NOW YOU NEED THE CHICKEN

Misspent Youth, Being Uncouth

When I was 15, I had a fantastic high-school boyfriend, who was 16.  He was a great guy with a terrific sense of humor whom everybody liked.  Naturally I dumped him brutally in order to go out with a 21-year-old bisexual punk-rock mess, who I felt more akin to. “Angus,” as I called him, would be in jail these days.  He was a slim, vulpine predator of a beauty — a sneering Billy Idol with light blue eyes and jet black hair, chiseled cheekbones and an incredibly sharp sense of humor. He could demolish anybody with his put-downs. (He called a local club impresario named Ermano di Febo “Ernie the Feeb”)  He had seduced a number of boys in my high school, but I felt lucky to be the one girl he was paying attention to because he was so creative and droll and edgy and exciting.  His critical assessments awoke a sleeping beast in me.  I was so happy to find someone to launch archly negative verbal harpoons with, I felt like I had been speaking Chinese all my life and finally met someone else who did.  Naturally, he dumped me brutally within a couple of weeks because he was a red-hot malignant narcissist and I was basically a child, but we still ended up hanging out for years. 

After Angus dumped me, I used to always see his blue VW bug parked somewhere near the Cafe Trieste in Sausalito — he used to take the bus into the city from there to go bar-hopping.  One day, still smarting from being dumped, I collected a bunch of palm fronds and branches and leaves and various pieces of shrubbery and completely covered his car with them, so when he came back to it trashed at 2AM it would be a complete pain in the ass to deforest. (I enjoy petty vandalism. It is my favorite of all crimes. I don’t do it, but if I could be vandalizing at pretty much any point in the day, I would be.) “Can you see Angus’s car?” I asked confused patrons at the Cafe, pointing at the VW-shaped mound of foliage.  “I can’t!” 

Eventually, we were friends.  We talked a lot on the phone, loitered in cafes and went to punkrock shows together.  Once he wore plaid bondage pants, and I walked him around on a long leash made of artificial pearls. I was wearing a torn-up, black vintage sequined dress and gloves with my hair ratted out like Exene Cervenka.  I didn’t really think of it as a sex thing, since there was no sex between me and Angus.  Drugs, but no sex.  I thought it was hilarious, like he was a dog. 

I was always hoping for anecdotes to happen, so I was up for pretty much anything.

Since I had a fake ID, he took me to all my first gay bars:  The Stud, Hamburger Mary’s, The Patio.  He introduced me to Tod the God, the speed dealer who would become my best friend.  For a while he was sleeping on my boyfriend Spin’s couch. It was an incredibly crowded house.  Spin and I slept in what would have been a closet. 

One time Angus and Spin and I went to Doo City Barbecue.  Doo City was on a small patch of Divisadero Street near the Western Edition, where there were other black-owned businesses with hand-painted signs like “Sho ‘Nuff Hot Tamales,” and the legendary KPOO radio station.

Doo City was known for its tremendous chicken, cornbread, collard greens — classic barbecue action — but the best part, besides the food, was the ambiance. 

The entire Doo City storefront and restaurant area was painted floor to ceiling in a kind of pinkish rust color — sort of a strawberry mauve. 

The kitchen and all of the servicepersons were behind the counter, which was fortified from countertop to ceiling with yellowed and barely opaque 2-inch bulletproof plexiglass.  Chicken and ribs were served via one of those Lazy Susans (is that now a racist thing to say?) like they use in certain liquor stores. 

Since I was a punkrock child with no future, Angus and I were drinking Night Train, an apple wine found in the wino section of your liquor store freezer.  I noted to Angus that it was recommended on the bottle that Night Train be served cold, whereas the serving recommendation on Thunderbird, a similar fortified wine, was “very cold.” 

We were sitting at a round table in the back of Doo City when suddenly, the anecdote that would lodge in my brain for the rest of my life happened. 

A fabulous black gentleman entered the establishment with the bearing of a King.  He was clearly the owner and proprietor, not only due to his regal posture and gold-tipped cane, but also the fact that his Cadillac, which was parked in front, and his three piece suit, his jauntily cocked playboy hat, and his fur collared coat were all exactly the same strawberry-mauve as the restaurant, and his license plate read, “DOO CITY.” 

Bouncing in back of him was a pneumatic super-sister with a fetching gaptoothed smile, which suddenly came towards me.  

“Giiiiiirl, you ridin’ on that TRAIN?” 

I realized she was indicating my Night Train bottle, which I held up smiling in solidarity.  

“Whoo whoo!” She trilled, following the king of Doo City into the back room, behind a plywood door. 

We were still smiling about that interaction when they both emerged from the office.  She put her hands on her hips and cocked an eyebrow at me. 

“Now girl,” she said, very seriously.  “Girl you got the RIBS,” she said, indicating Angus, “Now you need the CHICKEN. You hear me?  I said you got THE RIBS,” she said again, jabbing toward Angus.  “Now you need THE CHICKEN.” 

I will never know exactly what she meant by that.  It’s like a zen koan. It sets my mind free.  

(Pat “Spin” Flynn passed away a few days ago. Vaya con dios, DJ Sonic Boom.  Rest in Power.)

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Artwork: stolen from the Facebook site, “San Francisco Remembered.” There are, sadly, no pictures of Doo City to be had, but this was another soul food joint of note.