The Elephant and Butter

When my brother and I run out of things to talk about, we talk about a city: Oakland. I used to live there, he lives there now, and we both have an understanding of the world that is heavily spatial -- we can't resist good alleys and keep track of all buildings. The other night we spoke on the phone.

"Remember that 24-hour diner near the auto dealerships?" I asked. 

He didn't know what I was talking about.

"The one with pay phones in each booth?"

Nothing. His formative years were spent in the delta, not Oakland.

"I once hugged that building."

I was referring to J J 's, née Biff's. The building was circular and had a shingled roof that hid its true self. When first built, though, the diner looked like a particle accelerator. Pictures of it show a metallic disc-like roof almost levitating over the wrap-around glass windows. Googie architecture, as some call it. Populuxe. A bit hyperactive. It was the type of building that told you it had left everything behind -- all of mucky human history. French fries to the future!

For a while in our early 20s, some friends and I would go there at midnight for fries. The waiting area would be packed with couples just disgorged from the local night clubs: men in six-button purple suits and alligator print Stacey Adams wingtips, women in wrap-ruffle dresses and spiky church hats. It was awesome, and we rarely minded waiting over a half hour for one of the circular booths. Once seated, we'd order our coffee and fries, and talk for hours. Later I tried to save the life of this diner, but failed.

Chevron, it turned out, owned the land, and wanted to replace the aged restaurant with a combination gas station and McDonald's -- they called it a McChevron. Apparently they felt Oakland really needed this innovative combination of gasoline and fast food. Some local citizens preferred the Texas Toast on the J J's menu, and formed a restoration-minded group called Friends of J J's. Somehow I found myself on their mailing list, and when they announced a protest, I showed up ready for revolution. A number of other provocateurs showed up, too, many of them senior citizens from the neighborhood, and we made a powerful gesture of defiance: we hugged the building. That was the idea, at least. We were supposed to form a lasso around J J's holding each other's hands. I seem to recall not having enough people to reach all the way around. Our hug was a crescent that rotated lamely around the building -- the comb-over of hugs. I prefer my hugs to be all-encompassing, not half-hugs or Christian side hugs. When I embrace a building, I motherfuckin want to mean it.

The hug didn't work. The planning commission eventually gave Chevron enough trouble to prompt them to sell the property, but it took a few years to sort out the the issues of usage and ownership. In the meantime, J J's shut down. The city moved on. I have no idea where young people now go in the middle of the night for fries.