Jenocide and I had moved from Berkeley to San Francisco by the time of this story. Maybe we were still crashing at Poncho and Susanna’s place? Memory’s a little fuzzy. I was about 17, give or take. Jenocide would probably have the timeline down to the minute.
She, her boyfriend, and I headed down to L.A. with a “friend” to help with a series of showings of The Great Rock and Roll Swindle, that gloriously chaotic Sex Pistols movie.
I wasn’t a punk myself, but as Jenocide’s best bud, I found myself at more punk shows than most mohawked diehards. There I was this long, strawberry blonde haired hippie girl in flowing dresses and tie-dyes… a splash of color in a sea of black leather, spikes, and existential rage.
But I digress…
The very first showing in L.A. got shut down by the “copyright cats”. You know, those high-and-mighty folks who take their job very seriously when it involves ruining a good time. After some chaos (and possibly a bit of excitement), we made it back to our motel.
And by motel, I mean:
- No phones in the rooms. Grungy walls and grim lighting.
- Hookers out front working harder than the motel staff.
- A place so classy, I’m surprised they didn’t charge extra for clean sheets.
With the movie plans dead, Jenocide and her boyfriend went out clubbing. I decided to stay in. I needed to make a phone call, and the only phone in sight was a payphone on the corner. Jenocide had taken the room key, so I left the door unlocked but closed… what could possibly go wrong, right?
When I came back… well, surprise! There were half a dozen guys in my room, looking exactly like the kind of people your mother warned you about. And as if on cue, a few more slipped behind me, pushed me into the room, and closed the door.
They pushed me down onto the bed and started discussing exactly what they were planning to do. I’ll leave the details to your imagination, but when the conversation casually drifted into the “…and then we’ll kill her” territory, I realized my night had officially taken a turn for the horrifying.
I did what any self-respecting hippie girl would do: I smiled and tried to make awkward small talk with anyone willing to meet my eyes.
And then, just like a plot twist in a low-budget action movie, one of them suddenly blurts out, “Wait, wait… girl, are you from Berkeley High?”
Now, technically, I had gone to Berkeley High… for about five minutes before they kicked me out. But hey, when the universe tosses you a lifeline, you don’t stop to fact-check!
“Yeah! Sure, I went to Berkeley High!” I announced with the confidence of someone who was really hoping they didn’t ask for details.
My would-be hero jumped in, talking fast and furious. “She’s a Homegirl! She’s cool! You can’t mess with her!” He kept going, faster and louder, like he was auditioning for a high-stakes courtroom drama.
He positioned himself between me and the others, throwing out names and connections. At one point, I’m pretty sure he claimed I’d dated some guy at Berkeley High they all knew and respected. (Spoiler: I didn’t. But bless him for the effort!)
He edged closer, pulled me off the bed, put his arm gently over my shoulder, and nudged me toward the door like we were just two old friends stepping out for a smoke.
After what felt like three eternities and a half, they agreed to just take my money and leave.
As they filed out, my protector turned to me looked me in the eyes and said calmly, “Lock the door behind us.”
And you’d better believe that’s exactly what I did.
I am forever thankful to that Homeboy who stood up for me in that moment, who saved me from things I can barely stand to imagine.
I don’t know how or if I’ll ever find him to say thank you… but I’m sending this story and my gratitude out into the world. I hope your life went well, my friend. And I hope, somehow, you see this someday.
Also… I never did get to make that phone call. But hey, I guess I had other plans that night.
