We arrived in San Diego with no car and very little money. Our plan was to get jobs and stay at David’s dad’s girlfriend’s condo in Normal Heights until we could save enough money to rent an apartment. In San Diego, getting jobs without a car, at least in 1980, proved an acute challenge. I landed a minimum wage job working the graveyard shift in a convenience store (Hoagie’s Corner). David got a minimum wage job working at Burger King. Minimum wage in 1980 was $3.10. I looked it up. It would take months to save enough money to rent an apartment if we were careful, and I suspect we weren’t very careful.
Not surprisingly, David’s dad’s girlfriend quickly decided she’d had enough of two young bums living in her condo. One day, David’s dad announced he’d found us a place to live. He loaded us, and a few of our belongings, into his car, and drove us to downtown San Diego.
He was tight-lipped on the nature of his plan, and a sense of foreboding grew as we neared the city center. In 1980, downtown San Diego was simply not the shiny tourist destination it is now. During the day, the sidewalks were full of people who worked in the city. But at night, it was full of US Navy sailors (often drunk), homeless people, drug addicts, prostitutes and the occasional policeman. Dimly lit tattoo parlors, pawnshops, topless bars, adult bookstores and peepshows could be found on almost every street.
We stopped in front of a dilapidated hotel by the name of The Hotel Lamont. David’s dad explained that he’d paid two weeks’ rent. Rent was $75 a week, payable in advance. If you were even a day late, they simply put your stuff in the lobby and changed the lock on the door.
There was an old man at the front desk, and he gave us the keys to our room. We walked through the dark halls on creaky floors to a room on the third floor. The room had a saggy bed and a stained sink. The floor’s once-red carpet was filthy and threadbare, and the fibers were cemented together in layers of black grime in the center of the room. Once a week, someone would exchange our bedding and towels for clean, but permanently stained, faded and well-worn linens.
Dave and I settled into a routine over the next few weeks. There was only one small bed, so we took turns sleeping on the filthy and hard floor. Our neighbors were drug addicts, recent ex-convicts, prostitutes, critically mentally-ill people on disability insurance, and momentarily sheltered homeless.
There was a sign in the lobby that said prostitution would not be tolerated. We learned that this meant nothing on our first night, when we discovered both our neighbors were prostitutes, and presumably bribed the clerk to let them bring clients to their rooms. Later, I got to know a few of these women, and they were just people, admittedly with sad stories, which came as a surprise to a small-town kid whose understanding of urban life came largely from TV shows.
There was one communal bathroom shared by most of the residents on the floor, and it was as bad as you can imagine. We often found used needles, bloody bandages and discarded clothing laying around.
A few weeks into this, a friend of Dave’s showed up in San Diego. After hanging around for a couple days, he invited us to join him on a journey to Lake Tahoe, where he promised we’d find good jobs and cheap housing. I wanted to stay in San Diego, and, after discussing it, Dave and I agreed we’d stick around.
But one night, while I was sleeping, David just disappeared.
This left me in a tough situation. Working full-time at minimum wage, my paycheck covered rent for the room, but there was almost nothing left over. The bus cost 35 cents each way, and some days I couldn’t even scrape together bus fare and had to walk the five miles to or from work.
Back then, downtown San Diego was a seedy no-man’s land after dark, but I think my innocence acted like a shield, and nothing terrible ever happened to me. I don’t remember being particularly scared, and I talked to everyone.
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