Hard Times Getting Better – West San Carlos Street

After the fire, little remained of the Club’s furnishings; most of what was left was soiled. It was fortunate that one of the members, Harvie W., was an insurance agent and had convinced the members of the need for protection against this sad event. Another member, Bill B., ran an accounting and tax service out of his garage and had the Club assets on IBM punch cards. Before turning in a claim, though, the value was inflated somewhat to make the best of a bad situation: thus a thousand-dollar list became a $3,500 payoff. It seemed the right thing to do under the circumstances.

The members were advised that they wouldn’t be allowed to return once the building on Almaden Avenue was repaired, so a new place had to be found. Another member, Dean Mc., leased a warehouse on West San Carlos Street across from Sears with a vacant space on the ground floor, with his living quarters above. He had his own Higher Power, and everyone knew it. Al E., Secretary of a meeting on the East-side, tried once to get him to lead in the Lord’s Prayer, and Dean abruptly told him “I don’t say that — —- thing!”. Al never did that again, but Dean showed his faith by letting the Club use the downstairs area in his warehouse as their club-room. With a place to move to, the only thing left was the physical move. Jim C. went to the different meetings around town asking for volunteers with pick-up trucks and a strong back. There were so many eager hands rose that he had to cut it off at 25 volunteers. All the volunteers were to meet early Saturday morning–at the old clubhouse. At 8 AM, Jim waited beside his flatbed truck with Bill B. for the others to show up. A little later, Roy showed up and this small band turned to moving. Roy, who wasn’t even an alcoholic, and the others, were willing to do for the good of the many.

After the comfort and spaciousness of the Almaden Club, West San Carlos was pretty bleak. The few chairs and tables scattered here and there helped. Some of the insurance money went to recover a couch and chair in red. One member had a counter from a store downtown in his backyard for ten dollars; the counter that once served downtown customers became the coffee bar for the few that remained loyal to the Club. The Twelve Steps from the Padre Theater Club survived, adding a touch of sobriety to the atmosphere.

Two pinball machines graced the sidewalls, ringing their bells to the pleasure and displeasure of the pinball wizards. The nickels were emptied every night and hid in a different place each time for security. That didn’t deter those with a rigorous desire for easy money. Many a time on opening the Club, a trail of broken matches marked the efforts of thieves searching in the dark for this small treasure, ending when the hunt was over, and the money taken. Jim C. finally put an end to this by pouring the nickels into two cigar boxes, carrying them home at night, returning them for the next day’s games.

The membership dwindled to just 13 dues paying members, the others unwilling to hang in for better or for worse. This small group knew what had to be done, and set out once again on a search for the “right place.” Harold P. and Jim C. drove all over town searching. Jules and Zella D. scouted the streets for a likely spot. Days and weeks of diligent effort finally paid off – a suitable building on Minnesota Ave. in Willow Glen was located. Now the task of getting a rental agreement began. The Mormon Church owned the property, and any rental had to be approved out of Salt Lake. The request was submitted and the waiting game began. Would they, or wouldn’t they? Finally, after a couple of months the answer came back – It’s O.K.!

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