Saturday, February 19, 2011

San Francisco Indian Squaw (and, 'The Who')

San Francisco Indian Squaw

(The Fillmore West, and ‘The Who’)

Lee Christopher Wright awoke to the soft noise of someone going through his pockets, insistent tumbling of clothes being tossed aside some ten-feet of his bedside, he was lightly alarmed—he felt a tinge of annoyance. She was a barfly he had picked up down across the street from the famous concert hall as it was also known, ‘The Fillmore West’ also recognized as ‘The Carousel Ballroom,’ and prior to that, ‘El Patio’ on the corner of Market Street and Van Ness Avenue several hours ago (he was living on Dolores Street that connected onto Market Street, not all that far away), he got bored watching ‘The Who’ perform and everyone smoking pot to the point he couldn’t inhale, so he left the building and went across the street to a dive, a rough kind of bar… ((July,1969)(The Fillmore West, made famous by such music groups as Santana, Creedence Clearwater Revival, Crateful Dead, and even Allen Ginsberg had a poetry reading there once; Lee Christopher Wright, had arrived in San Francisco, in August, and would in October, participate in a Karate event at the Cow Palace, where ‘The Doors’ had played just two months earlier, and on July 19 ‘The Who’ the English rock group, was playing and he was stepping over bodies to get a clearer view of the group, as smoke filled the ballroom, they were playing ‘Happy Jack’ then he up and left)) went across the street . She had a stony or weather-beaten face, a young Indian squaw, but a fine shapely body, and long black hair, deep cased eyes, and she knew how to perform
…yet he hated it when gals stayed over. He had mentioned politely after making love three-times with her, to leave, and then he rolled over and fell to sleep. And now, now here she was, 4:00 A.M., (he evidently was snoring away and she felt safe going through his pockets, once completed she’d take off, and who would be the wiser) and as he looked at her in progress he hated everything about it—the smell reeking from her skin, her long greasy hair, threads still on his pillow, the hallway light shinning through, under the door, reflecting on her, made her look like a soggy beached quail.
It was like women didn’t know their place. She got what she wanted, a night out in the bar, free drinks, a toss in the hay (or bed) he got what he wanted, therefore, everyone should be happy. So why the hell go through his pockets? Funny he thought how people are.
He had met her in the bar, “Hello,” he said “you with anyone tonight?”
“No, not at all,” she replied. And he said without hesitation, “be with me,” and that was fine was her. And they pleased each other; did each other, until neither one had energy enough to do each other anymore.
He leaped out of bed, his voice in her ear saying: “You thief, you thief, you rotten thief…!” and grabbed her as she dropped his wallet. Which to his credit he acted just quick enough, opened the door to his room and threw her down the stairs, tumbling. The landlady woke up, “What’s going on up there?” she questioned, meekly.
The cool wet morning was streaming through the front porch window “Damn—” he looked at his naked body and went back upstairs to check the rest of his clothes, assuming he might be missing something, mumbling all the way up the stairs, “That damned squaw woman, in my bed ‘til 4:00 A.M., why didn’t she go home when I told her!” …

No: 740 (2-18-2011)