I had gone into San Francisco alone to see Kid Ory and his Creole Jazz band at the Hungry-I.  I liked to bring my own bottle and order setups from the waitress, whose palm I crossed with silver.  Good for all concerned — the attendant was generously tipped for very little trouble, and I got off cheap.  I was walking back to my car, parked under the ramp of the Oakland Bay bridge, and crossed paths with a girl who had just gotten off work.  Her name was Jean Wilson, recently from San Diego, and she was going my way.

At my car, it came out that she had farther to go, and I offered her a ride, providing my car would start.  It started okay but the interior promptly filled with smoke.  I knew what to do because that happened a lot.  Jumping out of the car, I threw the hood open and yanked a purposefully-loose cable from the battery.  After rearranging a charred mass of wiring under the dash, I asked Jean to stand on her head to watch for sparks and listen for sizzling noises while I touched the battery cable to its post.

Again under way, we continued our previous conversation until I parked in front of the building where she had a small apartment.  I couldn't believe the stereotype name of the all-black hotel, the Washington-Jefferson.  Did I mention that Jean is colored?  It didn't matter at this hour with the street deserted.  We had enjoyed a pleasant chance meeting, and I leaned over to kiss her good night.

Oh my!  She kissed me back.  I can think of no other response quite so volatile as twenty year-old hormones.  In a matter of seconds, two  seconds mind you, we had lost our minds.

"You're so fine."

"You're beautiful."

"Kiss me again."

"You're not wearing a bra!"  I couldn't imagined such a thing.

"What's wrong with that?" she seemed offended.

"Nothing . . . Can I kiss you there?"  Receiving no answer, I took silence as consent.  "I guess I should walk you to your door."

"I guess so.  Come on!"

Up the stairs and to her door, we went hand in hand.  She fumbled for her key, and as the door swung open, we fell into another heavy clinch.  The scuffling and moaning must have constituted a disturbance in the quiet hallway.  I heard a neighbor's door squeak open and looked up to stare eye-to-eye with a man in a bath robe who outweighed me by fifty pounds.  He gave me the number-one stare.  I suddenly experienced a basal response more powerful than mating — adrenaline, survival.

In those days, segregation was universal.  Train stations maintained WHITE and COLORED water fountains and toilet facilities labeled LADIES (nice and clean), MEN (so, so), and perhaps only one COLORED (a dirty and broken door — proof that those people didn't take care of anything).  A black woman, burdened with sacks, might drop her things into the nearest seat of a city bus because there were no passengers, become aware of a white man approaching, excuse herself, and move to the rear.  I have taken a seat at the unoccupied rear of a bus, yielded to entering black passengers, and had to stand at the front.

We didn't cross-shop, cross-recreate, or socialize.  Quite inconvenient for all concerned.  As late as 1960, I crossed the railroad tracks to stand in the dark outside a church and listen to services and the spiritual singing.  Nor did you become intimate with a colored girl.  Jean's neighbor won the stare-down, uncontested.  I flew down the stairs, hiding my hands to conceal their pale color.  The godamn car wouldn't start.  I was making little whimpering noises as I leaned on the starter button with a fearful eye on the hotel entrance.  Being a short timer, I never saw her again.  Vanilla Pudding remembers you fondly, Jean, wherever you are.

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