Читать книгу Condition Other Than Normal: Finding Peace In a World Gone Mad - Gary Tetterington - Страница 11

John and I dropped into Ed. with 3 hrs. to spare and we really had no choice other than to make for the Strathcona Hotel. It made perfect sense to funnel back a few beer before heading east, to take the edge off what was shaping up to be a strange and terrible journey.

We hadn’t been in that infernal tavern for more than an hour and in walked the law. ‘Damn!’ I thought, ‘The bastards couldn’t be on to me so soon!’ It didn’t seem possible. I knew I was moving way faster than their computers back then. No. Not the reason.

Due to a slight memory lapse and loss, I had forgotten of how I had been largely responsible for a couple of abrasive and abusive incidents in the Old Strathcona and of how Walter, a former owner of the hotel, had usually been the recipient and beneficiary of my anger and outrage.

Walter had a cruel and nasty streak and disposition about him and he revealed it whenever he thought he could bring it off with relative safety and security. His favorite routine was to serve drunks to the point where they were thoroughly rumdum and deserving and then go after them physically. Not a nice man. No. A categorical no here. Being an accomplished drunkard myself, I have never been compliant with predator conduct and ceremony. No.

One time, Walter did his tough – guy interpretation on a boozehound friend of mine and I heard about it from one of my sources. Bright and early, the very next morning, I charged right thru the doors of the tavern and in a typical fury, I went straight over the bar and smoked Walter square between the eyes, causing him to see double for the rest of his ignorant life. Which is a serious handicap and a severe disadvantage for any street fighter to have to live with. Walter never fought a defenseless man again and this was just fine with everyone who drank beer in the Strathcona Hotel, back in the early 70’s.

Another time and for no apparent or special reason, I cornered the dirty little rat in a cul – de – sac, a blind spot in the bar and beat him stupid, which was another good thing. In addition to my having brought Walter around to my way of thinking, this glowing incident did nothing but get me free drinks for a year. There were times when I had been known to do a fair imitation of rage and anger. Anyway…

A memorable and lasting occasion and the best one, transpired late upon a summer evening in 1974. I happened to be wired to the nuts and drunk as a skunk, wandering and wavering down the alley, back of the Strath and I espied Walter’s car, sitting alone and unprotected. An indiscretion on Walter’s part, I would have to say. Leaning up against a wall was a convenient 2 x 4, 3’ long and left there by a co - conspirator, for my own special needs and purposes no doubt. ‘Excellent,’ thought I.

Now, I may have been intoxicated and inebriated but I wasn’t able or expert enough to pass on such an opening. It was pure and simple Karma endorsing the evening.

With a grin and a holler, I snatched up that length of wood and set about destroying and demolishing Walter’s car. There was much to do but when I was done and spent, the glass was gone, the headlights and taillights were finished and there must have been a thousand boot marks, put there by me, as I ran howling and growling, from the roof to the tires and from bumper to bumper. I bent absolute hell out of Walter’s lemon yellow V.W. beetle.

Chance was a favorite coincidence of mine in ’74 and a fitting ending to such an exploit and achievement. The morning after the event and I was motoring the southside of Ed. and while waiting for a stoplight, along came Walter, in what was left of his car and straight at me.

The stupid bugger was navigating with his bald head stretched out the left side of that rolling piece of garbage because of the spider – shattered windshield in front of him. The car was a wreck. It was junk. I started to laugh. And I laughed so painfully, I nearly ran over a tree.

Walter glared and glanced edgily in my direction, got wise and went red and began shrieking like only a crazy person can do. He knew. But he also realized immediately, as towards any retaliation against me, well, basically he was fucked.

Walter was an asshole. A real son of a bitch. He died. From a bad heart. So it is said.

Vague rumor was I had been a separate and specific clause written precisely and prominently into his will. ‘Under no circumstances must the man who murdered my V.W. and beat up on me in my bar, ever be allowed to enter and remain on Strathcona Hotel property. No! Never!’

So, on a rash and desperate night in late Sept., 1976, it should have come as no big surprise to me, that Walter’s partner in life, on seeing my happy face, bent back and drinking beer excessively, had panicked and called in the law. All the man had wanted was for me to vacate the premises peacefully. E.C.P.D. radio – control had another plan. I was conducted downtown. Where I became urgently furious over a veritable deluge of outstanding warrants and with a hayseed copper, who just would not listen to reason, not even when I attempted to bribe the bastard. Time was of the essence.

It was best to parley with the man. Being on night – shift and still somewhat primitive back then, the bluecoat never had full access as to who I was and who I was about to become. The officer on duty had no way to grasp, no data available, no information, with respects to the reputable and infamous deed I had left behind in the North Country.

I fast – rapped that slow – shift copper with a mean – paced yarn. The nut of the story was that I was in solid. With covert and clandestine amigos of his on the force. I even hinted at names, officers he readily would have recognized as being his superiors. Actually, the names did belong to credible and prudent gumshoes, coppers who had put the iron on me a time or 2 but the big dummy had no way of knowing about those juicy items.

We compromised on $185 and a promise to appear. Afterwards, I had just enough money, with the double I had stashed in my boot, to pay for the hack to the airport.

John and I scarce made our Montreal connection. As the plane took off and arced eastward, I couldn’t resist one last look back at Edmonton, a town full of rubes and I knew and could appreciate greatly, that, somewhere down below, was yet another lawman, no longer upwardly mobile because of me. I felt like Houdini.

All is well.

G.B.T.