I believe it was in the summer of 1970. I was driving a company van, delivering clothes and accessories to a small chain of clothing stores
streched out between southern Oregon and Tacoma, Washington. Try to picture a long-haired hippie wannabe driving a new dodge van, the front half
painted dark blue with white stars all over it and the back half (behind the driver and passenger doors through to the rear) red and white stripes.
The company I worked for was called "California Britches" and it's owner, Doug Irvine or the Irvine County, California Irvine's was as flamboyant as his
stores. Doug had recently divorced his second wife and settled in a mansion in my home town. In short order, he had invited myself and another employee
to move in with him in hope, I'm sure of meeting some of the young gals we used to run with. He would throw unbelievable parties and invite half the town it seemed. Truth be known.....that's why I moved in with him and the other fellow.
Anyway, Doug used to send me off on my delivery runs with and envelope usually containing around $100.00 cash for food; a company credit card for gas and half a dozen doobies for the trip. I would pick up the first group of long-hair's I'd see thumbing at the on ramp and we'd be off. A rolling party.
On one particular particular run, I recall going through Cowlitz County in Washington heading for Tacoma. It was near sundown and I was cautious with my driving in this area as the police were known to be particularly strict. I had just pulled off the highway to get some gas when I was stopped by one of Cowlitz's finest. He asked for my I.D., told me my van was a disgrace and informed me I had a tail light burned out. He would "escort" me to the filling station to get it fixed. When I approached the attendent to try to by a bulb I realized I hadn't brought any cash with me and he wouldn't accept the company credit card for some reason. The officer then asked if I would be so kind as to follow him down to the police station. Not wanting to anger this "good old boy", I followed him into town. None of this made any sense to me. A lot of fuss over nothing (aside from my hair and the van).
This is where the fun began. Once in the station, they politely told me I'd have to stay with them as I had no money, couldn't fix the light and they didn't want me driving around with faulty equipment. They said I'd have to go to court when it conviened to deal with the issue (I still didn't know why a tail light drew so much attention). I was given one phone call and no one was home, damit. One thing led to another and I was strip searched, issued a pair of coveralls, thongs, pillow and a blanket. (This kinda has an "Alice's Restaurant" flavor to it, doesn't it)? As they led me to my cell they informed me that if I lost any one of these items, I would stay an extra day in thier little establishment.
When I entered the cell I notice three men playing cards at a table near the bunks. They didn't take nearly as much interest in me as I did in them. The guard introduced me and left, locking the door. I didn't know what to expect from these guys but I was pretty sure I could stand for myself, at least for a short time. All that apprehension passed when they turned and asked me to join the game. I found myself, an hour after being pulled over, playing poker in the county jail with a car thief, a B & E artist and a gentleman being transfered to state prison for something akin to attempted murder I think (can't be too sure about the validity of anything those guys told me). Well, we played cards, told some jokes, and actually had a good time until "lights out" was called. Woke up, had a great pancake and bacon breakfast and joined in the favorite passtime in the "slammer"....yelling obsenities at the women prisoners who were housed just down the hall and around the corner. I never saw any of them but judging from thier language and voices, probably a good thing.
This went on through saturday, on through sunday and into monday, when I was called before the judge. I remember him reading whatever charges were made against me. He looked pizzed. He first looked at me then at the "arresting officer". He called him up to the desk and proceeded to rip a strip off of him that left him white as a ghost. One of those things you never forget. Somethng was said about cost of maintaining a prisoner for a length of time, wrongful arrest, and a couple other things that didn't really make any sense to me. I was immediately released with an apology from the court, given back my belongings and escorted to the police impound where they stored the company van.
This is where this little soap opera began to make sense. I opened the rear door to the van and found everything pulled apart. All of the new clothes were dumpend out of the boxes they had been shipped in and part of the dash was not screwed together properly. They had assumed I was running drugs and had been watching me for some time. I tried to complain about the state of the clothes and the van but was told to get my fu%@ing arse out of there and not to say another word.
To this day, whenever I drive to Oregon for a visit and pass through Cowlitz I roll down my window and give them the old one finger salute!
Aahhhhhhhhh....memories.
streched out between southern Oregon and Tacoma, Washington. Try to picture a long-haired hippie wannabe driving a new dodge van, the front half
painted dark blue with white stars all over it and the back half (behind the driver and passenger doors through to the rear) red and white stripes.
The company I worked for was called "California Britches" and it's owner, Doug Irvine or the Irvine County, California Irvine's was as flamboyant as his
stores. Doug had recently divorced his second wife and settled in a mansion in my home town. In short order, he had invited myself and another employee
to move in with him in hope, I'm sure of meeting some of the young gals we used to run with. He would throw unbelievable parties and invite half the town it seemed. Truth be known.....that's why I moved in with him and the other fellow.
Anyway, Doug used to send me off on my delivery runs with and envelope usually containing around $100.00 cash for food; a company credit card for gas and half a dozen doobies for the trip. I would pick up the first group of long-hair's I'd see thumbing at the on ramp and we'd be off. A rolling party.
On one particular particular run, I recall going through Cowlitz County in Washington heading for Tacoma. It was near sundown and I was cautious with my driving in this area as the police were known to be particularly strict. I had just pulled off the highway to get some gas when I was stopped by one of Cowlitz's finest. He asked for my I.D., told me my van was a disgrace and informed me I had a tail light burned out. He would "escort" me to the filling station to get it fixed. When I approached the attendent to try to by a bulb I realized I hadn't brought any cash with me and he wouldn't accept the company credit card for some reason. The officer then asked if I would be so kind as to follow him down to the police station. Not wanting to anger this "good old boy", I followed him into town. None of this made any sense to me. A lot of fuss over nothing (aside from my hair and the van).
This is where the fun began. Once in the station, they politely told me I'd have to stay with them as I had no money, couldn't fix the light and they didn't want me driving around with faulty equipment. They said I'd have to go to court when it conviened to deal with the issue (I still didn't know why a tail light drew so much attention). I was given one phone call and no one was home, damit. One thing led to another and I was strip searched, issued a pair of coveralls, thongs, pillow and a blanket. (This kinda has an "Alice's Restaurant" flavor to it, doesn't it)? As they led me to my cell they informed me that if I lost any one of these items, I would stay an extra day in thier little establishment.
When I entered the cell I notice three men playing cards at a table near the bunks. They didn't take nearly as much interest in me as I did in them. The guard introduced me and left, locking the door. I didn't know what to expect from these guys but I was pretty sure I could stand for myself, at least for a short time. All that apprehension passed when they turned and asked me to join the game. I found myself, an hour after being pulled over, playing poker in the county jail with a car thief, a B & E artist and a gentleman being transfered to state prison for something akin to attempted murder I think (can't be too sure about the validity of anything those guys told me). Well, we played cards, told some jokes, and actually had a good time until "lights out" was called. Woke up, had a great pancake and bacon breakfast and joined in the favorite passtime in the "slammer"....yelling obsenities at the women prisoners who were housed just down the hall and around the corner. I never saw any of them but judging from thier language and voices, probably a good thing.
This went on through saturday, on through sunday and into monday, when I was called before the judge. I remember him reading whatever charges were made against me. He looked pizzed. He first looked at me then at the "arresting officer". He called him up to the desk and proceeded to rip a strip off of him that left him white as a ghost. One of those things you never forget. Somethng was said about cost of maintaining a prisoner for a length of time, wrongful arrest, and a couple other things that didn't really make any sense to me. I was immediately released with an apology from the court, given back my belongings and escorted to the police impound where they stored the company van.
This is where this little soap opera began to make sense. I opened the rear door to the van and found everything pulled apart. All of the new clothes were dumpend out of the boxes they had been shipped in and part of the dash was not screwed together properly. They had assumed I was running drugs and had been watching me for some time. I tried to complain about the state of the clothes and the van but was told to get my fu%@ing arse out of there and not to say another word.
To this day, whenever I drive to Oregon for a visit and pass through Cowlitz I roll down my window and give them the old one finger salute!
Aahhhhhhhhh....memories.
Coulda fooled me
