La Mamelle Arts Center, 3rd Floor, 70 12th Street at Market
We drove back to San Francisco for an afternoon cocktail party, and looking back after the events that took place, I would say San Francisco seemed empty […] I was standing alone near Farley’s car, the blue 1951 Studebaker of the future, when two guys suddenly walked up to me wearing handkerchief-style masks like cattle rustlers […] They grabbed my arms. I resisted, but they forced me toward their car parked at the curb. A car behind me peeled around the corner. At first I considered going, thinking they were pretending. Then in a frightening realization it hit me that they were forcefully (forcefully!) trying to stuff me in their car. I knew they weren’t Arab terrorists because they drove a red pinto. What serious kidnappers would use an economy car, a two door to give them trouble doubling up their victim, putting him in the backseat? I kicked the door closed to gain time. Protesting against my struggle, they kept repeating loudly that they were friends. “Fuck all,” I hope I screamed, “my friends are kind, they treat me like I’m running for the Prince of North America.” (I have been spoiled)
I had been holding a tape recorder, but it fell on the sidewalk and stuck on Record. All this was happening so quickly I feel frustrated trying to put it into words. Words are slow, fear is fast. Adrenaline rushes in where the memory returns reluctantly. When the equipment hit the cement, that’s when I began to get serious. But we were merely fifteen feet and ten seconds from where it all began, so I probably would have begun swinging at that point in any case.
Farley came out and took three-quarters of a second to read the HELP! In my eyes.“Oh, yeah. Try this!” He turned into Bluto before my very eyes. Between the two of the Bader-Meinhof players fled the scene in their Pinto. I think they were surprised that I didn’t go. (Darling 1980: 196)