Slim Pickins at The Hot Club.
In October of ’88 a friend asked me if one of her friends could stay with me for a while because his girlfriend threw him out.
Mind you, I had never even met him. He arrived at my house, we introduced ourselves, and he stayed on a pull-out couch in my den. We got along well, and everything was fine. John, early 40’s, had a big broad smile, and cerulean blue eyes. He was bald as bald could be with the hairiest arms and chest I had ever seen.
My court reporting office was downtown, but I kept a computer at home, so I could work on my transcripts. One Monday night, he walked into my room and said, “Why don’t we go to The Hot Club?”
I replied, “Do you realize what time it is? It’s 9 o’clock. I’m already in my sweats.”
He was cajoling me and kept repeating, “Come on, come on. Throw your tight jeans on and put lipstick on those lips and we’re good to go.” Not taking no for an answer I acquiesced and off we went.
We pulled into the parking where the neon words HOT CLUB was insight. The slight salty smell of the bay permeated the crisp night air. The shadow of the electric company loomed across the bay. We walked in and went to the original bar to the right. The room was dimly lit where a mixture of smoke and alcohol lingered.
Continued tomorrow …