Hoosier outlaw commando

It all started one muggy summer day in Indiana when I was feeling sorry for myself. My father had announced one of his edicts; this one forbidding the possession of any type of cap pistol.

It seemed unfair. After all, everyone else had them. Some fired the regular-size caps that came in a roll and sounded like a stick hitting pavement when they went off. The ones that were prized and proved the manhood of my 8- and 9-year-old buddies fired much bigger, single caps that produced a louder, more commanding bang.

But, alas, once father had spoken, that was it. Or was it?

I had spent more than a few hours in the darkened theaters in Kokomo absorbing the derring do of the heroes of those black and white World War II films. Many were outlaws; some commandos raiding enemy bases while others were smart-talking, cigarette-smoking, pinup girl-attracting bad guys with good hearts.

But one thread linked most of these characters. If the situation demanded it, they would turn to thievery. They were all a little like Ali Baba. Jimmy Cagney and Edward G. Robinson were even more larcenous.

As I lay in the grass in the shade of the Catalpa tree, one of its green cigars clenched in my teeth, I dreamed of trading places with Cagney or Robinson, blasting my way out of a tough spot with my pistol. But, alas, I was not allowed to have a pistol, let alone the sulfur smoke ammunition it used.

At that point, I crossed over to the Dark Side.

That decision totally ignored all the good lessons learned at Trinity Methodist and its sister churches where I had been dragged by my mother in hopes one of the varied approaches to soul saving might stick.

Not likely, although it was pretty interesting to discover how the methods of conducting various rites such as baptism were so very different; Methodists sprinkled you while the First Christians down at the corner in the church under the giant oak tree would plunge you into a square tub of water adorned with a painting of John the Baptist pushing Jesus under.

But in those days the good work of the church came in second.

I had seen enough movies about criminal gangs and commandoes to know the success of a big heist or raid into enemy territory needed a good plan. Mine was simple: Strike fast at several targets and use the cover available to make my escape. The perfect place for my crime spree was the courthouse square in Kokomo.

Several businesses that sold caps and cap pistols were located in ground floor businesses on the square. I entered the businesses from the front or back, doing my best the emulate the professional gangster-commando with steely nerves.

At the first store, I managed to slip a cap gun into a pocket, leaving by the side door. Then, still in the style of a raider, I slipped into a nearby doorway, climbed the stairs and walked quickly to the other end of the building, a block away, descending down the front stairs on my way to the second target. Once down, it was easy to enter the next shop, make my escape and repeat the process until I had circled the square.

My booty included several cap guns, boxes of caps and a couple of girl’s toys I thought my sister Bonnie would like.

My raids were infrequent and my use of the stolen weapons and ammunition had to done in a furtive manner. During that period, I also developed an urge to grab other little things I thought I needed, little toys, knives, candy and gum.

My first brush with authority came during a family trip to a vacation at one of the lakes. We had stopped at a store for some food and other items my folks needed for the outing. While in the store, I helped myself to a sack of candy. Everything would have been all right if I hadn’t opened the package and shared some with my sister.

"Where did you get that candy, Bobby?" my father asked.

I lied, claiming I had it at home and had brought it along.

Unlike the Public Enemy No. 1 or the commando, I couldn’t hold up to questioning by the authorities, broke down and admitted my crime to my father. He marched me back into the store and had me apologize to the owner and pay for the candy.

That put an end to my life of crime – for a time.

A few years later we moved to California and I fell in with a couple of classmates who were successful shoplifters. They used a technique in which one kid would detract the shopkeeper while the other would load up on candy, gum and whatever else could be stuffed into a Levi jacket.

We felt no remorse for our thefts; they were exciting and proved how bold we were.
One of our more bold forays, which never quite came to fruition, involved scaling a wall to the roof of a lumber yard, dropping onto the ground behind the place and making off with a cash register or its contents from the office. Fortunately that never happened or I might be writing this on a roll of prison toilet paper with my blood.
I had a couple more brushes with authority, managing to talk my way out of them by claiming each was my first transgression. Finally, one summer in Pacific Beach, a toy shop owner took me into his office and threatened to call the police and my parents.
I managed to talk my way out of it, apologizing and promising never to do it again. And I didn’t.
Funny thing was that even as a kid I knew it was wrong to steal; I was breaking the law and the Ten Commandments. But the excitement of the act and feeling of outsmarting someone proved more strong.

Since then, I have gone out of my way to avoid taking things that belong to others. I have returned money and personal items I have found to their owners several times.

My conversion to the right side of the law seems to have rubbed off on at least one of my offspring.

Once, my daughter, found a wallet containing several thousand dollars. At the time, she was separated from her husband and on hard times. She asked my advice and I told her she should return it to the owner.

The man thanked her and gave her a fairly small reward. I was a bit disappointed as she was. But then, in a few days, a letter arrived with an additional thank-you and a certificate from Toys R Us that helped her provide Christmas gifts for her daughters.

Proof that crime does not pay, but honesty does.

Still, on occasion, I admit I recall the excitement of my life as a thief. But I could not return to the Dark Side.

Not because of any high moral standard I might have, but rather the fear that I might run into that storekeeper from Pacific Beach and he might call the cops this time.

.........

Al JaCoby

My memories of Al JaCoby stretch back to my second job -- first as wire editor and then demoted to reporter -- at the Escondido Times-Advocate in the 1950s. I arrived there shortly after JaCoby had landed a job on the San Diego Union.

He left behind a legacy among the staff there, which frequently called upon his name and sharp decision process. The county editor, Eloise Perkins, would start one of these JaCoby moments by recalling a quote starting "as my old Armenian grandmother would say..."

The city editor, Ron Kenney, based his well-run desk on things learned from JaCoby.
After leaving the Times-Advocate for greener (financially) fields I did not hear about JaCoby for seven years when I was hired at the Union.

I first met him when I was roving feature writer for the county desk, a kinda low-budget and less talented countyside equivalent of Joe Stone.

JaCoby, the Sunday editor, asked me if I could do a feature on a lost gold mine a couple of locals had found near Borrego. Turned out it wasn't Peg Leg's mine, but one from the Depression. Still It made a great yarn, despite the leg wounds inflicted by the chollas.

It also provided me with the experience of staying in one of those luxury cabins, complete with a kitchen and its own little liquor cabinet (no tiny bottles or charges on your bill). The place had no TV or radio since satellite and cable weren't available. To make up for it, after dinner, they would show first-run (or nearly first-run movies) in the dining room. How great.

When I got back, I suggested a feature on how cool it was in Borrego to be out of the reach of TV and radio distraction. My boss, Baker Conrad, liked the idea but thought it might not work, what with the publisher's financial ties down there...

A few months later, JaCoby asked me to do another Sunday piece. This one as to be my favorite story from my Union days. It involved one of the last survivors of Olivenhain, who had been a kid when she and her family moved to the bare land with other German-speaking people in 1885, lured there by full-page ads in eastern papers promising a sunny paradise.

As it turned out, the survivor, an elderly woman recalled nothing much about that first year, except for the rain.

I spent a lot of time talking to people who lived there and researching the colony. It made a wonderful story.

Both the stories I did for Al drew more response from readers than any of the other hundreds of features I did while there.

When I left the Union for the glitter of Alaska, I lost touch with Al for quite some time. Later in my career, I got to know him better when we met at various editors' conventions. He was a wonderful, witty person and I am proud to have known him.