CHAPTER 3
In everyone’s life there are those moments and events, seemingly insignificant, the details of which are inexplicably and indelibly etched in our memories. We only know that as the years come and go, the memory of those events remains as clear and fresh as if they had occurred the evening before. Such is my memory of Cinnamon.
As the Braniff flight from Travis Air Force Base, California, to Vietnam roared down the runway and lifted off into the darkness, most everyone aboard sat quietly, absorbed in their own thoughts. I tried to think about what lay ahead, but my thoughts kept drifting back to the evening before. I had arrived at Travis by way of San Francisco early in the afternoon, only to learn that my flight to Vietnam had been delayed and now wasn’t scheduled until the following evening. After checking in and confirming flight information, I caught the bus back to San Francisco for the evening. I found a cheap hotel with a small sign in the front window proclaiming “Service men Welcome.” The hotel was showing its age but was clean, and the elderly man serving as desk clerk and bellhop was friendly. I checked in, dropped my bags in my small room, and spent the remainder of the afternoon riding the cable cars and sightseeing in the Fisherman’s Wharf area. Realizing that this would be my last chance for a while to enjoy a really fine meal, I found a suitable restaurant and proceeded to stuff myself, then took a walk to settle my meal before returning to the hotel. As I approached the tarnished brass revolving door that guarded the entrance to the hotel lobby, the glare of neon caught my eye. Across the street and halfway down the block was a small bar. The flashing neon sign above the door proudly proclaimed “Best Topless Dancers in SF!” With still a few hours to kill before bedtime, this seemed like an interesting diversion—and since they claimed to be the best in San Francisco, I felt some obligation to see for myself. I never imagined that more than twenty-five years later I would be writing about that night’s events and recalling them in every detail.
It took a few minutes for my eyes to adjust to the near darkness inside, and when they did, I found myself in a long, narrow room with a bar running about halfway down the right side. Tables occupied the center and left half of the room, and I noted perhaps a dozen people in the place, all seemingly engaged in their own conversations. I climbed onto a worn leather stool at the end of the bar, giving me an unobstructed view of the entire room. Farther down the right wall, beyond the bar, was a platform perhaps four feet above the floor. It was surrounded by a small brass railing, and a shiny brass pole extended up from the center of the floor to the ceiling. Loud, pulsating music was blaring, and overhead lights bathed the platform in an array of constantly changing colors. On the platform was a somewhat attractive full-figured redhead, adorned only in a glittering G-string, mechanically going through her routine and seemingly oblivious to the audience half-watching her from the darkness. If this was San Francisco’s best, I was glad I hadn’t wandered into one of the city’s lesser-ranked joints. (I recall making some comment to that effect to the bartender—a humorless dried-up character who didn’t even crack a smile.)
Sipping my Jack Daniels and water, I followed the ever-changing parade of dancers, some good, most fair, some downright awful, but nearly all with identical expressions of indifference. After several hours and several more drinks, I half-noticed a figure slipping onto the stool next to mine. I casually turned to acknowledge this new presence and was pleasantly surprised to find myself face-to-face with a beautiful blond, about twenty-five, with the deepest blue eyes I had ever seen. She was wearing a silk wrap that was loosely tied in front, providing a tantalizing glimpse of cleavage. I recognized her as one of the few performers who was not only a good dancer, but also gorgeous. When she had danced earlier, conversations had stopped, and she had the rapt attention of everyone in the room. Fully clothed, she would have stopped a parade; clad only in a G-string, she took your breath away. She smiled warmly and said, “Hi, I’m Cinnamon.” I smiled back, as much in response to her name as to her presence. I assumed Cinnamon was her stage name, borrowed no doubt from Mission Impossible, a popular TV series at the time featuring an attractive blonde female character named Cinnamon.
After a few minutes of small talk, she asked, noting my haircut and black low-quarter shoes, “Are you army or Marines?”
“Army,” I replied, adding that I was en route to Vietnam for the third time and flying out the following day. She talked for a few minutes about Vietnam and friends she had who were serving there, adding that she hated the war for what it was doing to our country and to our young people. She grew quiet for a minute, then leaned over next to me and, speaking softly into my ear, said, “For a hundred dollars, I could make this the most memorable night of your life.” I could feel her breath in my ear and the warmth of her body as she leaned against my arm. Every nerve ending in my body sprang to attention! She paused for a moment, as if to let her words sink in, and then said, “Do you understand?” Unable to speak, I only nodded. My mind was racing: $100—shit, it might as well have been $100,000! I was boarding a plane for Vietnam in a few hours, and you didn’t go to a war zone with a lot of money. A hasty mental inventory told me I had $35 or $40 tops on me at the time. I managed to mumble something to the effect that her offer was certainly inviting, but I didn’t think I would be able to take her up on it. She smiled, feigning disappointment, although at the time I was convinced her expression was genuine. In a moment she leaned over again, kissed me on the cheek, and whispered, “Take care of yourself in ’Nam and come back safely.” I weakly thanked her as she slid off the stool. As she started to walk away, she paused and, looking back, said softly, “If you change your mind, I get off at one.” With that, she walked the length of the bar and disappeared behind a curtained door at the far end. Her scent hung heavy in the air for the next several minutes. It was a scene right out of a Mickey Spillane novel.
I downed the remains of my drink, got up casually, and strolled to the men’s room, where I spent the next three minutes doing a frantic search and inventory of my fiscal assets. My hotel bill was paid and my bus ride back to Travis taken care of. I had paid for my drinks, and my only anticipated expenses would be meals the next day—I could skip a couple of those. My search, however, had turned up a grand total of $38.77, and I knew with that meager sum negotiations were out of the question. Forlornly, I returned to my post at the bar.
Ten minutes later, Cinnamon was back on the stage. It seemed to me that her every gesture and look were directed at me. It was more than I could stand, so I quickly downed my final drink, gave an appreciative nod, and returned alone to my hotel room. By the time I showered and settled in, it was well past midnight. Cinnamon would be getting off in a few minutes. The “most memorable night of my life,” she had said—a tall promise, but for that single moment on an April night in San Francisco, I believed her.
As my flight winged its way westward the following evening, I found it hard to forget the events of the previous night. More than twenty-five years later, the memory lingers, vividly intact.