The 1989 Loma Prieta Earthquake, a Deadline, and "Beach Blanket Babylon"

We heard it before we felt it: a low, otherworldly moan.

I looked around the fifth floor conference room, quickly searching the faces of the dozen or so people seated around the long table. I was looking for clues; their eyes told me they’d heard it too. But did the sound mean what we thought it meant?

It did.

Within two, maybe three seconds, the shaking began. In the two years I’d lived in California, I’d experienced two similar quivers — one of which awakened me in a Disneyland hotel room, of all places. While those earlier quakes had died down quickly, this one kept rolling and then suddenly gained great force, like a Tropical Depression that sprouted within seconds into a Category 5 hurricane.

I looked into the eyes of the others in the conference room again, and whereas before I’d seen alertness, I now saw alarm. We knew what to do. Get under the table. Move away from windows. Stand in the doorway. The shaking lasted about 15 minutes, it felt; but later, we learned it was only about 15 seconds.

It was 5:04 p.m. on Wednesday, October 17, 1989, and we’d just experienced what would come to be called the Loma Prieta earthquake, 6.9 magnitude on the Richter scale.

The Marina district after the 1989 earthquake. Credit: AP

Immediately after those soul-rattling 15 seconds, no one spoke. We just looked at each other, unsure what to say or do. There was no sense of panic. Nothing had fallen from the ceiling; the large plate-glass windows hadn’t cracked; we heard no cries for help. The only thing that had changed was that the overhead lights had gone out. At the moment, the lights were superfluous anyway, as golden sunlight streamed through the windows on what had been a spectacular ‘Indian summer’ San Francisco day.

“Is everyone OK?,” I asked.

“Yes,” someone said. Others nodded their heads in agreement.

Thank God, I thought, because I had a fast-approaching deadline to make.

The Judges Went Back to Judging

The conference room occupants were there because I’d asked them there. I was a features editor at Publish, a magazine focused on desktop publishing — the use of Macs and to a lesser degree PCs to create and publish printed materials. I was in charge of the magazine’s annual desktop publishing awards, and I’d spent months corralling this panel of desktop publishing experts to judge hundreds of entries in dozens of categories. I didn’t know what I’d do if we had to call it off. I panicked, not because of the earthquake, but because I didn’t want anything to prevent me from making my deadline.

“Does everyone want to continue?,” I asked, and then half-heartedly added, “It’s OK if you need to leave.”

No one wanted to leave, or at least, no one said they wanted to leave. After a few minutes, the judges went back to judging. I breathed a sigh of relief.

My Intuition Told Me: Try the Fax Machine

I don’t often trust my intuition, even though it has time and again served me well. This is probably because, like my late mother, I tend to overreact. I imagine the worst-possible scenario, and then, once it’s in my head, it’s all I can think about. But on this afternoon, I relied on my intuition.

I excused myself from the conference room, walked over to my desk, and picked up the phone. As expected, there was no dial tone. The telephone lines were down because the office phone system required power to work, and the power was out.

My next move was to the fax machine. Because it wasn’t part of the office telephone system, my intuition told me its phone line might still be operational. I picked up the receiver and heard a dial tone. I looked around, surprised no one else had thought to do this.

I dialed Nick’s office number multiple times but each time heard an “all circuits are busy” recording. Trying not to worry about him, but not succeeding, the next call I made was to my parents in North Carolina. My mother answered after the third ring.

“Mom, I can’t talk long,” I said. “And I don’t want you and Dad to worry, but we’ve had an earthquake.”

“Oh my God!,” my mother yelped.

“I’m OK, everything’s fine, but it felt like a strong one and the power’s out, and I didn’t want y’all to worry about me if you hear something on the news.”

“I just knew this would happen!,” she said. “I feel like you moved to the moon!”

Two of my co-workers must have overheard me on the fax machine phone, as they were now standing behind me, waiting to use it. “I’ve gotta go,” I said. “I’ll call you back soon. Again, please don’t worry about me, I’m fine.”

I returned to the conference room, where my judges continued to sift through the organized piles of entries. “If anyone needs to use the phone, the fax machine line is working,” I said. No one took me up on the offer.

The Bay Bridge Collapsed!

Minutes later, David, a young editorial assistant, popped his head into the conference room. In one ear, he had an earbud, attached to a portable AM/FM radio.

“The Bay Bridge collapsed!” he informed us.

At this news, two of my judges left to join the line now snaking around the fax machine phone. I asked the others if they wanted to keep working and, God love them, they said yes.

Eventually we could see black smoke billowing on the horizon — we later learned of major fires breaking out in the Marina district. And yet, the judges stayed amazingly focused. Whether it was out of denial or a sense of duty, or both, they worked until they finished. And it was just in time, as the fading sunlight had rendered the conference room too dim to do much of anything but fumble our way out.

A War Zone

I drove home that night through what looked like a war zone. Helicopters chopped the air overhead. Broken glass, everywhere. Traffic lights, not working. Buildings, dark. People ambled about zombie-like, not knowing where to go or what to do.

When I finally arrived at our Glen Park apartment, Nick was already home, having made the treacherous drive from his Santa Clara office some 40 miles south. It took him more than two hours to make what was typically a 45-minute drive.

Nick was relieved to see me but wondered why it had taken me so long to get home, given that my office was in the city? I explained the need to stay with the judges until they finished their work, so I could meet my deadline. “I was so worried about you!,” he said, relieved but also understandably miffed. He described his experience — most notably, witnessing the water slosh out of a fountain as the ground beneath it swayed from side to side.

Unexpected Free Time

In the following days, many people - including Nick and me - stayed home, as city inspectors wouldn’t allow anyone to enter public buildings until they’d been deemed safe. Thus, at a time when few people had laptops or cell phones, and when local phone service was spotty at best, many Bay Area residents were free to spend their days how they pleased. But it seemed no one knew what to do with their unexpected free time. We walked around our neighborhoods in a collective daze, clueless.

Speaking of being clueless. Nick and I had planned to spend the following weekend in Santa Cruz. Given the situation, we cancelled our plans. In our infinite wisdom, we decided that instead of going to Santa Cruz, we’d throw an earthquake survivors’ party for our friends. And where did we have the party? On a high floor in the Westin St. Francis hotel’s tower.

Not surprisingly, the hotel had had many cancellations and practically gave us a suite for pennies on the dollar. Several friends even showed up for our party, though everyone was glued to the walls, in case of aftershocks.

The Ground was Gaslighting Me

And there were aftershocks. Too many to count. The earthquake put everyone on edge and the frequent aftershocks kept us there. I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t think straight. I couldn’t discern an aftershock from a bus rumbling by outside. Everything seemed to be rattling. Or was it? The ground was gaslighting me.

Early one morning, for instance, I went into the bathroom to pee. I heard, or thought I heard, a gentle tapping sound. I made myself as still and quiet as possible. Was I imagining that sound? What the hell was it? Then I realized: the two sliding glass shower doors were gently tapping together. It was another aftershock. Or was I walking in my sleep? Thirty years later, I’m still not sure.

My Own Private Earthquake

Earthquakes happen because stress builds up underground and must be released. After 10 days of aftershocks, I experienced my own earthquake.

Nick and I decided to watch the televised resumption of the World Series, in which the San Francisco Giants were playing the Oakland As at Candlestick Park. Game three of the series had to be called off on Oct. 17 because of the earthquake, which occurred about 30 minutes before the game.

Ten days later, the World Series was set to resume. Nick and I were at home watching the re-opening ceremonies as Val Diamond, the magnanimous star of the long-running SF musical extravaganza “Beach Blanket Babylon,” came out with other cast members to sing “San Francisco,” the city’s unofficial anthem and the show’s rousing climax. 

Val Diamond in "Beach Blanket Babylon" Credit: Via magazine

Diamond, as she did in the show known for its outrageous hats, wore an elaborate replica of the city’s skyline on her head. I was riveted as she sang:

San Francisco, open your Golden Gate
You let no stranger wait
Outside your door
San Francisco, here is your wandering one
Saying I’ll wander no more

Maybe it was the fabulous hat that did it. Most likely, it was my love of San Francisco and how this moment represented a perfect expression of my love. Whatever it was, in that moment I experienced my own private earthquake. I burst into tears. After ten days of buildup, the stress had been released, if only for the moment.

From Disaster, Renewal

In 1989, I learned about the upside of disaster: that it paved a path for renewal.

In the years after the Loma Prieta quake, San Francisco blossomed. Ugly freeway overpasses — most notably the one that marred the Embarcadero shoreline — were demolished because they’d become structurally unsound and too impractical to repair. With the overpasses gone, new developments materialized in their place.

The city planted elegant Canary Island palms along the Embarcadero. A new rail line transported passengers up and down the waterfront thoroughfare in vintage trolley cars the city acquired from around the world. The San Francisco Giants built a new ballpark at the foot of the renewed Embarcadero, and just south of it, an entirely new neighborhood (Mission Bay) eventually materialized. You might even indirectly credit the 1989 earthquake for the brand-new Chase Center — home of the Golden State Warriors.

The revitalized Embarcadero Credit: SFMTA

Nick and I were lucky. We were uninjured and there was no damage to our apartment, except for a minor crack in the outside hallway ceiling and an old paperback that fell off a high shelf and split into two. Others weren’t so lucky. The earthquake killed about 67 people (reports differ) and caused $6 billion in damages. Though the Bay Bridge didn’t collapse, a section of it did, killing several people. For years after, I could always tell where the collapse had occurred because as I drove over the rumble-strip replacement section, my car, if not my soul, rattled.

I Learned Something Else, Too

Seven years earlier, Adrienne Ivey, a colleague of mine at the Roanoke Rapids Daily Herald, had written a column about me when I was leaving the paper to take a job in Charleston. In it she wrote, and I paraphrase, that I was a delightful person and she’d enjoyed watching me develop into a good reporter and writer, but that I lacked survival skills.

She was half-joking and I didn’t take offense, because there was truth in what she wrote. But in experiencing my first major earthquake — and still meeting my deadline despite it — I knew Adrienne’s assessment of me was no longer accurate.

Two Bumbling Southerners with Big City Dreams

As many times as I’ve seen it, All About Eve never fails to take me back to my first trip with Edward, to New York City for New Year’s Eve, 1980-81.

At the time, we were in our early 20s, terribly naïve, and woefully underfunded. The weather was bitterly cold, windy, snowy off and on. And we had a fabulous time, especially laughing at each other’s social gaffes.

My faux pas occurred in the dressing room of a men’s store in the Village. I‘d tried on a pair of jeans and, when the snooty young sales assistant asked me how they fit, I asked what I thought was a reasonable question.

“Will they draw up?”

He launched one overly plucked eyebrow into the air like a missile. “I’m sorry?”

Thinking he must have not heard me, I repeated my question, only louder. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Edward a few feet away, rearranging his mouth into a small ‘o’ in an effort not to laugh out loud.

“What are you trying to ask me?” the sales clerk demanded to know.

Finally, I realized the problem. This Yankee didn’t speak Southern. So I translated my original question into, “Will the jeans shrink when I wash them?” To compound my humiliation, the clerk sighed and pointed to a label on the outside of the jeans: “Pre-shrunk.”

In my peripheral vision, I could see Edward’s right hand race to make an emergency landing over his mouth, to stifle a guffaw. It was a struggle for me to politely hand the jeans back to the haughty clerk and walk calmly out of the store with Edward. Once outside, we hooted and howled, leaning against each other, barely able to walk.

Bergdorf’s Doesn’t Have a Roadkill Section

Edward’s turn came when he insisted on visiting the Bergdorf Goodman fur department.

The department, which at the time was the store’s largest, was as quiet as a church sanctuary. Not knowing what to do, I stood more or less still, watching Edward reverently inspect and finger the garments, as if he had done this before, which of course, he never had.

A young male sales clerk — practically the twin to the arched-eyebrow edition in the Village — approached me. I barely breathed, fearful of committing another faux pas.

“May I help you?” he wondered.

“No thank you,” I replied, mischievously adding that my companion could use some assistance. I pointed to Edward, who was out of hearing range. The all-black-wearing sales associate smiled wearily and aimed himself in the direction of the unsuspecting Edward. I followed, to eavesdrop upon the exchange.

“Good afternoon,” the sales clerk began. “Which type of fur are you interested in?”

The question took Edward by surprise. I could see the thought bubbles popping over his head. After a brief hesitation, he responded, in his best attempt at a refined accent, “Do you have anything in…varmint?”

I could not believe my ears. Nor, apparently, could the stunned sales clerk. He thought for a second. “Could you possibly mean marmot?”

Edward’s face paled. “I’m so sorry, yes, that’s what I meant. Marmot.”

The clerk happily flashed a condescending smile. “I’m afraid Bergdorf Goodman doesn’t carry marmot.”

“What were you thinking?,” I asked Edward once we’d escaped the fur salon. “Why did you ask for varmint? Did you expect Bergdorf’s fur department to have a roadkill section?”

“I couldn’t think!” Edward replied. “I was so…intimidated!”

Between us, the response became infamous. Over the years to come, when one of us would commit a gaffe, the other would sometimes say that “Bergdorf Goodman doesn’t carry varmint” or simply, “varmint.”

All About Eve and Big City Dreams

The next afternoon would be our last before heading back to North Carolina: Edward to Charlotte, me to Greensboro. A fresh snowfall slowed Manhattan traffic but not much else. I’d discovered in the newspaper that there was a Marilyn Monroe film festival happening at Carnegie Hall Cinema. The double feature that afternoon/early evening was All About Eve, in which Marilyn had a minor but memorable role as an ambitious starlet, and Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, one of her first big starring successes.

I’d never seen Eve but knew its stellar reputation, so I suggested to Edward that we go. Eagerly, he agreed.

On that late Sunday afternoon, as snow fell and the loud city grew quiet, we ventured into the faded elegance of the movie house tucked into a Carnegie Hall corner. The sold-out audience, primarily gay men, was enthusiastic and excited, almost as if Eve, released in 1950, were being screened for the first time. There was a collective excitement, a shared bond among strangers that was unlike anything I’d experienced in a movie theater.

During that screening, Edward and I both realized that, despite still being naïve North Carolinians, we were having, at last, a taste of our big city dreams.

The audience roared its approval at the film’s deliciously delivered lines, of which “Fasten your seat belts” is but one of many. We were to quote Eve to each other often in the future. We knew many lines by heart: “One good burp and you’ll be rid of that Miss Caswell.” “Neither your name nor your performance entered into the conversation.” “Enchanté to you, too!”

Or this exchange between Bette Davis and Thelma Ritter:

Thelma: “Voilà!”

Bette: “That French ventriloquist taught you a lot.”

Thelma: “It was nothing he didn’t know.”

Bette and Thelma laugh about 'that French ventriloquist'

We repeated that exchange so many times through the years, the shorthand became “voilà!” to which the other would unfailingly respond with some quip about “that French ventriloquist.”

That French Ventriloquist

Edward and I (and often Nick) took many trips together over the next 30+ years, including a tour of Italy and Switzerland that, at one point, required Edward to anxiously steer a stick-shift car over the Alps.

Two bumblers in Venice (1992)

Fast forward to Ft. Lauderdale, February 2016. It was the night before Edward and I were to begin an RSVP Caribbean cruise, which would become the last trip we'd take together.

I hadn’t seen him in at least six months, and the toll that the many years of debilitating pain and memory-impairing painkillers had taken on him had become for me suddenly, agonizingly apparent.

As we were getting into an Uber to go to dinner, Edward wondered aloud if he’d remembered to bring his hotel room key. He dug into his pants pockets, to no avail, and then dove into his omnipresent Prada bag, found the key, and said, with an attempt at humor, ‘Voilà!”

Instinctively, I responded: “That French ventriloquist taught you a lot.”

Edward stared blankly at me. He didn’t get the reference. “All About Eve?” I prompted.

“What about it?” he wondered.

I didn’t respond at first, as I wasn’t sure how. “It meant nothing,” I said, without making eye contact. But the truth was, it had meant everything.

Edward Norman — The Unexpected Roommate with an Elizabeth Arden Fixation

Before I met Edward Norman, I resented the hell out of him.

It was February 1980. I was a college senior living in a compact campus apartment at the University of North Carolina, Charlotte. The apartment had four bedrooms, each barely large enough to accommodate a narrow single bed, a small writing desk, an armoire, and if you didn’t exhale, a package of Chiclets. My three roommates and I, all gay men aged 20 to 21, shared one toilet and one shower. Somehow, it worked, mostly because the four of us got along.

But one bright February morning before class — a Tuesday, I believe — my roommate Tom gathered us to make an announcement: “My best friend Edward is moving in with us. You’ll love him. He’s just like me.”

When I recovered from the shock, I had questions. Why was Edward moving in with us?

Answer: Edward has just been offered a job in Charlotte as a stylist and educator for a major beauty school. He was starting work immediately and the commute from his parents’ home, 90 minutes each way, was impractical.

Next question: When was Edward moving in?

Answer: Tomorrow.

And then, I wondered: Where would Edward store his clothes?

The answer: On a shower rod.

In our apartment, there was an odd bathroom layout with a toilet closet, two sinks running along the narrow hallway, and then a shower with two curtains. The first played the traditional role of a shower curtain, keeping the water from spraying beyond the skinny shower stall. When you finished showering, you stepped out on a small tiled drying area — which had its own curtain. That curtain’s job was to prevent others in the apartment from witnessing (and in our apartment, commenting upon) your toweling-off style. Edward’s clothes, Tom explained, would be placed on the exterior shower rod.

The day Edward arrived, I was hospitable but not overly welcoming. Frankly, I wasn’t happy about a fifth addition to the cramped apartment, especially when I was told he would be moving in and not asked if he could.

The first thing I noticed about Edward was how many clothes he was lugging into the apartment. And what clothes they were: bold silk shirts, primary-color pants, and shoes, shoes, shoes.

My next impression of Edward was formed by the vast skin care collection he sprawled across the long bathroom countertop. Elizabeth Arden this, Jergens that. Under-eye creams. Face toners. Face moisturizers. Hair care products, most of which I’d never seen before. Concealers. Foundation. An eyebrow curler.

Over the next few days, Edward worked long hours and I barely saw him. But the clothes! There was no escaping them! I had to squeeze through them to take a shower and again to exit the shower.

My resentment grew.

That Sunday afternoon, the five of us were lounging around the living room. I was on one side of the room, Edward on another, closest to the front door. He wore his brown bathrobe, which perfectly matched the color of his hair, which was, of course, dyed. His face was green—a beauty mask of some kind.

I could hear that our hopelessly straight frat boy neighbors were holding a beer bash. We’d all kept our distance from them, not wanting to incite homophobic catcalls.

And then, a wicked idea popped into my head.

“Edward,” I said sweetly. “Would you mind getting the newspaper? It’s on the doorstep.”

Edward seemed surprised that I’d specifically asked him for this favor. He, too, couldn’t have helped hearing the rowdy frat boys looming just beyond the door. Perhaps he realized I was daring him. Or maybe he was just trying to make nice with his new roommate. Either way, he rose up, stepped outside, bent down, and picked up the Sunday Charlotte Observer.

It should be noted that our front door was all glass, like the kind of door you’d push past to enter a store.. I could see Edward in all his Sunday-is-my-spa-day glory, newspaper in hand.

I raced to the door and locked it.

My roommates hooted. There was Edward, all brown bathrobe and green face, tapping on the door, mouthing the words “Let me in.” Unable to contain my laughter, I shook my head, “no.” Around this time the frat boys became aware of him. The homophobic catcalls began.

I don’t recall how long I made him stand outside. Probably 15 seconds, but I’m sure to him it felt like 15 days. At last, I let him in.

Once inside, I expected Edward to be angry at me — who wouldn’t have been? To my astonishment, he laughed as heartily as the rest of us. He genuinely appeared to have enjoyed the joke I played on him.

My resentment toward him dissolved into admiration. I’ve always adored people who are the first to have a good laugh at themselves and their predicaments. To me, it’s the polar opposite of pretentiousness, which I loathe.

That Sunday night, after the lock-out prank, my close, unwavering friendship with Edward began in earnest and continued for 36 years, despite our geographical distances, until his death in October 2016.

On that Sunday night in February 1980, I stood at the shared sink, having just brushed my teeth. I couldn’t help but marvel at all of the skin care products running along the countertop when Edward approached. He carefully explained to me what the products were for and why, even though I was only 22, I should start using under-eye cream immediately. He illustrated the correct way to apply it—dotting under and around the eye with a pinkie, never rubbing.

“One day,” he said with a wry smile, “you’ll thank me for this.”



It didn't take long for Edward (left) to influence my fashion style. Here we are, preparing for New Year's Eve in Manhattan, circa 1980-81