SAN FRANCISCO

San Francisco was the very first punk story I wrote. Originally, I included this in my memoir, Burnt Promises. AKA Home Wrecker. It wasn’t an easy story to return to but it felt important to share.

When I was out with my friends, my adrenaline climbed into overdrive. At times, it was a natural high, and at other times, it had something to do with the little black pills I received from my high school friend, Anita. She and I attended private school together in Encino. Anita was a drug dealer, and she was only sixteen. Anita was a smart girl and probably put herself through college selling drugs. That’s only a guess. I never knew if she took the pills herself, but she had quite the reputation out on the scene. Everyone was always looking for Anita. She gave me black beauties, which only made me even more hyperactive than I already was. I was pretty upbeat and energetic, so adding more to the mix was a bit of an overkill. There were so many things that we had not yet experienced. When I was associating with all these artsy types, my life changed. 

After awhile, some of my friends became addicted to these little pills that eventually led them to stronger meds, which in some cases cost them their lives. Yes, there were some tragedies. There were teen suicides, overdoses, and substance abuse that guided these girls and boys into holes that some couldn’t climb out of.

My girlfriends and I took chances, but like I said, we were silly and young. That is not always such a good mix. We had no idea that bad things, I mean very bad things, could ever happen to us. We were making a habit of putting ourselves in harm’s way every chance we had. We were fearless and naïve. What wasn’t very “cool” was seeing some of my closest friends get hooked on crack or finding out my friend, Debbie, was raped. That was when reality set in. But again, we were young and any tragedies we witnessed didn’t seem real.

The rape happened during a weekend getaway while we were all in San Francisco. It must have been 1981. I had turned seventeen and talked my mom into letting me stay at Samantha’s for the weekend. My parents didn’t approve of sleepovers, but for some reason my mom permitted me to go. “This one time,” Mom warned.

If she had known what I was doing, she would have come after me with a vengeance! Samantha, Abigail, and I took the midnight bus together from Los Angeles to San Francisco. It was the first time I had ever traveled anywhere without my parents. The ride was quite memorable. There were so many seedy people on the bus, especially since it was the red eye. There were guys speaking obscenities to themselves and some who didn’t look like they had showered in weeks. It was a bad scene. Fortunately, nothing notable happened to us on that adventure. We made stops in weird, unknown towns that looked like movie sets for horror films. It wasn’t the best place for three teenage girls, but we were used to putting ourselves in compromising situations. When we arrived in San Francisco, we made our way to a YWCA youth hostel that we assumed would be safe. It ended up being a sleazy place with hookers doing their job right there on the street. We didn’t think much of it. We were inexperienced and without a clue to the danger all around us.

Our reason for venturing up North was to see a huge punk concert over the bridge in Berkeley. I had the best time together with the girls. It was like an ongoing party. Everything was funny, and every new experience was an adventure for us. I laughed so much that it made my stomach hurt. Samantha, Abigail and I were a good team. We liked to eat, and of course, we loved music. Abigail was a beautiful girl whose mother was from India. She had large exotic features with the most beautiful thick shiny black hair. I have to mention the hair!

I guess you could say I have had a hair fetish my whole life. My mom was to blame. Her hair was thin and stick-straight with no body. I was not blessed in that area either as my hair has always been disappointing. Like my mom, I would admire anyone with good locks. My closest friends, Abigail, Samantha, and Debbie all had phenomenal tresses! I couldn’t help but be a little bit jealous. My dad had the most fabulous head of hair so I could definitely thank my mom for her bad hair genes. Even on my mom’s deathbed, she couldn’t help herself from pointing out people with nice hair. During her last days in the hospital, she noticed a woman with a great hairstyle. She was an attractive nurse who came around to bring in some fresh water. My mom took one glance at her and then looked at me. I knew instantly what she was going to say.

“Brenda, did you see her hair?” I tried to act nonchalant as I was thinking the same thing. “Yes, Mom. I saw it,” I whispered.

With the kind of enthusiasm that my mom showed toward this woman’s head of hair, you would have thought she had just seen Elvis. Not the tired overweight Elvis, but the young sexy Elvis. Her passion over good quality hair was handed down to me.“I bet she doesn’t even appreciate it,” my mom pointed out. “No, I am sure she doesn’t,” I replied. I am certain she didn’t even notice there was a sarcastic undertone in my voice. With the kind of enthusiasm that my mom showed toward this woman’s head of hair, you would have thought she had just seen Elvis. Not the tired overweight Elvis, but the young sexy Elvis. Her passion over good quality hair was handed down to me.“I bet she doesn’t even appreciate it,” my mom pointed out. “No, I am sure she doesn’t,” I replied. I am certain she didn’t even notice there was a sarcastic undertone in my voice.

In San Francisco, the girls and I were totally reckless. We were out at all hours of the night, and we came across some very questionable characters. Recently, I was reminded of a story from that trip where we encountered a man with a knife. The story sounded vaguely familiar, yet I couldn’t put together all the details. I knew it happened, but none of us could share the particulars. Luckily, we came away unscathed.

It wasn’t until after we returned home that we heard Debbie and her friends had been raped that weekend. They met up with us at the concert, but had driven in their own car. We had only seen them one day out of the weekend and connected in Berkeley for the event. There were so many bands and so many people, but amazingly enough, we were able to find each other. When we did meet, it was all fun and games. No one would have ever guessed these girls had been through the worst nightmare of their lives. We all laughed and made fun of each other. It was exciting. All the people with their great outfits, lots of eye candy, plus we had never seen so many great bands in the same place. We were all pretty awestruck.

I would never learn exactly what took place that day with Debbie and the other girls, but what I heard was chilling and made the hair on my arms stand up. While they were getting ready for the concert, some men knocked on the door to their hotel room. Without hesitation, one of the girls opened it. From that point on, it was hell on earth. The men knew exactly what they were doing. They must have seen them go into their room. The two men who entered the dingy hotel room took turns raping them repeatedly for hours; they were treated worse than pieces of meat. All they could do was take the abuse until the men finally ran out of juice and left on their own. No one even called the police. The men were never caught for those despicable acts of violence.

Even when Debbie eventually talked about it, she was very matter of fact. There were no tears or real emotion. Her walls were up. Thinking back, I don’t believe I could have kept it together as well as they did. They must have blamed themselves. The thing was it could have been any of us!