I was on Delmar Street a few blocks south of Haight Street on my way to the pad of some friends. It was the end of an ordinary day in the Haight: visit friends and get stoned or vice versa. These particular friends that I was about to visit, a couple, were on a list I visited more-or-less weekly that summer of ‘67.
The sun was still above the horizon, just, but the sea wind had the icy bite of night. And though I was shivering in my sandals, jeans, and T shirt, my attention was on my cock hardening in anticipation of an unusual sexual experience.
When I finally reached their small Victorian studio apartment, I gave the door a few light taps and then opened it. But it went only a few inches and stopped. At eye level was a shiny brass chain lock, something I had assumed was as extinct in the Haight as a bow tie.
Cheryl appeared in the crack and murmured, “Hi,” but didn’t unlock the door.
“Hi,” I murmured, bewildered.
Peter appeared suddenly behind her.
“Hey man,” I said to his glower.
“Hi,” he grunted.
“What’s the lock for?”
“We got robbed!” Peter said with a laser-glare of scrutiny.
“Yeah, it was the shits,” Cheryl said.
“What happened? What’d they take?” I asked.
“Six kilos of grass,” he said. “Four cats with pistols came in here. They knew exactly how much I had.”
“They didn’t even leave us anything to smoke,” she added.
Silence. I realized the meaning of the glare.
“Somebody told them about those keys,” he said. “You didn’t say anything to anybody did you? You know, just casually mention it?”
“No. No, I didn’t even know you had six kilos.”
“Yes you did. I told you that day we bumped into each other in that crosswalk down on, uh, Haight and Central.”
“Oh, well, I dunno… Maybe I forgot. I’m sure I didn’t tell anybody though.”
But I wasn’t sure.
However, if I didn’t remember the six kilos, another part of that day was certainly memorable. It was the first time they had sex in front of me.
