Oliver's Twist

by Craig Oliver

  A dog bite eventually brought about another sharp detour in my life. At the age of eight, I was attacked while playing with a group of chums. Nearly sixty years later I still have the scars on my arm. The family who owned the dog was very concerned, and probably fearful that my father might bring a lawsuit. Evidently some kind of a deal was struck, because soon after I found myself moving in with the dog’s owners, “Brick” and Mabel Skinner. I stayed with them for four years, the dog and I maintaining an uneasy truce.

  The Skinners lived in a one-bedroom house on Borden Street, perched at the end of a long steep pathway on the side of the mountain. Here was family life at last, but theirs was a loveless house without much happiness. It was understood that my place in it was temporary.

  Brick was a fire plug of a man and, fittingly, the fire chief down at the government docks. He was gruff and sometimes short-tempered, but not mean-spirited. His wife, Mabel, who was rigid, unyielding, and without a trace of compassion, became my tormentor. They had an adopted son my age, Jimmy, a cheerful kid who squinted badly through wire-rimmed glasses. It angered Mabel that Jimmy always seemed to be led by me, and she never stopped reminding me that Jimmy would one day be a success while I would never amount to anything. I recall one hurtful rebuff at bedtime when I forgot myself and called her “Mommy.” For that slip I was sharply reprimanded. I had a real mother, Mabel told me, but she was an immoral woman who had left me behind.

  Life with the Skinners was not all bad. Jimmy and I shared the makeshift attic bedroom with a boarder, an elderly man whom I knew as Frank Redman. While puffing on a long pipe that was never out of his mouth except for its ritual daily cleaning, Frank held me spellbound with romantic stories of life in the Old West. All his tales, he assured me, were based on personal experience of the lawless frontier. He claimed to have been a Montana cowboy during the 1880s, forced to flee across the border after shooting someone in a fight over a horse. His accounts of cattle drives, cowboys and Indians, and the rugged independence of the lone man on horseback—possibly lifted from Zane Grey dime novels—enthralled me and set my imagination free amidst clouds of Ogden’s Fine Cut Tobacco. After the guilty excitement of women’s lingerie, my favourite pages in the Eaton’s catalogue were those devoted to saddles, chaps, and firearms.

  I fantasized about being anyone else, anywhere else: a secret agent, a benevolent dictator, a gun-toting frontiersman living the free life on the plains with a faithful horse my only companion. It was lights out at seven o’clock, but in that attic and under the covers by flashlight, I read any book I could find or borrow. Later, lying in the dark at my end of the attic beside the lone window, I always looked for the North Star, comforted by its constancy in a life that so far had been quite unpredictable.

  Books and reading were welcome escapes, although an astute teacher had discerned a vision problem. I confessed to her that I could not read the blackboard, and glasses were prescribed. When the optician diagnosed crossed eyes, Mabel took me to Vancouver for the necessary surgery. The day after, Dad surprised me in the hospital room with my first pair of cowboy boots.

  Brick had a cousin named Bill Bickle who owned a cattle ranch at a place called Grassy Plains near Burns Lake, British Columbia, a spot long since drowned by a hydro project. I spent glorious summers there with the welcoming Bickle family, who kindly assigned me my own horse, Lazy Dick. I rode the dusty country roads into town to pick up goods at the general store and was thrilled one day to be photographed by an American tourist who mistook me for a genuine ranch hand.

  Ranch life held a few rude surprises, though. One morning I watched Bickle shoot a steer, then cut a hole in its side with a knife to bleed it. The steer fell on its front knees while yelping dogs lapped up the blood. This was my first experience of violent death and the episode became the stuff of nightmares for weeks afterwards. Surely this was nothing Gene Autry or Roy Rogers would ever be part of.

  Growing up under the roofs of strangers imparted some inescapable lessons. Too soon perhaps, I learned to judge people with cold logic, by their actions rather than their words. I guarded my own emotions carefully, even while drawing out the feelings and motives of others. Engaging with those who controlled my fate, carefully fitting in with a minimum of fuss, became a survival technique. At the same time, I formed a conviction that every person must look out for himself before all else.

  Despite a growing independent streak, I longed for my father’s occasional visits. These were increasingly rare as Dad looked to expand his booze trade into new markets, but they were frequently memorable. Thanks to liquor rationing in Canada during the war, I spent many an hour standing in line at the government outlet, holding a place for Dad. In Alaska, however, booze was unlimited. Ketchican, the nearest Alaskan port to Rupert, was a wide-open town in what was then wilderness territory. It had its own red light district of tiny shacks, bars, and bordellos built on jetties out over the harbour. And its resources were only a few hours away from Rupert in the beefedup fishing boat Murray had purchased. He made the dash across treacherous and unpredictable waters at night to load up with American spirits, then returned to Rupert where he sold the booze at a markup of 100 percent.

  The risk was worth it and business was good. Murray bought one of the first and most expensive cars to come off the assembly lines after the war, a black Ford Monarch. He turned the four-door limo into a rolling liquor store, delivering the boat’s haul in style and acquiring a taxi licence for cover. It was illegal to sell liquor anywhere but out of a government store and seriously illegal to do so after the government store had closed. But this only made Murray more inventive; occasionally, I was pressed into service as his accomplice. If he was on a run to sell a few bottles and spotted a police car, I hid the goods in my sweater or up the legs of my pants. If we had a passenger, the instructions were to pass the bottles to the kid when the bulls pulled us over.

  Murray was popular with the natives because he offered them the chance to take booze home like everyone else. He also charged them a lower markup, rather than gouge them after hours. His largesse inevitably cut into the profits of local bar owners and the liquor tax revenues of the government. While Dad had no doubt paid off most of the local officials, the heat became too much and they reluctantly charged him with bootlegging. He served six months at Okalla Penitentiary in New Westminster, and as the son of a con, I suffered the merciless taunts of my classmates.

  The first visit after his release, he was more sharply dressed than I had ever seen him, looking handsome in a double-breasted grey pinstripe suit made to measure in the prison tailor shop. Dad wasted not a minute in establishing a new business, a crap and poker game that operated out of the bridal suite, such as it was, in the St. Elmo Hotel. He was a lifelong gambler whose advice to me about the sport was a familiar saw: There is a sucker in every game and if you can’t see who it is, get up and leave.

  Though boarding with others, I was allowed to spend the night with Dad from time to time, closeted in the hotel suite’s bedroom but listening to the action. Amid the fragrance of cigar smoke and beer was the vague thrill that something illicit, possibly even a little dangerous, was going on. The players were seated at a circular table covered in green cloth, tall stacks of bills and poker chips resting neatly by their hands. But it was the revolver beside the dealer that mesmerized me. Designed to protect the house and discourage local toughs who might be tempted to knock over the bank, it had a large steel-blue frame with the brand name “Colt” emblazoned on the pistol grip. There was a lanyard ring on the butt and a flap-top holster with sheepskin lining, which I was allowed to wear during visits. The gun was always loaded except when I was given it to handle. The shiny bullets slid smoothly out of the six chambers. I felt utterly privileged.

  The day a boy got his first gun was the bush country’s equivalent of a bar mitzvah. My eleven-year-old’s pride was immense when Dad took me to Joe Scott’s hardware store to buy a Cooey single-shot .22 rifle. I hardly took a breath as I lifted it
out of its shipping carton. The opportunities for father-and-son bonding were few in Prince Rupert and tended to centre on fishing or hunting. We had the accoutrements of neither, but we intended to share the experience. In the wilds of the city dump, Dad with his Colt .45 and I with my new rifle used the rats for target practice.

  After these all-too-fleeting outings, I was returned to the Skinners. Early on, I was aware of Mabel’s penchant for physical punishment. This included bare bottom spanking with one of those thick straps men used to sharpen their straight razors. For whatever reasons, I became her frequent target.

  One day some infraction led to a strapping that left my buttocks and the backs of my legs covered in large red welts. By this time, I was allowed to see my mother on rare occasions, and one of her visits came shortly after the beating at Mabel’s hands. Mom was horrified at the sight of broken skin and raised welts. There was a great uproar when she came to the Skinners’ house a few days later and physically pulled me out of there for good. She did not have custodial rights, but she no doubt used the episode to leverage a concession from my father. I found myself moved into the basement apartment she shared in town with Cliff Dahl. For the first time, I experienced a relatively peaceful and even loving environment.

  Mom and Cliff made a good team; she was a naturally savvy entrepreneur and he was a local sports hero. They started their own taxi business and made a great success of it, being the first in the north to install portable radios in their cars. These technological miracles were almost as amazing as the X-ray fluoroscope machines used in shoe stores to ensure a perfect fit. People summoned the cabs just to hear the driver talking to his dispatcher or to another cabbie—right there in the car while it was moving, by God! The radio also saved gas, since drivers did not have to return to the taxi stand for the details of their next fare.

  In addition to being the business manager, Mom herself was a driver and worked a full eight-hour shift, six days a week. Sitting in the front seat beside her at all times was her beloved dog, Winger, an imposing Chesapeake Bay retriever. He was big and powerful, weighed as much as a small man, and was fiercely protective of Mom. Winger would have taken the arm off anyone who tried to manhandle his mistress. It never happened.

  Still, the long hours and constant fatigue took a toll on Mom’s health. A year or so after I moved in, whispers in the dark told me something was wrong. Mom had contracted tuberculosis, a disease that haunted that era and caused the deaths of millions. She had to go away to one of the many sanatoriums in the B.C. interior for a year or more of convalescence. Cliff had no interest in single parenting, so I was on my own again. Mom never spoke of this to me, but her anguish must have been extreme. Back I went into the homes of strangers, with my largely absent father sending monthly cheques to cover my room and board. I would live with five different families between the ages of seven and fourteen.

  For a time I stayed with a newly married Jewish couple in their one-bedroom apartment. I slept on the living room couch. They were a cheerful twosome and I was learning to adapt to almost any arrangement, but three was a crowd, especially at night. Many times I tried not to listen to their intimate conversation and lovemaking, but adolescent curiosity made it impossible not to. I could hardly blame them when, with great sensitivity, they told me I would have to leave.

  After another round of interviews, I landed in the home of Ken and Dorothy Laird. Theirs was a simple, uncomplicated household with lots of laughter, and I was treated with the same kindness as the two children of the house. I shared a room with their son, Alan, who was my age and became my close companion.

  The Lairds were a deeply religious couple who lived their Christian faith. Twice a week they attended an evangelical church and, though never pressured, I usually went with them. The services were exuberant affairs, full of gospel singing, shouted prayers, and exhortations from the preacher. This was much more entertaining than those Salvation Army gatherings favoured by the Skinners, where the congregation seemed to carry the weight of suffering mankind on their shoulders. The Lairds were true believers who badly wanted me to share their religious rapture, but I could not do it. To me and, I suspect, to their obedient son, Alan, it was just great theatre.

  One notable night a famous saver of souls visited as guest preacher. I studied his performance with genuine attention and admiration. He had perfect timing, hitting the congregation for cash precisely when the sermon reached its emotional peak. The greater was the spiritual ecstasy, the larger the pile in the collection plate. Another would-be Billy Graham was a faith healer. The Lairds brought me to the altar, hoping to secure a cure for my poor eyesight. The spirit did not enter, unfortunately, despite healing hands on my eyes and fervent shouts from the crowd. I felt obliged to feign better vision so the Lairds would not feel they had failed me. The family did their best to rescue me from a sinful life generally, but I was not persuaded. Too much untried temptation lay ahead, and I was willing also to give the devil a chance to convert me.

  My chief joy on Sundays were the evenings, when we were allowed to gather around the radio, Coca-Cola bottles in hand, and listen to the golden age of pre-television radio. We heard shows from the CBC and the American networks, with all the big stars of the day in comedy, drama, and music. I could not get enough of Red Skelton, Jack Benny, the Gang Busters serial, Wayne and Shuster, or the great CBC radio dramas. The earnings from a paper route bought me an ancient crystal set that gave me private and exclusive access to the radio waves. Often I fell asleep with the earphones in place.

  I memorized the scripts of the famous announcers, studied their phrasing and delivery, and imitated their voices. My mirror was the audience to which I delivered my lines, my microphone a banana. Once again, I fantasized about a life and an identity far from reality, whether at the radio mike, before the movie camera, or behind the reporter’s typewriter. The ability to create a world with words and pictures and to tell whatever story I wanted was something I knew I had to learn.

  Mom eventually returned from the “san” and we were together again. The taxi business had faltered without Mom’s management skills, but she soon had the enterprise back on its feet, with a brand new fleet of cars. She and Cliff bought their first home together up on Summit Avenue, a nice part of town. They were now able to live Rupert’s version of the high life: baseball games, curling bonspiels, frequent parties, and hard drinking. Apart from receiving occasional support cheques, Mom had no contact with my father.

  My high school years are a blur, a jumble of memories of oddball teachers and cruel student pranks, a few of which almost certainly contributed to the suicide of one hapless instructor. A recent immigrant unfamiliar with North American products, he was the victim of chocolate-flavoured Ex-Lax disguised as candy and the target of waterguns filled with indelible ink. These stunts could not have helped him cope with the depression from which he clearly suffered.

  Although I was academically undistinguished, an English teacher nonetheless encouraged me to write, and the study of history seemed to come naturally. I found myself penning a column for the school paper and gravitating to student politics.

  My closest school chum was Art Helin, the son of a hereditary chief of the Tsimshian people, one of the largest Aboriginal nations on the north B.C. coast. That lineage made Art a prince of the tribe and he looked the part. Tall and athletic, he had the striking good looks that lead anthropologists to make a connection between the Aboriginals of the B.C. coast and those of Hawaii and the Polynesian islands. He could perform great feats of strength and was an outstanding star of the Rainmakers the year they won a provincial championship.

  I was a skinny kid with too quick a tongue for my own good, always in trouble for taking verbal shots at individuals I did not like, among them a notorious town bully. He waited for me in an alley after a movie one night, but he did not spot Art trailing behind. Art brought him down with a punch that was pure poetry in motion.

  Art may have saved my life on that occasion; certai
nly he saved my career in television on another. At a drunken house party one evening, a guest told me I should send my “dirty Indian friend” home. I punched him in the nose hard enough to cause some bleeding, then headed for the door at a run. He brought me down about a block from the house. I was on my back staring up at a huge fist cocked and ready to rearrange my facial bones when Art caught my assailant with a flying tackle just as the hammer was about to descend.

  Art was no dumb jock; he had a quick, intelligent wit that made him a favourite of my mother. Mom had a generous nature, but in the case of Art, she did an extraordinary thing for those times of casual racism. When Art was left homeless for a period after his parents moved to a reserve with no school, Mom insisted he move in with us. He stayed for a year.

  While still in high school, I joined the Canadian navy reserve, hoping to train as a gunner. My vision tested too poor and they made me a cook instead. I served my years before the mast washing dishes, and one summer I was assigned to a rustbucket Department of Transport lighthouse tender. The Alexander Mackenzie was the last of the government’s coal-fired ships. The men who worked the furnaces looked as if they were playing blackface roles in vaudeville. Even after they had washed up for meals, they wore on their faces a permanent mask of coal dust embedded in their pores.

  The crew represented the bottom of the quasi-military maritime barrel. Our job was the maintenance of navigation aids, buoys, and bells, as well as re-supply and repair of lighthouses along the rugged north coast. On more than one occasion, our captain had to go ashore on some godforsaken island to mediate disputes between the families living there, resorting to the ultimate threat of no more cigarette or booze deliveries unless matters were resolved.