Frisco, Macy’s & The White Working Class Male

Did I cry when the newspapers announced that Macy’s in San Francisco was closing? No, I didn’t, though I have known about Macy’s and have shopped there on and off and mostly off for more than fifty years. The last time I had to buy a suit to officiate at the wedding of two young friends I bought a three-piece Calvin Klein suit at Macy’s and at an affordable price: $200. I have not worn the suit since that occasion, but I consider the purchase a sound investment. I now have a suit for almost any occasion. I have a Macy’s credit card and a watch recently repaired at Macy’s, but my shopping usually begins online these days; if Uniqlo folded now I would be unhappy for 15 seconds.

There are many places in San Francisco for which I would shed many tears if they up and vanished. Golden Gate Park would be one, also North Beach, and the beach at Ocean Beach where I live would be another. I would be sad, too, if the white working class guys who hang out on the corner of Judah and La Playa in the Outer Sunset most afternoons were to fade into the infamous Frisco fog. 

When I first saw them I walked on by and didn’t give them a second look. But after the fourth or fifth time that I saw them, I stopped, said hello, and introduced myself to Tom, a large, jovial fellow, and a native San Franciscan, raised Catholic, who often plays old rock ‘n’ roll tunes on his guitar. Others join him. Still others gab about rock and the state of the city which Herb Caen once called Baghdad by the Bay. Then came the Iraq War and that expression faded into the fog.

Which brings me to the subject of the city of San Francisco which has lost much but not all of its working class identity. Frisco has been shaped by its topography, geography, and by its working class history. Citizens of all sizes and shapes have made San Francisco and San Francisco has also made its citizens— good, bad and ugly— from the gold miners and the nabobs to the workers who participated in the General Strike of 1934, and those who have marched and chanted during the current wave of protests against the invasion, occupation and decimation of Gaza and the killing of its citizens.

I would be unhappy if the guys I know who hang on the corner of La Playa and Judah were to disappear into that infamous Frisco fog. The guys are not bankers, lawyers or judges, but they add to the character and the personality of the neighborhood and to the city in which they live. They are in their 40s, 50s, 60s. Many are retired; others work as carpenters, electricians and house painters, though they seem to be unemployed more than they are employed. That’s the fate of the white working class male, and others as well who belong to the precariat these days in Biden’s booming economy.

Tom rides his bicycle to the corner and brings his guitar which he plays while he sips beer in a plastic cup from the Java Beach Café. Gino, who calls himself “100 % Greek,” smokes cigarettes and does something on his laptop all afternoon. What I don’t know. He’s an ex-therapist. Dennis, aka “Dennis the Menace,” as he calls himself, lives on SSI and walks with the help of a cane. He’s Hollywood handsome, has deep lines in his face, and could be a character actor in a Scorsese film. Andrew, with the big bushy beard and long black hair, surfs at Ocean Beach, just across the Great Highway from the café. 

The other day I overheard him in conversation with Dennis the Menace about the 1943 Battle of Stalingrad and about Hitler, Churchill and Roosevelt. That conversation surprised me; I had stereotyped them as apolitical. They agreed that the Russians turned the tide against fascism in World War II, and they also agreed that the Russians lost tens of millions of citizens during that war. They dislike Putin’s Russia and they recoil when they hear the news from Gaza.

Occasionally, there’s scuffle among homeless folks; the cops arrive and tell them to chill. Also, occasionally the community-minded owner of the Java Beach Cafe throws a party for the employees with superb Mexican food. Everyone grabs a taco or two, rice, beans and salsa and goes home happy.

The guys, my guys, play bocce and chess in the small park located between La Playa Street and the Lower Great Highway. They use large wooden, hand-crafted chess pieces on a chess board that’s five-feet by five-feet. Someone pooped on the board and nobody has cleaned it up, not since the last time I looked. 

If you want to know about the title for this piece, it’s from a song by the white working class rock band, Creedence Clearwater Revival. The song is titled “Willie and the Poor Boys,” and along with “Bad Moon Rising” and “Fortunate Son,” it’s one of my favorite songs from the late 1960. The guys, my white working class guys, on the corner of Judah and La Playa aren’t poor and don’t play for nickels and dimes. They never shopped at Macy’s. Also, unlike the musicians in Creedence they are neither successful nor famous. But they are my comrades and I love ‘em dearly, far more dearly than I ever loved the unworking class store called Macy’s.