The Last Spotted Owl - Installment Five

There were only two things to do when you were 16 on a Saturday night in Coeur d'Alene, Idaho.  You could do one, or the other, or both, but there were only two. 

You could get drunk or you could get in a fight.

Getting into a fight was easy.  Getting beer, with a budget of zero, was hard.  Getting free beer was the primary mission of The Mob almost any night.

The Mob was eccentric even for Idaho.  In Coeur d'Alene the biggest nightly activity was 'tooling the gut.'  That meant driving from the Topper In'n'Out to the Paul Bunyun In'n'Out and back, over and over and over and over.  Sometimes you would park at the Topper, never at the Paul Bunyun.  Fancy cars, suitable for 'tooling' could consume a teenager's every waking moment and a considerable volume of cash.

The Mob's cars were these; Duffy had a VW bug, Dougall had an old Fiat, Phil had a Volvo, I had a Morris Oxford (no, I'd never seen one before and I've never seen one since), Gary had a Henry J., Killian had a De Soto, and Mike King had a conventional Ford.  All of them were 50's vintage and with the exception of the Ford and the VW they were almost always broken down.

The Mob did not 'tool the gut.'  The Mob sat in coffee shops for hours on end enjoying free refills and planning the next beer heist.  We did not go to the bowling alleys or “The Games” or anywhere the jocks might be.  We would go to the Noodle Inn, an old road house in the 40's that was now a Chinese Restaurant to which almost no one ever went.

The Noodle had a jukebox that played 7 songs for a quarter and included several Chinese operas as part of the selection.  The old Chinese couple who ran it, and lived in it, could not say, "Pepsi."  So if for no other reason than that, we would go there and order Pepsi's.  "Poopsi, Poopsi, Poopsi, coffee." she would say, repeating our orders back to us.

Plastic checkered table cloths were stapled to the tables and the old lady had a habit of smacking flies with a flyswatter on the stacks of plates piled next to the order window.  We were certain they never washed the dishes.

The Mob had four primary targets for free beer.  There was the Wolf Lodge Inn, Gittel's Grocery, Don LaVoi's Distributorship, and Killian's Corner.  We knew we could only hit Killian's once so we saved that one for one big score.  The others we could hit repeatedly but infrequently.

Don LaVoi's Distributorship was the local Bud dealer.  He also carried Hamm's and a couple other brands but we never knew what we were going to get at LaVoi's.

The warehouse was built with its backside facing Bum's Jungle while the doors faced the old highway out of town.  When they laid the foundation there was a large granite boulder directly in the centerline and rather than move the boulder they poured concrete around it.  At the base of the foundation next to the rock there was a hole that was no more than 14" across.  I, being the smallest, could fit right through that hole.

There was a trap door in the floor of the distributorship and when beer got too old or stale to sell LaVoi would have his guys open the trap and dump the beer under the floorboards.  They would pour rock salt over the bottles and though they tried to break them all there were quite a lot of failures in that effort.

You start to get the picture.

The first time I crawled through the hole I had a flashlight but was not bright enough myself to bring gloves.  After that I stole a pair of welder's gloves from the Husky Truck Stop and things went famously.

I would crawl in and dig through piles of broken glass and rock salt to find unopened quarts of stale beer.  The Mob would wait quietly outside and pass bags through the hole to be filled.  Gunny sacks, duffel bags, newspaper bags we'd saved from when we all had paper routes; then I would shove the filled bags back through the hole and eventually climb out myself.

From there we would go down to the river and wash the outsides of the bottles.  If the caps were rusty we'd throw them out.  Maybe three fourths of the bottles were pretty good and we would get a lot of them so our beer bust would be assured.

We only did this a few times.  Getting drunk on warm stale beer was not nearly the fun that we thought it would be.  There was vomiting.  It was time to hit Gittel's.

Gittel's Grocery had a reputation for watering down their gas.  It was owned and operated by the Gittel brothers who were easily the only Jewish people in Coeur d'Alene.  I don't think they actually lived there.  It was a typical mom and pop grocery that preceded the Circle K's and 7-11's of the world.   The Gittel's had a poorly conceived walk-in cooler the door of which opened on the outside of the building.

We were regulars there because the Gittel's couldn't tell a 14 year old from an 18 year old so we bought cigarettes there for years.  In those days every empty soda bottle or beer bottle could be redeemed for cash. 

Soda bottles were worth a nickel while beer bottles claimed two cents.  Some beer bottles, the new ones with screw caps, had a high plastic content and could not be refilled so they had no value except as targets for shooting practice.

So, here was the plan we cooked up at the coffee shop in the Modern Drug Store, the permanent Mob hang out.

For a week, everyone in the Mob would collect bottles.  We needed to have some that were non-redeemable in the mix.  Dougall and I would fill two gunny sacks completely with empty bottles and take them to Gittel's.  Now Gittel, either one of them, was a shrewd fellow and would never take our word for how many bottles there were.  So, he would have to leave the front of the store and go to the back room with Dougall and me to sort through the bottles and make sure he got the right count.  Dougall and I had to keep him in the back room as long as possible so there was a whole routine of "is this one okay?  Are you sure?  What about this one?  Did you look at this one yet?"

Finally, we would get an accurate count and head back to the front of the store and buy cigarettes with our redemption money.  Then, we would walk out of the store and say, "Goodbye."

Once in the parking lot we would turn left and go up the alley.  There we would find Duffy's VW and Killian's DeSoto packed to the hilt with free, fresh beer.  The others would have already made their getaway in King's Ford.

We only did this a couple of times before the Gittel's moved the cooler door inside.

The Wolf Lodge Inn was easy.  You just drove up to the back door and loaded up the car.  The inconvenience was that you had to go to Wolf Lodge.  It meant a drive around the lake road, and crossing the Blue Creek Bridge in the dark.

The Blue Creek Bridge was fairly high, well over 50' feet in the center.  It was from the center of the bridge that the water was deep enough for diving.  On the upstream side of the bridge there was a rope swing that traversed the entire creek, maybe 100 feet total.  Every kid who grew up in Coeur d'Alene knew that it was a one way swing.  You could go from North to South and the other way 'round but if you got stuck on the South end you were stuck.  There was no way out except down a steep 40’ bank to the creek.  Otis Fensel did not grow up in Coeur d'Alene.

In one instance, after pulling up to the Wolf Creek Lodge and loading up, some uppity worker had the bad manners to call the law.  Phil and I were already near the Blue Creek Bridge when we heard the sirens echo off the lake.  We knew exactly what to do.  We pulled the Fuck Truck into the woods on the North end of the bridge, grabbed the rope swing and pulled it up then ran to the South end of the bridge and waited.

We were not expecting Otis but it was that much better that it was he who found us.  We offered a friendly wave from our position at the top of the cliff and as he stopped his squad car we scurried down to the South landing, maybe 8 feet, and waited for Otis to arrive at the top on foot.  When he saw how close we were Otis gave chase.  He slid down the bank to the rope swing landing, by which time we were already half way to the other side.  He opened fire without so much as a, "Halt or I'll shoot!" but at that distance and in complete darkness he was impotent.

Safely on the North side of the creek we tied the rope to the bridge and scrambled up to the Fuck Truck and perfect safety.  Otis was stuck, he couldn't go up or down, he could not radio for aid, he could not shoot us, he could not identify us or the Fuck Truck as the get-a-way vehicle.

Now Killian's Corner was different.  We could only do it once and it had to be just right or we couldn't do it at all.

The name Killian was on the banner of a half-dozen pretty good ideas in Coeur d'Alene; small businesses all, but thriving because they were pretty good ideas.

There was Killian's Small Plumbing that just handled the little jobs for which a plumber would charge a fortune.  Killian's In-Between would deliver anything anywhere in town.  If you had a flood or fire damage that needed attention you'd call Killian's Clean Up. 

Killian's Corner was a tiny grocery store but with close proximity to an elementary school and the county government offices you could pay the rent in penny candy sales alone.  There were living quarters on the floor above large enough to accommodate a family of five.

All pretty good ideas, none of which belonged to Killian.

What Killian did own was Bug-Ex; a tree spraying service.

Our interest was in Killian's Corner.  They had beer.

Killian's Corner was maybe 250 square feet and 30 square feet of which was the cooler.

A Chinese family owned, ran, and lived in the building.  They made a comfortable living and put four kids through college there.

When Killian had it there were pictures that floated around of the shelves stocked with one can of consommé and a single loaf of bread.

The Chinese family had failed in one respect; they had not changed the lock on the front door.  Butch Killian still had a key.

Butch Killian had a couple of problems and as such was only a quasi member of The Mob.  First, he tended to bring and discharge firearms wherever we went and second, he was a terrible driver.  Where World War One pilots would paint iron crosses on their planes, indicating an enemy kill, Butch would paint mailboxes on the DeSoto.

Many were the nights there would be 6 or 8 of us crammed into the DeSoto and someone would call out, "Slow down Butch, you're not gonna make it!"

To which Butch would reply, "I'll make it!"  Then, WHAM, a mailbox would go down.

We would not be driving to Killian's Corner.

"Sleeping Out" was teenage code for "We're gonna go do something crazy tonight." Three guys would go to a 4th guy's house with sleeping bags and fool around until about 2:00 AM when the campaign would start.  Three guys were sleeping out at Killians and another four at my house.  Killian's Corner was on the other side of town so we would never be suspects.

About 2:30 the Killian group showed up at my place.  All tolled there were 7 of us with duffel bags, newspaper bags, and I had a little red wagon.  We made our way across town without drawing attention or making too much noise.

Across the street from Killian's Corner there was a welding shop and some railroad tracks that were no longer in use.  We laid down between the railroad tracks for some time as we sized up the area.  Cars went past and no one saw us.  Finally, we began our assault.

There was a stairway, four stairs, leading up to the front door in the corner of the building.  We hustled across the street and hunkered down beside the stairs.  Butch crawled up the stairs and tried his key ... it worked.  The door was open.  In absolute silence Butch crawled along the floor, opened the cooler, and began to pull out cases of cold beer.

Dingman was behind Killian at the top of the stairs.  He handed the cases out the door where the rest of us quickly put the booty into our various bags.  The last two cases went into my little red wagon.  These were cases of quarts.

Quickly, we made our way back into the shadows having carefully locked the door behind us.  The next challenge would not come for a few blocks when we had to cross 4th Street.

4th Street was a busy street.  It went straight through the whole town from one end to the other and as such was a major route for police.  Caution had to be exercised crossing 4th.  That was our biggest risk for getting caught.

We came up the alley by the State Employment Office and waited there.  We could see for several blocks in both directions for cars or activity.  A vacant lot was across the street and we would be in the open for at least a hundred feet.  We'd have to move fast.  Darrell Dougall and I had the wagon so we would go last.

I should mention that my voice had changed at about age 12 so I could sound like an adult at any time.  It was a skill that had been used to great effect for things like prank calls or letting the school know that so-and-so would not be in class that day; simple stuff.  So, when the guys were 3/4 of the way across 4th street I stood up and yelled, in my best grown-up voice, "Hey, you kids!"

Duffel bags full of beer dropped along side newspaper bags full of same and a flurry of leaves in the hedge beyond concealed my brothers in crime while Dougall and I laughed so hard we nearly peed ourselves.

Then, as casually as if we were on a Sunday stroll Dougall, I and the wagon load of beer sauntered across 4th, giggling and clinking in harmony along the way.

We split up after that.  Phil was near home, the others lived North, and Dougall and I kept to the alleys to Walnut Street until we got to Cathy Anderson's house.

Cathy Anderson was as cute as a pixie and had starred in many of my playtime fantasies.  She had hosted "Kissing Practices" at her home on a few occasions and Dougall and I had been in attendance so our love for her knew no bounds.  Her parents were pharmacists and fairly well fixed so they had a fully stocked liquor cabinet to which we had made liberal use in the past.

We stopped in front of Cathy's and cracked open a quart.  We drank to her and our fantasies of her.  We drank to her friends and to each other and finished the quart in time to watch the sun rise over the mountains having enjoyed our free, fresh beer.