I sat down at the counter in the Denny’s restaurant where my best friend and college roommate, Joni, worked the swing shift. She poured me a cup of coffee and brought a cup of hot chocolate, too, so I could mix the two and make “mocha java”. Then she fixed me a green salad, set it before me and left the check with only the one cup of coffee totaled on it -- just like she always did. . .
“Are you in the mood to go dancing somewhere after work?” I asked her.
“Nah… I’m too tired,” she said, shaking her head, “It’s been a madhouse around here all night and, besides, I’ve got to study for a geology test tomorrow.”
This bit of news put a severe damper on my plans for the evening since the only car we had between us belonged to Joni.
“That’s too bad,” I said disappointedly as I ate my salad, “Because I really feel like going someplace.”
“Hey, you know, my friend Slim, the keyboard player over at the Hilltopper, is here,” Joni interjected as she passed by on one of her trips to get a pot of coffee from the warmer, “I’ve known him for quite a while. He’s a really nice guy and he goes out a lot.”
I glanced down the counter in the direction she was gesturing. Sitting on the last stool at the end of the counter was a tall, slender, young, black man who was extremely well-dressed.
“Is that him?” I asked.
“Uh-huh,” she nodded as she filled my cup, “Want me to ask him?”
“Sure,” I said hopefully, “Why not?”
Joni shuffled off and the two of them spoke for a moment after which the young man picked up his coffee cup, walked over and sat down on the stool next to me, extending his hand.
“Hi, you’re Joni’s friend, Jean, right?” he said warmly.
“That’s right,” I responded, shaking his hand, “You must be Slim. Joni speaks highly of you.”
“That’s nice to know,” he said, smiling broadly, “You know, I was just sitting over there thinking I’d really like to go somewhere and hear somebody else play music for a change when Joni came over, told me her best friend, Jean, was here and said you wanted to go out but didn’t have anybody to go with. Funny, huh?”
“Oh, that’s right,” I affirmed, nodding, “Joni mentioned that you’re a musician over at the Hilltopper.”
“Five nights a week,” he added, “I play piano in the lounge.”
We sat for about half an hour at the counter -- talking and enjoying each other’s company while downing two or three more cups of coffee -- before deciding to leave.
“Slim seems like a really cool person,” I whispered in Joni’s ear as I gave her a hug on our way out, “I’ll see you back at the house later.”
“Have a good time,” she called as Slim and I walked out the door.
“So,” Slim declared as he turned the key in the ignition, “Where would you like to go?”
“Oh, I don’t really care,” I replied, “What did you have in mind?”
“Well,” he pondered, “There’s some really good music around but, most of it’s down in the East Bay or San Francisco. . . Do you feel like going that far?”
“Sure!” I replied eagerly, “Besides, it’s your car and you’re doing all the driving -- all I have to do is sit back and enjoy the scenery!”
***************************************
Less than an hour later, we were traversing the Richmond/San Rafael Bridge on our way to the “Lucky 13 Club” in Albany, California.
The Lucky 13 Club had its beginnings during the heyday of Soul music in the mid-sixties when radio station KDIA out of Oakland (“Lucky 1300 on your AM radio dial”) was belting out the hits of artists like Wilson Pickett, Sam and Dave, Smokey Robinson, Aretha Franklin, James Brown and Marvin Gaye to a large audience -- both black and white -- all over the San Francisco Bay area.
The parking lot of the unassuming cinder-block building housing the Lucky 13 Club was packed and it took about twenty minutes to find a place to park as, from inside, the funky, deep, sound of a bass, accompanied by screaming vocals, spilled out into the street.
I had little hope we’d find a table when I saw how crowded the place was but, after exchanging a few words with one of the doormen, Slim miraculously secured a couple of seats at a table centered in front of the stage. This meant, of course, that polite conversation was out of the question. So, we settled for tapping our toes, nodding to the beat of the music and the occasional exchange of a smile in each other’s direction.
After a few minutes, Slim leaned over and shouted into my ear: “I didn’t think this place would be so crowded tonight. There’s almost no room to dance here and that’s what you really wanted to do, wasn’t it?”
“It’s cool,” I assured him, “I can go with the flow -- whatever. . .”
By the time we’d finished our drinks, however, it was obvious that Slim was quickly tiring of the loud music and crowded atmosphere.
“Let’s go find someplace less crowded,” he confided to me during the break, “What do you think?”
“Sure,” I replied, “That’s cool, too.”
“A good friend of mine owns a little place off 3rd Street,” Slim explained, “It’s not too crowded and a lot of musician friends of ours hang out after hours and jam. I think you’d really like the people there.”
“Terrific,” I declared, “Sounds good!” and, within a few minutes, we were on Highway 880 taking the turn-off for the Bay Bridge into San Francisco.
***************************************
San Francisco’s 3rd Street runs south from the Embarcadero through the large “lower Market Street” industrial area. It wasn’t long before we were parking the car at the curb in front of a shabby building with a neon sign out front that read “Midnight Hour”.
We’d barely entered the front door when Slim was hailed in a friendly manner by several of the bar’s patrons and a distinguished, older, black gentleman with white hair, moustache and beard dashed out from behind the bar to greet him.
“Where you been keepin’ yourself, brother?” the older man chuckled as he shook Slim’s hand wholeheartedly, “We ain’t laid eyes on you for a month of Sundays!”
“Oh, you know how it is,” Slim answered, shuffling his feet slightly and smiling, “Workin’ all the time. I don’t get a chance to come down to the city much anymore.”
“And who is this lovely creature you have brought with you, my man?” the older man gushed, stepping back to make a visual, head-to-toe assessment of me.
“This is Jean” Slim beamed, “And, Jean, this is a very good friend of mine for many years, Joe.”
“Well, now, any friend of Slim’s is very welcome here,” Joe assured me as he briefly shook my hand. “Especially such a fine, young lady as yourself,” he added with a wink.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Joe,” I replied demurely.
We seated ourselves at the bar with a couple of drinks (for which Joe absolutely refused to be paid) where Slim introduced me to several more people who all seemed to be genuinely glad to see both of us. Then, I turned my attention to the bandstand where a jazz quartet was playing “Satin Doll”.
From the gestures made by some of the band members in Slim’s direction, I could tell that they all knew each other quite well and, when the number ended, the keyboard player announced that he was going to take a break and “call one of the finest keyboard players I know, Slim Peabody, to come up and sit in for a while.”
Slim turned to me and asked, “Will you be all right if I jam with the band for a little bit?”
“Completely!” I replied with a wide smile, “You were so right about this place, Slim! It has wonderful, friendly vibes -- I feel right at home here!”
“I knew you would!” he exclaimed before walking over to the bandstand and taking up a position at the keyboard.
Several “sisters” joined me and we talked and laughed like old friends -- exchanging views on every subject from fashion to music -- and I suddenly realized that I felt more at-ease and welcome sitting there at that bar than I remembered feeling in any club, anywhere, at any time before in my life!
The company was warm and genuine, the drinks were generous and generously-supplied and the music was fantastic. . .
At about 2:00 am, Joe announced that he was locking the front door and only friends and family were being invited to remain for the “private party” that could, he estimated, last into the wee hours. My new-found girlfriends insisted Slim and I both stay and join the party -- and we did.
*****************************************
After a jamming on a couple of other jazz numbers, Slim and the band then struck up a tune with a distinctly “Latin flavor”. Suddenly, the many hours that I spent as a young child, watching my mother give Latin dance lessons at the Arthur Murray Studios in downtown San Francisco, boiled to the surface.
I jumped to my feet and began dancing the “Cha-Cha” to the lush, syncopated rhythms ringing from the walls of the tiny bar.
In another moment, I was surrounded by all of the “sisters” I’d just met and each one was clamoring for me to teach her how to do the Cha-Cha.
As I moved my feet, I began counting-off as I had seen my mother do hundreds of times:
One-and-two-and-cha-cha-cha! One-and-two-and-cha-cha-cha! Right-foot-back-step-cha-cha-cha! Left-foot-front-step-cha-cha-cha!One by one, in a line behind me, the women fell into step as they picked up the rhythm:
Step-together-step-together-cha-cha-cha! Step-together-step-together-cha-cha-cha!When I was confident that they were all in step, I changed the configuration and called out over the volume of the music:
Now-we’ll-try it-from-side-to-side! Left-foot-cross-RIGHT-cha-cha-cha! Right-foot-cross-LEFT-cha-cha-cha! Step-right-back-together-cha-cha-cha! Step-left-back-together-cha-cha-cha!
I turned my head briefly and was thrilled to see about a dozen, beautiful, graceful, smiling, “Nubian” women, young and old, dancing the Cha-Cha behind me in perfect step.
At that point, I halted my verbal instruction and we continued to dance just like that -- me in front and the other women strung out in a line behind me -- until the band brought the song to a close.
Slim and I headed home that morning at about daybreak... I have treasured the memory of that evening for many, many years.
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