Where my first car died. My friend drove it straight into post, even with the steering wheel which popped out 12inches and severed the connection to the steering. We had a truck and were in the process of towing off the post when the police showed up. The people living in the house on right… now with a mustache… called them, I can’t blame, it looked bad. Because I was uncooperative, I ended up spending the night in the drunk tank at Mission Station (the old one near 23rd Street) with a bunch of other unfortunates. One large Pacific Islander whose advances I had to rebuff and one cholo who unlaced his shoes because they had taken his belt. I asked him if he was going hang himself, he told me he was going to hang me. He didn’t. When I finally got out, I walked 3 blocks in the wrong direction from home in Noe Valley. There’s more but suffice to say it was a memorable night, that I thankfully never repeated
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