by Jim Hallaux
Stop being a baby and get to fishing. At least the damn mosquitos are dying off.
The creek murmured in the distance.
As Jim approached the pool by the fallen spruce tree, the sound of water, louder now, rushed under the spruce and against the stones on either side of the creek. It made a pleasant, rippling sound. The air was still. The sunlight filtered through the alder trees lining the pool giving everything a golden cast. There was an opening in the forest canopy over the water through which Jim could see a red tail hawk circling. He knew the effort to get here was worth it.
Jim set his ‘gear and beer’ down on the grass, selected the right pole, and got it set up. He was used to fishing upright, but now standing for an extended period was too much. Jim didn’t mind sitting on the ground, sure it was uncomfortable, but the real problem would be getting back up.
His first cast was upstream, letting the fly carry down to the pool. Jim dropped his pole. Directly in front of him in five feet of water, was a safe with the words ‘Oregon Mutual Bank of Cottage Grove,’ stenciled in gold on the door.
The safe looked like it had fallen out of the sky. Jim couldn’t believe it took him so long to see it. He got to his feet with a struggle and saw nearer to shore a couple of $20 bills that looked burnt.
Jim stood there staring at the safe, opened a bottle of beer and drank it trying to decide whether to start fishing or head home and call the bank. When the beer was finished, Jim picked up his gear and headed back to his truck. Damn shame to waste a perfectly good day of fishing.
September 19
Two days later, deputies from the Lane County Sheriff found Leonard’s body halfway down the cliff.
The robbery of the Oregon Mutual Bank of Cottage Gove caused an FBI notification to all banks in Oregon, Washington, and northern California. The singed money was the main item mentioned.
13
September 20
Andre left Cottage Grove and headed south on I-5. For some reason, he hated to backtrack and was glad to turn off at Anlauf to US 99 and head west. At Drain, an odd name for such a pretty little town, Andre had a late breakfast and headed north on Oregon 38.
At Elkton, the road followed the Umpqua River. The Umpqua, bright blue, narrow and fast, wedged between the road and high hills. After Scottsburg, the river broadened, and the landscape was more open. Then on to Reedsport, getting off Oregon 38 and onto US101, heading north, up the coast.
The Oregon coast is considered the most beautiful coastline in the world, except for the French Riviera. Since few Oregonians had been to the Riviera, and if they had, hated the French, everybody in Oregon knew which coast came in first. The Oregon State Park system was without a doubt the best in the United States. Dozens of State Parks followed 101 Highway up the Oregon Coast.
The weather was great, the scenery spectacular. Andre didn’t care. His interest never went past himself. He bought a disposable camera and took a few pictures of the GTO at different beachside parks. He wanted himself in the pictures but didn’t want to ask anyone to take them. Andre ended up pitching the camera in a trash bin.
Andre spent the night in Florence and the next morning, in heavy fog, he continued north. He stopped at the Sea Lion Caves. ‘A bunch of barking, smelly dogs in a cave, what a rip off.’ He continued north.
Andre spent 10 days making his way up the Oregon Coast. He stayed for five nights at Salishan Lodge and later drove up the 101 a few miles, staying four days at the Inn at Spanish Head. Salishan & Spanish Head where world-class resorts; beautiful grounds, excellent views, and at Salishan one of the best golf courses in Oregon. Andre didn’t take advantage of any these amenities. He rarely left his room, except to eat and drink. He spent his days watching TV, the Phil Donahue show was his favorite. Andre paid top dollar for the biggest room available and had sumptuous lunches and dinners every day. In both establishments, he was known as a big drinker and a lousy tipper.
In those 10 days, Andre never had a thought of Leonard, nor would he ever. His brain was not hard-wired that way. He did re-think the idea of a daylight bank robbery. Not a good idea; too large of a crew required, too much risk and no time to get all the bank’s money.
Should I go in at night or over a weekend? That would give me enough time to do the job right. But how could I do this? Knock a hole in the bank’s wall from an adjoining building? How long would it take to find a bank with a vacant neighbor? If only there was a way to get under a bank, maybe come up through a sewer or a drain and drill or blast my way through.
Andre got antsy staying in one place too long. He again headed north on 101; thought about heading to Portland, but decided he wanted to do the entire Oregon Coast. That meant staying on 101 all the way to Astoria, and maybe going over the new Columbia River bridge he’d heard about.
This part of the drive was a wonderful trek through dark green forests, towering trees crowding the road. And ocean vistas; the bright blue Pacific and brilliant blue skies, melding at the horizon. Not that Andre paid much attention. At Neahkahnie Mountain, the roadway clung to the side of a cliff 1,000 feet above the water. It had been hacked out of the side of the mountain by convict labor. Andre pulled off at a small wayside. He got out of the GTO for a second. The view was spectacular, but the height was too much for him.
Twenty miles north, the oceanfront beach town of Seaside appealed to Andre. He liked the honky-tonk vibe and transient feel of the place. He had a ‘Pronto Pop’ hot dog and a ‘Snow Cone’ for lunch. In a rare departure against his usual nature, Andre took a ride on the Tilt-a-Whirl and the Bumper Cars. Then Cotton Candy.
Andre regretted leaving Seaside but the Oregon Coast ended in Astoria. He checked in at the Red Lion, overlooking Astoria’s West End mooring basin. His room, the biggest in the hotel, had a view of the Columbia River and the new bridge.
After a few days, Andre tired of the restaurant and bar at the Red Lion. He wanted something ‘local’ for a change. The Portway Tavern was just that. Within walking distance of the Red Lion, the Portway had always been a working man’s joint. Since 1923, longshoreman, fisherman, cannery workers and everybody else who worked on the River, stopped at the Portway. Some stopped a lot, some never seemed to leave.
Stepping inside the Portway, it was smoky and close.
“Get me a shot of MacNaughton’s and a beer back.” Andre didn’t so much order his drink, as demand it. The guy behind the bar looked a little frightened. Andre got that a lot. “Now, kid.”
The ‘kid’, Joe, was just the barback. He hurried off to give the order to the bartender. Andre looked around the bar. He felt at home, liked the mix of people, and the poster behind the bar. Under a picture of a beautiful woman in a swimming suit, the text read:
NO MATTER HOW GOOD SHE LOOKS
SOME OTHER GUY IS SICK AND TIRED
OF PUTTING UP WITH HER SHIT
**PORTWAY TAVERN**
Andre thought - ‘Well said.’
The one shot turned into another and one more, and another after that, with an equal number of beers. By this time, The Portway was rocking. In the reflection of the back-bar mirror, Andre saw a tall, lanky guy walk in. Andre felt he knew him but couldn’t get a good look through the cigarette haze. Turning around on his stool, he watched as this guy walked to the end of the bar and started talking with the barback.
“Hey Joe, how they hangin?” This was Pete’s standard greeting to his friend and roommate.
“Listen, Pete, any beer you drink tonight, you are buying.”
“Nice to see you too.”
“I’m serious, no more free drinks. I got a lot of shit from the boss the last time. Now I can’t pour drinks for anybody.” Joe needed this job and wanted to move up to a bartender spot. His freeloading friend was not helping.
“OK, OK, look I got money.” A cascade of dimes and nickels fell on the bar. After an inventory of all his pockets, pants, and shirt, Pete managed to get the required 75 cents for a draft beer.
“Great, when you finis
h that one, buy another or leave. No more taking up a stool for three hours for one beer.”
“You are such a bitch. Maybe I should take my beer needs elsewhere.” Pete was getting a little indignant.
“Don’t forget to take your nickel tip with you.”
Just then a stocky guy, not a local, with an evil-looking Fu Manchu walked up from the other end of the bar and dropped a twenty on the bar top.
“Set him up with a shot and another beer. I think I know this guy.”
Joe and Pete looked at each other. This was one scary looking guy. Joe had enough of him the first time around. He gave the drink order to the bartender and went to the kitchen to get off the floor for a while.
Pete got his shot and beer. Then he remembered.
“Hey, you’re right. You hung out at the Sunrise commune for a while. I’m Pete. Good to see you again.” Pete couldn’t remember his name.
The stranger did not offer his name or shake Pete’s hand. But he did keep buying shots and beers. Pete reminisced about the Sunrise commune and explained its downfall. Then the conversation, as it always did with Pete, turned to his radical views. Pete felt the stranger was interested in his politics.
He wasn’t.
“It’s great to talk with someone who understands how far wrong this country has gone.”
“Sure, let’s get another drink and move to a table.”
And that’s how they spent the rest of the evening; Endless whiskey shots and beer chasers at a table under the TV showing the Blazer game.
Pete talked and his new best friend seemed to listen.
They left at 2 am when the Portway closed.
PART FOUR
Coming Together
14
October 1
Merri loved the Job Corps; loved the regiment. Up early. KP in the kitchen. Breakfast. Back to the room for a quick shower and on to classes. Classes on how to act. How to interact with other people. How to apply for a job (firm handshake, look them in the eye, listen, react, and do what you say.) How to eat at a restaurant. How to make your way in the world.
Then came physical exercise. Merri thought she was done with PE. But it was OK, who knew she’d be good at badminton? Another shower.
Then on to Trade Classes, a couple of days learning about each trade. What it was about, the experience and knowledge necessary. The working conditions, how much the trade paid, what the Trade Union was like. Merri was surprised how many women were interested in the traditionally male trades like Auto Mechanics or even Welding. Merri was leaning towards Bookkeeping or Dental Assistant but kept an open mind. She would have to decide when the three-week Introduction was over.
Every couple of days, there was a counselor meeting. Merri’s counselor, Larry Alred, would ask Merri a few questions but mostly just listened. Then a few words of advice. Sometimes a couple of suggestions. Merri never had an adult, other than Miss Silver, listen to her before. The meetings were short.
Larry was a retired High School teacher, coach, and former Principal at Astoria High. Larry was the kind of guy that retirement did not seem to stick to. After 6 months of puttering around the house, his wife found him alphabetizing the spice rack. She told him it was time for him to find something to do – out of the house. Larry ended up being an interim superintendent at a rural school district 27 miles south-east of Astoria.
Four years there and another retirement, this time for 8 months. Again, a nudge from his wife, not so gentle this time, to seek an out of house activity. And that is how Larry ended up at the Tongue Point Job Corps. Paid for 40 hours a week, Larry put in 60 hours most weeks. Every weekday at 6:30 AM a racketball session with another counselor, then breakfast. Great food at the Job Corps thanks to the Culinary Arts students. The calories spent at racquetball almost matched the calories consumed at breakfast.
After a full day of meetings and counseling, Larry played whatever sport was in season with one or more students. A great athlete in high school, Larry had lost a step or two with age but had gotten three or four steps smarter. Maybe craftier is a better word.
In basketball, Larry didn’t run fast or jump high. But he was the guy always open for the shot, always the guy who got the rebound. Many a boastful student had his thoughts of personal athletic prowess rearranged by a match with Larry. But he was a ‘good winner’ and a humble one. He got that way from winning so often.
Larry had a keen interest in all his students. He knew Mary listened to his advice; absorbed it and acted on it. Larry would be a big part of Merri Sue finding her way.
After classes, at four, Merri Sue had an hour of free time. Then KP again, then dinner, a couple of social hours, a movie, usually with Penny. Then an early bedtime. Merri wasn’t close to her roommate, Sammi. Which was fine with both. Merri and Penny could have roomed together. But Penny said no.
“The absolute worst thing you can do is to room with a good friend. Terrible for the friendship.”
Merri took her advice.
Tom hated Job Corps. Everything about it. Hated it.
Hated getting up early. Being told what to do. Hated going to bed early. Hated being stuck in the same little hick town, Astoria, that he was born in. Now, to make it worse, he was surrounded by 425 hick kids from every other hick town across the country.
And the kids were from everywhere. Florida to Maine. New York to California. All religions. All races. In Astoria, there was exactly one Negro. Jack Black, the shoeshine guy. He had been around Astoria so long, he didn’t qualify as black. More like a fixture. There were two Jewish people in Astoria, four in the entire county. At the Job Corps, there were Asian kids, Alaskan native kids (were they Eskimo? Tom didn’t know for sure), Indian kids, whose people came from Bombay, and Indian kids, whose people came from Oklahoma. Asian kids whose parents spoke Japanese at home, Asian kids whose parents worked in the canneries and spoke Chinese at home.
It didn’t matter to Tom. He couldn’t stand any of them. Maybe the Job Corps and he weren’t a good fit.
Now, he was rushing to meet his counselor, Larry. Why was there a meeting every couple of days? It all wore on him.
Larry sat behind his desk, reviewing his notes on Tom. He was a good kid in his opinion, but Tom was fighting against fitting in. Larry needed to know why. He had been a counselor for a good long time and knew with every student, a different method might be needed. Larry would use a different tack with this kid Tom.
“There is more than one way to skin a cat,” Larry thought and smiled. It was a favorite expression of his father. When he first heard it as a child, it had scared Larry. In fact, he spent two nights, hiding in his closet, clutching his pet, afraid of what plans his Dad had for the cat.
Larry glanced up at the clock. Tom was late… again.
Tom burst into the door.
“You’re not giving up on me, are you, Tommy? Cause I feel like you’re giving up on me,” Larry called Tom out. He looked at his watch. “You’re late, Tommy. Again.”
“Sorry,” Tom answered and then remembered, “Sir.”
“Sorry won’t do it, Tommy. Not here. Not in the real world. You cannot be late in the real world, Tommy.”
“I’ll try not to be late again,” Tom said, “Sir.”
“Try? Come on, Tommy boy, let’s go for a walk.”
Tom felt trouble ahead but followed. He remained quiet while Larry thought out his words.
“Tom, I want you to place a quitting notice on my desk this afternoon. The Job Corps is not right for you.”
“No,” Tom declared, “Sir.”
“What was that?”
“I’m not giving you my notice, sir.”
“I’m not giving you options here, Tom.”
“And I’m not quitting, sir.”
Larry stared at him. He’s not fitting in. He’s late. Now he’s showing balls by wanting to stay? Why the about face? Let’s see what’s making him tick.
“Five o’clock, Tom. No later.” Larry turned to walk away. Tom screame
d at his back.
“I won’t do it, sir. I’m not quitting.”
Larry looked back at Tom. He saw something he had missed before.
“Why should I let you stay, Tommy boy? Let you milk the tax payer’s dollars?”
The silence was thick. Tom hung his head. He mumbled, “I have nowhere to go.”
“What was that, Tom?”
“I have nowhere to go.”
Larry stared at a humble man in front of him and held out an inviting arm. “Come on. Let’s go in. The Job Corps is perfect for you.”
Slowly, things changed. It came first through sports. In school, Tom was not good enough to make the high school team but good enough for neighborhood pickup games. At Job Corps, Tom started shooting hoops with a few guys after classes. Tom had forgotten how much he liked basketball. From there on to a team on the Job Corps basketball league. Like everything else at Job Corps, it was highly regimented; referee’s, scorekeepers, play clocks. And, oddly enough, Tom liked it. It made the games better, more fun. And Tom found other sports he was interested in.
Gradually, there were changes in other parts of Tom’s life. He’d chosen Commercial Carpentry as his discipline because he didn’t give a damn one way or another. It turned out he was good at it. Tom liked working with his hands, with the tools, liked the smell of the sawdust, the strong sense of accomplishment seeing something he had built. Because he didn’t have a high school diploma, Tom was in the GED classes. For the first time ever, Tom paid attention to his instructors. Just that, paying attention, was enough to make school understandable and if not easy, at least doable. Math became his favorite, he was good at it. Came in handy with Carpentry. As time went on, it was if a switch, deep inside Tom, was thrown. He stopped being a screw-up and became a high-functioning young man.
