Section 2 - Brad Messer as a black man in 1969

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Station Takeover!

Package of shirts in hand, I strolled back to the radio station and into the lobby.

The receptionist, who was a very good friend, gave me quite a look. I had told everyone that I was going to take a few hours off to turn black, yet she obviously didn't recognize me.

Without thinking, rather than identifying myself, I blurted out, "I demand to see the manager!"

I bolted past her down the hall toward Howard Kester's office.

Seeing is Believing

Howard certainly knew that I had taken off to get disguised because he was paying for it.

Barging into the office without a word, I plopped into his guest chair, ready for him to say something complimentary about my makeup.

He said nothing. Howard did not recognize me.

Feeling rather invincible behind my Negro #2 and sunglasses, on a wild hair I said sternly, "I am here to take over this radio station!"

His eyes widened. They rolled back.

"Ooooohhhhhhhh NOOOOOooooo!" he moaned.

Kester arced his head straight forward into his desktop. His forehead impacted with a hollow little thwock sound. Like his spine had disintegrated.

Staring across at 25 square inches of executive scalp, I smirked and realized this disguise might provide me a whole lot of entertainment.

"Howard, it's me! Brad! This is the makeup!"

"Ooooohhhhhhh," he wailed again into his blotter. Nothing I had said had penetrated. He saw, he believed.

His panic at the likelihood of some sort of Black Panther sit-in disaster had rendered San Francisco's top radio executive temporarily deaf and uncomprehending.

Yeah, this might really be fun.

Getting Out and About

San Francisco's most colorful music promoter was a guy named Pete who was independently wealthy and was often overcome by spontaneous jubilation.

Everyone liked Pete.

He was chauffeured around The City in his stretch limo that had two car phones— one for him, of course, and the other for his driver, who could legitimately answer the phone and tell the caller that his boss was "on the other line right now."

One could not be cooler than that on a car phone.

Pete had reserved a hall at the Conservatory of Flowers for a party and had invited a couple hundred of his closer friends. The place would be awash with influence, money, drugs, sex and of course rock 'n' roll.

I told Pete that I'd be there, but on one condition: it'd be okay with him if I wore only $5 worth of clothes. This minor perversion appealed to him, and he agreed.

Outfitting a Bum

My black makeup was feeling a little less obviously fake. I went to a Salvation Army clothing store and spent just under five bucks for an entire outfit, including some odd-looking shoes which seemed the perfect touch for a bum.

When I showed up at the Conservatory, Pete greeted me as though I was his best friend. That was just his style. I could tell that he had no idea who this shabbily-dressed street person was. I had to grip his shoulder, force eye contact, and say my name. That helped.

The Blonde

My little group of radio friends went through the food line and stood visiting. A fairly killer-looking blonde came over and asked me whether I'd like some champagne. Sure. Off she went to get it. Would I like anything else? If the phrase "babe magnet" had been invented then, that's what I would have felt like. She stuck to me like glue. Me, a shabby black guy in funny shoes.

One thing led to another and we took a stroll in the park. She wanted to kiss me. It was time to come clean. "I am not what you think I am," I said. "I am really a white man. I am not black. This is makeup. It's a disguise. I have to explain that because you seem like a nice person and I don't want to deceive you."

Standing there in the night, she looked deeply into my sunglasses (!) and said, "Wow. That's even cooler!"

[ FADE ]

I'm usually a quiet, unassuming guy. Among friends I loosen up, but otherwise keep a low profile. Not a babe magnet.

In my Black Man disguise, white women sought me out. I began to believe that some women are attracted to black men because of skin color. Maybe, maybe not. In my shades, with my Afro, virtually never smiling, always wearing black clothes, I was a different person in many more ways than just skin color. I appeared to be a darker personality, you might say.

People got out of my way on the sidewalks. Although I was still exactly the same height and build, sidewalk traffic parted for me. That never, ever happened when I was white.

I don't think the difference was color: it was the perception of my personality. That's what I believe attracted women.

Things certainly reverted to normal when I reverted to white.

If I get around to putting some more effort into this little report, remind me to tell you about

selling newspapers with the Black Panthers and trying to get in trouble with the cops
being turned down for a hotel room and being taught how to get around the front desk
sitting at a table at Enrico's in North Beach with three other black guys (who believed I was black, too) closely inspecting and comparing our hands
asking for directions in a polite manner and being shied away from by two frightened white women
getting terrible service at a restaurant just because I was black... except that turned out to not be the reason
hearing stories from an old black man about spending his youth in the South, planning driving trips by knowing where "black gas" was available

BACK TO PART ONE

Package of shirts in hand, I strolled back to the radio station and into the lobby.

The receptionist, who was a very good friend, gave me quite a look. I had told everyone that I was going to take a few hours off to turn black, yet she obviously didn't recognize me.

Without thinking, rather than identifying myself, I blurted out, "I demand to see the manager!"

I bolted past her down the hall toward Howard Kester's office.

Howard certainly knew that I had taken off to get disguised because he was paying for it.

Barging into the office without a word, I plopped into his guest chair, ready for him to say something complimentary about my makeup.

He said nothing. Howard did not recognize me.

Feeling rather invincible behind my Negro #2 and sunglasses, on a wild hair I said sternly, "I am here to take over this radio station!"

His eyes widened. They rolled back.

"Ooooohhhhhhhh NOOOOOooooo!" he moaned.

Kester arced his head straight forward into his desktop. His forehead impacted with a hollow little thwock sound. Like his spine had disintegrated.

Staring across at 25 square inches of executive scalp, I smirked and realized this disguise might provide me a whole lot of entertainment.

"Howard, it's me! Brad! This is the makeup!"

"Ooooohhhhhhh," he wailed again into his blotter. Nothing I had said had penetrated. He saw, he believed.

His panic at the likelihood of some sort of Black Panther sit-in disaster had rendered San Francisco's top radio executive temporarily deaf and uncomprehending.

Yeah, this might really be fun.

San Francisco's most colorful music promoter was a guy named Pete who was independently wealthy and was often overcome by spontaneous jubilation.

Everyone liked Pete.

He was chauffeured around The City in his stretch limo that had two car phones— one for him, of course, and the other for his driver, who could legitimately answer the phone and tell the caller that his boss was "on the other line right now."

One could not be cooler than that on a car phone.

Pete had reserved a hall at the Conservatory of Flowers for a party and had invited a couple hundred of his closer friends. The place would be awash with influence, money, drugs, sex and of course rock 'n' roll.

I told Pete that I'd be there, but on one condition: it'd be okay with him if I wore only $5 worth of clothes. This minor perversion appealed to him, and he agreed.

Outfitting a Bum

My black makeup was feeling a little less obviously fake. I went to a Salvation Army clothing store and spent just under five bucks for an entire outfit, including some odd-looking shoes which seemed the perfect touch for a bum.

When I showed up at the Conservatory, Pete greeted me as though I was his best friend. That was just his style. I could tell that he had no idea who this shabbily-dressed street person was. I had to grip his shoulder, force eye contact, and say my name. That helped.

The Blonde

Standing there in the night, she looked deeply into my sunglasses (!) and said, "Wow. That's even cooler!"

[ FADE ]

If I get around to putting some more effort into this little report, remind me to tell you about

selling newspapers with the Black Panthers and trying to get in trouble with the cops

being turned down for a hotel room and being taught how to get around the front desk

sitting at a table at Enrico's in North Beach with three other black guys (who believed I was black, too) closely inspecting and comparing our hands

asking for directions in a polite manner and being shied away from by two frightened white women

getting terrible service at a restaurant just because I was black... except that turned out to not be the reason

hearing stories from an old black man about spending his youth in the South, planning driving trips by knowing where "black gas" was available

Brad, February 2009

BACK TO PART ONE