My San Francisco Black Book

Years ago and far away in a once inhabitable borough in the east, I lived in a two bedroom apartment with a washing machine, a white wall phone, a Princess line in the master bedroom on the night table by the lady's side of the bed, and this book that was kept in the junk drawer. This book contained the names of all family members and a select group known as family friends.
How do you become a family friend? It is a title that is bestowed upon people who have been known for a fairly long period of time and who have been seen on a regular basis throughout that long period of time. These are folks you have met as teenagers up to and including your late 20s; because by your late 20s you have already gotten married, started a family, and don't have time or the mindset to accumulate new people who become family friends.
Most of the time, they do not include co-workers. My mother had only one. It was a woman with whom she had worked at her first job in the City. The woman was of a different religion than my mother (her first friend in that category). The woman also left the City when she got married and moved to Colorado. Colorado was a square state on the map somewhere to the left of Kansas and to the right of Calfiornia. It also ended in a vowel and was probably a place would never visit because it was so far away and so exotic and probably had a lot of people of a different religion.
I never knew how or when the book was put together. Was it done in one day or over time? Where were the numbers before the book came to be? Back then--before the days of touch tone and stored memory--we had to dial the 7- or 10- digit phone number manually. We did not use the '1' prefix and sometimes we didn't have to use an area code at all. Most of the numbers were memorized and most of the numbers had name exchanges in front of 5 digits.



My book was different. I was about 16 when I got my own telephone line. We had moved from that two bedroom apartment with washing machine to a two bedroom co-op without a washing machine, but a balcony and a living room picture window that didn't open or close. It was an apartment of Venetian blinds and built in convectors that were heat-producing in the colder months and air-conditioning in the hotter months.
My book was black and had loose leaf entries.

Each person had an individual page (front and back) that could be alphabetized or re-alphabetized at will. There was room on the page for birthdays, information on how we met/knew each other, important people in that person's life (parents, lovers, favorite teachers), or just code or drivel that seemed important enough to write. I NEVER RECORDED STATISTICS. Statistics were relegated to the journal.
There was a time when my friends were moving. They were moving a lot. Sometimes they would do what might be called couch surfing these days. Were they thrown out of home, were they evicted, were they tight on money? Never knew. Sometimes they would be gone before I'd have a chance to update my book. (Mind you, these were the days before cell phones or the Internet). So, you had to rely on friends or people in the bar to give you information about the 4-1-1.
Or sometimes I would dial and get a recording that the number had been cancelled and that no forwarding information was available. In the beginning of this series, I had no idea what it meant. I felt hurt that I wasn't part of the clique that knew where so-and-so was. Later I might learn that the person had died. One didn't ask when someone under the age of 40 died. One knew.
At first, I kept the name in my book. It held a place. It reminded me that I had a friend. Sometimes I would look at the name and remember something that we did together; a double feature at the CASTRO, an omelette at 2:30 am, Easter service at the MCC (a good place for Jewish guys to cruise for the exotic).
Then, one day, I found the red pen and I made a single cross over the full name using a ruler. All of the information remained intact. I'd see the person's birthday, lover's name, phone number, doctor's information.
Over time, I eventually removed the loose leaf and kept it in a 3 x 5 file box. The file box now has more leaves than the actual book. The addresses in the book have been transferred to a MICROSOFT WORD document that serves as what I call the HOLIDAY (Year) LIST. Even though there are few changes from year to year, each holiday list is updated. And yes, there are some people who only hear from me once a year.
In this way I am able to say, "Hey! I'm ___ years old. And I'm still alive. And I sill have a landline that's listed in a telephone directory in some cloud somewhere."
I have not thought about this in ages. The black book is kept in my knapsack. It has a pocket that I use for postage stamps. Now when I call people I use my cell directory and almost always call a cell number. Fewer and fewer folks I know have landlines.
The memory of the directory came up when I saw the NETFLIX version of TALES OF THE CITY. A young man went rummaging through his older lover's saved possessions; papers, pictures, awards. Among them was his black book. And when the young man opened the book, most of the names and addresses had been scratched out with red ink. Scratched like a tornado had hit the entry. Not neatly removed with a single, ruled, red line across the name only.


Where did all this come from? Memories can be mighty powerful!