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Robinson made no effort to conceal his pimp history. He's long driven a red Jaguar convertible to work with the personalized license plate "JStarr." And Muni sometimes feels to operators like one big family. In fact, in many cases it is one big family -- Robinson's son, stepbrother, and stepsister all work for Muni.
"It's like Peyton Place," Robinson joked.
During his election campaign, Robinson even staged a "Mack of the Year Party" at an Oakland club. His mentor, Fillmore Slim, was given a pimping award and the scene was filmed for use in Robinson's documentary. (He isn't exactly using a cinéma vérité approach.)
Any lingering doubt about his past vanished after an Examiner reporter caught wind of the pimp shindig. The result was an article about Robinson's unusual blend of career aspirations, titled "Hustling for Union Post," published shortly before the election. He won anyway, by 22 votes.
"If anything, I think the notoriety and the publicity that he got actually helped him," said Robinson's stepbrother Leon Burleson, also a Muni driver. Woods manager Larry Garnes said Robinson's past is a non-issue. "This is a country," he said, "of second chances."
Like many politicians', Robinson's ambition is fueled by both a desire to do good and a quest for personal status. A self-confessed control and power freak, he said he doesn't see himself as "your typical bus driver: little bald-headed guy, little baseball hat." But in the same breath Robinson also spoke of his dream of starting a Muni outreach program to help needy children, the homeless, and senior citizens.
Garnes thinks Robinson's proposal is a good idea. Unfortunately, it comes at a time when Muni's budget -- like that of other city agencies -- is being cut. The funding will have to come from private grants -- or the program will have to wait.
In the meantime, Robinson must attend to less creative tasks, like handling union grievances and disciplinary proceedings.
"This job is more stressful and difficult than I thought," he said, after his constituents had left. "Be careful what you ask for, you might just get it!"
"Mr. Robinson didn't know the pressure of this office," Sherm said gleefully. "He do now!"
Robinson admitted that he seriously doubts if he would run for Woods chairman again, knowing what he knows now. But, he added: "This is a steppingstone to get downtown."
In any event, Robinson's co-workers now know even more about him. His book, The Gospel of the Game: Pimp Tales, Book One, is for sale on Amazon.com, along with the CD soundtrack to the documentary. Robinson bragged that he's already sold 300 copies of the book, many to Muni employees.
James Elliot Robinson knew from an early age that he wanted to mack.
He and his family -- mother, father, and older brother Ken -- moved to San Francisco from Houston when Robinson was a baby. Robinson described his dad as a "penny ante hustler" and alcoholic who was often in jail. Robinson's mother eventually divorced him and married a longshoreman with whom she settled in the Haight.
Robinson's stepfather had four kids from a previous marriage, and together they had what Robinson calls an African-American version of a stable, middle-class, Leave It to Beaver existence.
In the mid-'60s, however, the adolescent Robinson and his younger stepbrother, Leon Burleson, discovered the nearby Fillmore District, which by then was near the end of its heyday as a cultural and political hot spot for black San Franciscans. The neighborhood's historic jazz clubs had long hosted performances by Count Basie, Charlie Parker, and other musical greats. Though many of the old clubs soon would be torn down, the Fillmore still jumped with musicians, preachers, political activists, and, best of all, pretty girls with big teased hair.
But most intriguing to the brothers were the pimps, whose hairdo of choice was a perma-waved bouffant known as the Process. The neighborhood players trolled the streets in shiny Cadillacs, lovely ladies in every seat. They flashed wads of cash in pool halls and traded tall tales in barbershops.
"I seen guys with slick hair, big cars, and pretty girls," recalled Burleson, "and said, "This is what I want to do.'"
"Black people don't have a hell of a lot of heroes," said Robinson. "There weren't even a lot of black ballplayers back then. Who am I gonna look up to -- some skinny white guy with freckles? ... I wanted to be a pimp!"
In junior high school, the brothers spent virtually all their free time in the Fillmore, trying to get closer to their idols. Burleson landed a job selling the black weekly paper the Sun Reporter, and Robinson shined shoes at barbershops.
One Christmas, someone asked the kids in their family what they wanted to be when they grew up. Burleson, then 11, piped up, "I want to be a pimp with a Process and a blue Cadillac by the time I'm 15!"
There was shocked silence. Then their father asked, "Why 15?"
Burleson wasn't too far off. By the time he and Robinson entered the now-defunct Polytechnic High School, across from Kezar Stadium, they were dressing like pimps, hanging out in bars with pimps, and prowling continually for women who would turn tricks for them. Occasionally they were successful.
The summer he was 15, Burleson convinced a 14-year-old girl he knew who had run away from home to stay with him. "My sisters were at camp," said Burleson. "I'd hide her in the closet in the day, and she'd go out and work at night."
