had or have met. She wanted a particular color table cloth that we ordered and placed a setting for her to view. She pranced up to the table and threw the linen, with the entire serving set, on the floor screeching “Claire de Lune blue, I said”. That was the color we ordered but, who knew? Nancy always wanted “Ronnie” to look his best, reflect his eyes etc. She was a piece of work, for sure.

One day, a few weeks after I started, the receptionist at NCCD asked if I wanted to come to dinner on Friday. She had steaks and a barbeque, which I seldom had. Her apartment was in Pacific Heights and I brought some sour dough and we had a great meal with an incredible view of the city from her balcony. As we came inside, she mixed some drinks and we sat on the couch. I noticed she was sitting quite close but didn’t think much until she wound her arm around my neck and tried to pull me in for a kiss. I spilled my drink bouncing off the couch in shock. She apologized but said she had some inkling that I was a lesbian. I shook my head over and over as I kept staring, backing to the door, grabbing my purse and coat from the chair. She followed me out into the foyer, apologizing profusely but I was still in shock. Yes, I had been interviewing gay people on the night streets for my book but had never been approached by anyone. Later, in the office, she explained that one of the other workers overheard me talking about the book I was writing and how I was fascinated with all the gay people I met on the street. ‘My god’, I thought. I had to be more careful about what I said.

One Sunday at noon in July, 1969, everyone gathered in the lobby of the Residence Club to watch the first moon landing on the small black and white TV mounted to the corner ceiling of the two-story lobby. It was grainy and hard to hear but we could tell when they were landing. The entire room was absolutely still, everyone holding their breath. Pres Kennedy declared it would happen in this decade back in 1961 and We Did It! Once we were sure they were safe, cheers echoed through the lobby, the morticians dance with the old maids and I danced with Dennis and Toni and everyone hugged madly and toasted one another with everything from water to some strange concoction the morticians brought. Out on the streets, horns were honking loudly and we could hear the cheers and screams of joy. We could not hear what Neil Armstrong said as he stepped out but it was translated later that night, “One small step for man, one giant step for mankind.”

Weekends at the Residence Club were so much fun! Someone found a van, I never knew where, and 8 or 9 of us would pile in, pick up fresh sour dough bread, Ripple Wine and artichoke hearts. Then we headed to the beach and drank, ate and swam all afternoon. Saturday dinner was at the Spaghetti Factory with all you could eat and beer for a $1.50. We collected all our money and ate for hours.

One Sat afternoon at the beach, as I was relaxing in the sun, Al came to sit next to me. He had always stayed under an umbrella, wore business clothes and read a newspaper. We all thought he was weird and never understood why he came to the beach because he never talked to anyone.

“What do you plan to do with the rest of your life?” he asked as he began digging a hole in the sand.

“I have no idea what I am doing next week!” I smiled coldly and laid back on my towel.

He proceeded to tell me his 5-year plan, which was impressive, I had to say. He was clear about where he wanted to be in work and in life. I didn’t have much to add but did listen because the guys I was hanging out with were becoming druggies, rather than demonstrators and I was fascinated with his “normalness.”

Later that afternoon, we walked up the hill to the Spaghetti Factory together and I pulled a comb from my “hippie sack”, dropping a coin on the ground. We could hear it rolling down the hill.

”What was that?” Al yelled, turning suddenly as if he heard a car crash.

“I have no idea” putting my comb back.

“Well, we need to find it”. Al marched back down the hill.

I followed, sort of, as he scoured the ground and finally found a dime. I have no idea if it even was mine. This guy was definitely weird.

We spent the evening with the others and returned to the Club where he asked if we could meet for breakfast.

“I guess”. I shrugged, turning away. We all ate breakfast together every morning and I was expecting a personal lecture of some kind. He was so, so uptight.

However, the next week was spent with Al, meals, walks, talks in our rooms, and I began to like him more and more. Very polite, quiet, goal-oriented. Something I realized I really wanted. Yes, he was Republican, conservative, quiet, probably everything I wasn’t. He didn’t approve of my SF nights novel, my protests, my party politics, but I think I really craved safety, a plan, an organized future.

Al came to my room one evening to tell me he was being transferred to Sacramento the next month. And he produced a yellow note pad where three columns were neatly drawn. He explained that he considered all the options and wanted to see which I would want to pursue.

“First, we could move in together in Sacramento”. He tapped the first column where he had notes on saving money, new jobs, away from the craziness of The City, etc.

“No, I don’t believe in living with someone”.

“Ok, second”, he pointed to the middle column, “I could come down and see you and you could come up to see me.” He had gas prices, weekends split up, food, etc.

“We wouldn’t last very long doing that considering neither of us owns a car.”

“Well, my third option is getting married”. He tapped the final column with notes about financial reasons for getting married.

“Well,”, I looked out the window, “I guess we could get married. My birthday is in 3 weeks and we could get married then. My father and my grandfather were both married the day they were born.” I smiled weakly at the joke my father always said about his marriage.

“Ok then,” Al stood up. “I will make a list of the items we need to complete in the next 3 weeks.” He kissed me quickly and left.

Married? I was getting married? I stood staring out the bay window. I was going to be 22 and that was far beyond the time most nice girls were married, my mother had reminded me a few weeks ago. I never thought anyone would want me. I hadn’t had any proposals or even guys who wanted to have a relationship. I was “cute” and “a good friend” but never a lover. That all changed with Al. He was as shy and inexperienced as I was. So, why not. If it didn’t work out, I could get a divorce, like every other person in my close and extended family.

First, however, I needed to find his last name, as we only used first names in the Club. The receptionist that managed the front desk and switchboard would surely know Al’s full name.

 “Hi Miss Miriam, Are you busy?”

“What do you need, honey?”

“Well, I would like to know the last name of one of the residents.”

“Why?”

“Well, I wanted to write my mother and…”

“Why don’t you just ask the resident, honey?”

“I could, but kind of didn’t want to ‘cause he probably thinks I know already.”

“Well, I’m not at liberty to give you last names.”

I know my face just fell. How was I going to call my mother and tell her I was getting married but I didn’t know his last name? Just then, Miss Marium slid off her stool on the podium and said she would be right back. That left the switchboard vacant and I could see names written under each numbered hole, laid out by the floors of the building. Quickly, I climbed up to the podium and searched the second floor. There… Alfred Sollars and Len Markham.

“Solares”, I mumbled all the way back to my room and wrote the misspelling, trying to practice Linda Solares, Mrs. Al Solares on the page.

The next night, Al provided a list of items we needed to complete.

“First”, he said, “I need to ask your father for your hand in marriage.”

“My father?” My voice cracked.

“Yes. And we need to do it tonight.”

“Tonight?” I was sounding like a parrot but couldn’t think clearly.

“Um, I need you to know about my father. He is an alcoholic. If you call after 4 in the afternoon, there is no telling what you will hear. Do you really need to call him?”

“Yes”, Al was already making notes. “Let’s go to my office right after dinner.”

I moved my food around on my plate, thinking of all the craziness I knew my father capable of and glanced furtively at Al. After dinner, he borrowed his roommate’s car and we drove to his office across the city, my mind racing a million miles an hour.

“Ok”, he gave a big sigh as we settled at his desk. “Go ahead and call.”

I dialed carefully and my father answered on the second ring.

“Yello!”

“Hi Daddy, it’s Lyndi. How are you?” trying to stall for time and gauge his drunkenness.

‘Hey girlie!” I knew…he was at least three sheets to the wind.

“Dad, I met someone and he wants to talk to you.”

Al took the phone and, in his most professional voice, “Hello sir, this is Alfred Roy Sollars and I have asked your…"

“Hey Betty! It’s Roy Rogers!” My father yelled, calling his current wife to the phone, who would be equally as drunk as he was.

“Uh, no sir”, Al stuttered a bit, “I am Alfred Roy Sollars and I would like your…”

“Roy Rogers! How the hell are ya? And where’ss Trigger?” I could hear the slurs over the phone.

Al carefully covered the receiver with his hand, “He thinks I am Roy Rogers”.

My father was talking again, “Hey Roy, Hey Roy! Where’s Dale?”

“Sir”, Al started a third time, “I would like your permission to marry your daughter”.

“Wha” my father slurred “You’re already married, Roy. Where’s Dale? I wanna talk to Trigger!”

I took the phone from a very confused guy, “Dad, I am getting married and Al wanted to ask for your blessing.”

“Married? You?” he laughed, his head falling back, as he always did.

“Welllll, jus be sure it ain’t Roy Rogers. He’s married, ya know.” His voice was trailing off as he dropped the phone and passed out.

I laid the receiver back into it’s hook and smiled meekly. “I was trying to tell you; he is drunk every night.”

Al walked to the door and shut off the lights. He said nothing all the way back to the Club. I didn’t know what to say either. When we parked the car and got out, he turned to me.

“We need to go ring shopping tomorrow.” And he squeezed me around the shoulders and walked away. I was sure the marriage was off after that call but, I guess not.

On Sat, we went ring shopping. Al’s list said no more than $40 per ring. So, we had just a few choices and we chose matching bands. Mine fit but they needed to alter his and, due to the short timeframe, the only thing they could do was cut the ring and stretch it. They would do that for free so there were our rings. $40 apiece exactly, Check!

Then it was onto dress shopping. Al’s list again said $50 so we found a mini dress with a mini jacket, red and white. I had some shoes and I needed new nylons. And a veil. We found one that fit over the top of my teased hair. Done. All under the $150 budget he had for the wedding. Check!

However, we still needed to find a place to get married. I didn’t care if we went to the courthouse but Al wanted a wedding in a church. None of the churches around had openings in the next 18 days but I found a listing for a little chapel, called and yes, we could book it for 7-8 pm on August 22, 1969. However, the minister that performed weddings was out of town that day. They gave us several names, but none were available. Toni then provided the name of a Jim Jones, who was someone she knew from her hooker days. (I was never sure he was an actual licensed minister, legally able to marry someone as he asked for his money in cash, small bills). Jim was available for $30. All booked, all ready. Reception at Al’s colleague’s home. Onto the wedding day. Check!

Toni and Dennis planned a little shower celebration and had wedding invitations printed up and posted to the notice board in the lobby. She wanted the spelling of Al’s name and I told her what I thought I saw on the switchboard. Fortunately, she rechecked the board and had the correct names printed up and slipped under the door of every resident. By this time, I knew everyone in the Club.

I asked Toni to stand up for me and Al’s boss, who lived with him, would be his best man. Al had a old sharkskin suit of his fathers that was too big but too late to do anything. I dressed and headed into the lobby where Al and his boss would pick us up. The morticians appeared around a corner and all 8 of them handed me gifts. They were coming to the wedding but couldn’t come to the reception as they had their first opportunity to prepare not one but two bodies that night. ‘I will miss those guys, a lot’, I thought.

We arrived at the church at 6:30pm but no one was there. Finally, someone came to unlock the chapel. The minister arrived and we signed the marriage agreement that Al had picked up at the courthouse. It was time to start and I peeked out to the nave but it was empty. Absolutely no one was there and everyone from our residence Club said they were coming. Al’s family wasn’t able to come from LA or, maybe, did not know until the day of the wedding. My family wouldn’t come, couldn’t come, didn’t know. I called my mother a couple of weeks ago to let her know and she advised me never to come to her house again,

So, we could just walk down the aisle and get married. Toni gave me a bunch of fresh flowers and I thanked her and asked her where they came from. Oh, she said she picked all the flowers in the garden around the chapel. Oh boy.

At 7:30 we heard cars and vans roaring up, people jumping out and bounding into the church. Suddenly, we had 50 people filling the entire chapel. All eight of the Old Maids came, dressed in elegant turn of the century clothing, hats, gloves, heavy on the lipstick and blush and looking beautiful. The morticians all arrived, in black of course, but one wore a white shirt under a black jacket with a red rose and blood drawn in red paint, I hoped, dripping down his coat. The girls were dressed in black long dresses, also from the turn of the century and big hats with feathers that the Old Maids loved. They all sat together. Then, the “normal” residents came in multitudes of color, bringing dates of all kinds with them. Some boys with boys and girls with girls, which I knew well by this time. Marcus came in with a much older goateed gentleman, who he introduced loudly as his lover, and Dennis entered, dressed in protest gear, carrying a sign that read “Love, Not War” that he placed on the altar. A few of Al’s colleagues sat toward the back in the corner, furtively looking at the assemblage.

We only had 15 minutes of chapel reservation left, so I walked down the short aisle and Al greeted me looking pale and scared, frankly. I wasn’t scared. I wasn’t processing any of it. It was just a gig. The minister began and when he came to the part about rings, he paused and asked for them to be placed on the Bible, which we did. He began to read again, “These rings represent a perfect circle, never broken…” and trailed off as he saw Al’s ring was cut and open. He stuttered a bit, I laughed, and soon it was over.

We went to the reception where cake had been purchased, along with many drinks, and we toasted, kissed, cut the two-layer cake and opened presents. Al picked up the first package from our mortician friends, opened it to find perfectly molded teeth, upper and lower, hinged together in the back as an ashtray. There were even teeth missing to place the cigarettes. Yes, we received a set of 4 of them, all unique, I am sure. He just stared at them but I loved them and thought it was so clever. I put them out on tables for years when we had company, because we both smoked back then, and Al always whisked them away, saying it was just sacrilegious to defame dead bodies.



It ended with a drive to a Holiday Inn in San Jose where Al put money in the bed and I went into the tiny bathroom to change into the peignoir I had received as a gift that night. I turned out the light, wandered sexily around the corner only to see Al, passed out. Where he stayed all night. We drove the next day to his parents in Lakewood, CA, where another chapter begins.