The Last Spotted Owl - Installment One

"Stop or I'll shoot," yelled Otis.

When Otis Fensel yelled, "Stop or I'll shoot," every teenage boy in town knew to stop running.  If he yelled it the second time, Otis felt more or less obliged to go on ahead and shoot you.  Otis was a fair shot, putting three boys in the hospital while on the force.

Since Otis had only yelled, and had not yet taken the shot, John kept running.

John Mack looked like that bulldog hood ornament you see on the trucks that bear his name.  Running down an alley while carrying a 1957 Chevy transmission, and his tools, was testament to both his genetics and growing up in North Idaho.

The second warning and the first shot hit John simultaneously.  Evidently Otis felt threatened by this young man running away in the dark.  The boy was after all carrying a transmission and might well have thrown it at him causing a nasty bump.  So, lethal force was demanded and right soon.

John kept running.

Otis got pissed!  Guys are supposed to stop when he yells, "Stop."  He's the police!  They're sure as heck supposed to stop when he shoots 'em!  So, he shot him again!  Then he yelled, "Halt or I'll shoot you again, you sombitch!"

John kept running.  He slowed down considerably but he kept running just the same.

Otis drew a fine bead on John's back.  There were 75 feet between them now, maybe 85.  John dropped his tools but kept moving and clutching the transmission.  Otis let out one more, "Stop, or by God I'll shoot you dead!"  A short pause, a deep breath, a loud crack, and John dropped the transmission.

John stopped running.

It took four days for John to get the transmission back into the 57 Chevy.  Three of those days he was in the hospital though.  Day five he was back in school.  He was pretty embarrassed by the whole episode.  Now he'd have to go to court with his Dad.

The owner of the 57 Chevy was not pressing charges since John put the transmission back.  Still, John had done some damage to three of Otis Fensel's bullets, and the bullets were city property after all, so John would have to face the consequences in a court of law.

Otis' girlfriend was a waitress at the restaurant where I washed dishes.  Whenever he came in through the kitchen for a visit I would dive under the prep sink and yell, "Don't shoot me, Otis!"  It was always good for a laugh and better yet on those occasions when Otis would pull his gun on me.  We'd laugh; he'd help me up, and then give his gal a smooch.

These were the kinds of people and the sorts of events that surrounded my formative years.  This is the story of the year I was 16, the most important year of my life, the greatest year of the 20th Century, 1968.

January had already seen the start of one of the bitterest fights in Vietnam at Khe Sanh.  The Marines were outnumbered and under constant siege, but held their ground.  The media sided with the Viet Cong, calling the battle "controversial."  A B-52 crashed in Greenland discharging 4 nuclear bombs.  A pivotal moment in TV occurred as "Laugh In" first aired that season.  The Tet Offensive began and the Viet Cong attacked the U.S. Embassy in Saigon.  Three college students were killed in South Carolina protesting a "White Only" Bowling Alley.  By the end of February Mister Rogers opened his neighborhood to America and Frankie Lymon was found dead from a heroin overdose in Harlem

Idaho winters can get cold.  Sometimes they'd pile the snow up in the middle of the main street, Sherman Avenue, 12 feet high; separating the East and West bound lanes.

It got particularly cold that winter over the pass of what would become I-90 between Coeur d'Alene and Wallace, Idaho.  Dry snowflakes became giants, collecting as they fell, and seemed to explode on the windshield.  Visibility was not good with all that powder reflected in the headlights so it was not uncommon to hit a roadside reflector from time to time.

On just such a night, Del Shaw and I had hit 39 reflectors in succession.  We were going for 40 when there came a thumping on the roof of the cab of the Fuck Truck.

Now, some moments must be spent on the Fuck Truck as it was a central character in many of the adventures of my 16th year.

Technically, the Fuck Truck was a 1956 Ford pickup. The bed had been chopped and the rear suspension beefed up for hauling trailers across country.  It could be outfitted with a tow-bar or with a 500 gallon barrel for spreading oil on dirt roads.  The bumpers were fabricated of railroad rails welded to the frame.  It had 7.50/15 dual tires on the rear, an 8,000 lb. PTO winch on the front, a flat-head six high-torque low-horsepower engine, and a "jimmy" that provided 12 speeds forward and 3 in reverse.  Put chains on the “dualies” and the Fuck Truck was, in a word, unstoppable.

The cab must have been red at some time and some old phone company lockers had been bolted on the rear and painted black.  One locker was the width of the truck and sufficient in depth and height to accommodate 3 kegs packed in ice with the taps running out of its top.

Every "kegger" party of distinction had been hosted by the Fuck Truck.  Parked at a campsite entrance off of some abandoned logging road, where fees of $3-$5 were collected, revelers knew the truck on sight.

There was a hand-held flagman's sign kept behind the seat in the cab.  On one side the sign read, "STOP" and on the other where it would normally read, "SLOW" it read, "FUCK."  That’s where the Fuck Truck got its name.

One time the cops showed up at a kegger hosted by the Fuck Truck.  On seeing the flashing lights, Del and I hopped in the cab and drove off into the woods, our nemesis Otis Fensel in hot pursuit.

When we came to a clearing we thought that meant we were in the clear.  About 50 yards into a farmer’s field we found ourselves axle deep in mud.  Otis got as far as the edge of the woods, knowing he could not enter the field; he ran his siren, fumbled with his spotlight and cursed at us over the loudspeaker.  We aimed the spotlight mounted the roof of the Fuck Truck at Otis, blinding him and giving him a target that was well above our heads.

In short order we had the chains on the Fuck Truck and plowed our way out of the muck while the bullets whizzed past and Otis made unkind remarks about our parentage.

The Fuck Truck did not belong to any single person as far as I can remember.  Word was that it was the property of "One-Shot" Charlie of Harrison, Idaho.  One-Shot had apparently loaned the truck to my Grandfather on the condition that it be returned if needed.  Its license plates came off of my Grampa’s Nash from 1963.  K9, the plate read.  K was the designation for Kootenai County, Idaho and 9 because Grampa was always the 9th fellow in line to buy new plates each year he was living.  It was the first vanity plate in Idaho.

The pounding on the cab roof was a predetermined signal that it was time to drain Uncle Wayne.

I stopped the truck on the shoulder of the highway just shy of reflector #40.  Del had been the designated "windshield wiper motor," working a pair of vise-grips, side to side under the dashboard that connected to the armature and drove the wipers.

We exited the cab and began to unlash a World War II vintage stretcher that was tied to the tops of the lockers.  Pivoting one end of the stretcher to the opposite side we were able to tilt one edge upward until it was nearly parallel to the side of the truck.  In short order a yellow stream emitted and landed warmly in the snow bank at the side of the road.

"How ya doin' Uncle Wayne?" I asked.  Wayne whined something agreeable.  I asked him if he needed anything.  He shook his bottle of pain pills, waved a half-empty pint of vodka in my direction and smiled his perennial smile.  We lashed him back up on top of the lockers, tucked him in and got back in the truck.  We were taking Uncle Wayne to Wallace to get him laid.

How Wayne came to break his back was not clear.  His body cast looked like a pair of plaster coveralls with shoulder straps, a functional opening to allow nature's calls, and legs to just below his calves.  Even bundled up as he was he looked like he was wearing iron plating.  With him in that cast, there was no way to get him into the cab of the truck.  Lashed to the lockers of the Fuck Truck he could be transported the necessary distance to Wallace and the comforts to be found there.

There were five brothels in downtown Wallace, all on the same street, all on the second floors, and with one exception all next door to one another on the same block.  The Lux, The Luxette, The Lucky, The Oasis, and The Arment Rooms had been open and serving the silver miners in Wallace and Kellogg, Idaho since the Civil War.  The Luxette was above the only 24 hour restaurant in town, located at the end of the street.  We were going to the Luxette.

Uncle Wayne was a short, fat, bald, myopic, long-haul trucker with a penchant for getting slit-eyed pretty much every day.  It was unknown whose uncle Wayne was but he was known to one and all as either "Uncle Wayne" or "Wayne Wino."  He was the most agreeable fellow one could hope to meet.  He even smiled in his sleep. 

When he slept it was usually on the floor of the Killian's living room with his head propped up on a 75 Lb. Bassett Hound named Amanda Jane.  Wayne would stretch out in front of the fireplace, lay his head on "Mandy," she would heave and fart and Wayne would smile.

Wayne had a custom tractor trailer rigged to haul sensitive electronics across country.  During the Vietnam War he hauled bombs to Fort Lewis or McChord Air Force Base in Washington State.  Sometimes he carried nuclear warheads to the submarine base in Bangor, Washington on Hood Canal.

Wayne always stopped in Bozeman, Montana on the last leg of his trips to have a few drinks to smooth out the rest of the road.  If it was Wednesday he would call the Killians and ask if someone could pick up a bottle of white and a bottle of brown for him.  He knew he couldn't make it to Coeur d’Alene before the state liquor store closed but if he pushed it a little he could be there in time to watch Kung Fu on TV.  So, there was Wayne, driving bombs across country, a little gassed, and ‘pushing it’ across America’s highways in order to get some place where he could do his serious drinkin’.

Wayne had broken his back and could not drive.  Del and I thought, given Wayne's dilemma, that it would be proper and Christian to take him to Wallace for a tune-up.  Del and I could not ourselves get service in Wallace as we were only 16 and 15 respectively but we could drive and help Wayne navigate the stairs once we arrived.

On our arrival, Wayne said he was hungry and since we were going to the Luxette anyway we stopped in the restaurant downstairs for burgers.  Waddling Wayne up the stairs to the Cafe' gave us an indication of what was in store when we would make the final ascent to the heavenly delights waiting above.

Once inside we propped Wayne up against the wall and took our seats next to him in a booth.  The waitress was friendly and very helpful with Wayne making him a little table with a tray and some fold-up legs used for serving.

The restaurant was warm and Wayne began to thaw, his glasses fogging up along with the windows.  When the door opened again it let in a gust of wind, a gale of laughter, and four very large, very cold, snowmobilers.  Snowmobilers in Idaho are very much like Bikers anywhere else, only colder.

Beards and moustaches frozen with snot and snoose, snow caked on up to the knees, hands frozen in the shape of claws from holding handle bars, hearing and equilibrium shot from the noise and vibration of engines; these are similarities between the two groups.

The point of difference with Snowmobilers is that which is missing; usually teeth and fingers.  Playing grab-ass with formerly hibernating bears at high speeds across the frozen landscape requires copious amounts of liquor.  You can't drink beer very well on a snowmobile but a couple of pints of Peppermint Schnapps or George Dickel single malt sour mash will fit very nicely in the breast pockets of snow suits and the contents will not freeze.

Ordering three or four hamburgers each and big plates of fries necessitated the condiment of choice for such fare: Ketchup.  All would have been well if the Ketchup came in a bottle, or better, one of those plastic squirt bottles that seem to be at every diner in the country except this one.  This restaurant, tragically, served Ketchup in those little packets that you have to tear open at one end.

Missing fingers and hands frozen into claws do not permit the opening of tiny packets of anything.  It was the biggest of the four who finally smacked a packet with his fist on the counter spraying red nectar across the counter and onto a milk dispenser.  This drew guffaws that grew foreboding.  Then the wagers began for distance, particular targets, and numbers of packets spewed simultaneously.  They had plenty of ammunition as the waitress had unwittingly provided two baskets full.

Del and I overheard a bet made over who could hit the waitresses' ass.  When she entered from the kitchen all four fists hit the counter top in unison.  It wasn't her ass that was hit but her entire front.  Laughter drowned out the muzak version of "Lazy, Hazy Days of Summer" and the waitress ran back to the kitchen crying.

The cook was a stout fellow.  The kind of man you knew on sight could consume his weight in prime rib. He made an amusing sight covered in Ketchup.

Del and I started getting very nervous as it was plain we were the only living targets remaining.  Wayne smiled.

The first cop who came through the door didn't even touch the floor on his way out.  Neither did the second or third.  It was cops four through ten, with the aid of the Idaho State Patrol who finally restored harmony.  A dozen hookers with too much makeup and too little clothing stood in the sub-zero streets smoking and gawking.  They'd come downstairs to see what all the commotion was about.  They spoke freely with the cops who they seemed to know by name, or better.

The rest of our night was spent in the Wallace Police Station.  We had to give our statements then wait and see if the cops had more questions.  Wayne did not get laid but he did get sober.  Wayne was unfamiliar with the surroundings of sobriety and was therefore feeling a little lost.

We were told we could leave just before the sun came up.  Standing in the parking lot, strapping Wayne onto the lockers of the Fuck Truck, we witnessed two visions of marvel.  The first was the inspiration for the name, Idaho.  A Native-American word that meant "Sunrise over the mountains," Ee-Da-How was a sacred place.  You didn't have to be indigenous to be awestruck or need further proof of the existence of God.

The second vision was that of four partly clothed snowmobilers running break-neck from the jail to their crew-cab Dodge 4X4 and trailer laden with snowmobiles.  Yelling, "Go! Go! Go!" as they piled in, all four tires were spinning wildly as the jail keeper came running after them shouting in some foreign accent, "You come back here, you somnabiches!  You piss my beds!  You sheet my beds!  I keel you!"

There were lots of flashing lights on the road back to Coeur d'Alene that morning.  Flashing lights on top of snow plows clearing the road.  Flashing lights on top of the four cop cars stopped near an abandoned crew-cab Dodge 4X4 with no occupants and an empty snowmobile trailer, and flashing lights from the road crew vehicles repairing bent-over reflector standards along quite a lengthy stretch of highway.

Uncle Wayne was pretty drunk by the time we secured him to the floor in front of the fireplace at the Killians.  We left him with his head propped up on Amanda Jane, who heaved and farted, as Wayne smiled and drifted off fully believing he'd gotten laid in Wallace.