We continue Zebra:The True Account of the 179 Days of Terror in San Francisco by Clark Howard,today's entry covers the days events of Day 37...

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On Sunday morning, November 25, 1973, Anthony sat up on the side of his lumpy bed at the Empress and reached for his trousers. He pulled them partway on while sitting, as he had become accustomed to doing in the narrow confines of a prison cell, then stood up and pulled them the rest of the way on and fastened them. There was no window in his room; he had to walk down the hall to look out and see what kind of day it was. On this particular morning, looking out the window at the end of the hall, he saw that it was drizzling rain. Eddy Street, two stories below, was gray and gloomy-looking. "Shit," Anthony muttered. That kind of weather depressed him.

He shuffled back to his room, wondering what time it was. As he passed the hall bathroom, he saw that it was occupied, the door closed. He went into his room and urinated in the sink in the corner. Then ran cold water until the smell went away, and washed his face. Putting on his shirt and shoes, he went down to the lobby and looked at a plug-in Westclox behind the desk. It was quarter of ten. Anthony crossed to a pay phone on the far wall. He called Black Self Help Moving, where he worked, to see if Larry Green was around.

"Black Self Help," a cool, even voice answered.

"Who speaking?" Anthony asked.

"Man, you called here. Who you want?"

"Larry. Is Larry around?"

"No, he's not here. Who's this.?"

"This Anthony."

"Anthony, my man," the voice replied cheerfully, "what's shaking? This is J.C."

J.C. was J. C. Simon, a handsome, swaggering black with his hair cut bowl-shape on his head, no sideburns.

"What's happening down there, man?" Anthony asked.

"The place is dead, brother," J.C. replied. "I'm the onliest one around. What you doing?"

"Nothing. I ain't doing nothing."

J.C. lowered his voice. "How'd you like to go out with me for a while?" he asked conspiratorially.

"Out where?"

"Oh, just out," J.C. said vaguely.

"I don't know, man." Anthony was immediately uncomfortable with his answer. He was rapidly running out of excuses not to go out with the men from Black Self Help when he was invited. Too much time had passed for him to continue saying that he was fresh out of prison and adjusting. And to continue to play being a nervous newlywed wouldn't wash anymore, either; it was common knowledge that he and Carolyn had split.

"How about it, brother?" J.C. pressed.

"Sure, man," said Anthony.

"All right!"

"Can you come get me? It's raining out."

"Right on. You still at the Empress?"

"Yeah, right."

"Be down in the lobby in a half hour. I'll be driving the van."
https://exploringrealhistory.blogspot.com/2019/05/part-3-zebrathe-true-account-of-179.html