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- Story Listed as: True Life For Adults
- Theme: Drama / Human Interest
- Subject: Survival / Healing / Renewal
- Published: 03/28/2019
Shootout
Born 1944, M, from Independence, Oregon, United StatesUp close, he pointed his revolver at me. I moved away. He fired. The bullet hit the ground. Gravel sprinkled my feet from the impact.
Holding the American flag, I’d just lowered from its pole, I ran back. He fired again. It felt like a puff of wind. My right arm flew back. Blood spurted out. I’d been shot. I was 18 years old.
My first gainful employment was picking prunes in Santa Clara Valley’s bountiful orchards. It took two heaping buckets to fill a lug box which netted 25 cents. In 1952, at age 8, the first year, I netted $25 cash. It was all mine. No government entity got its beak wet between the farm contractor and me.
Prunes, beans, strawberries, blackberries, any fruit which could be harvested without use of a ladder was my farm picker fate until 16, the age the government determined I was mature enough to fall out of a ladder and hurt myself. Then it was apricots and cherries, easy money, in comparison. There was also year-round work as a newspaper boy and cutting neighbors lawns.
I branched out to a used car lot boy at 15 and learned tricks used to fool customers. At 16, as bus boy at a bowling alley, I learned the pecking order of cook, waitress and me.
Every time I buy car tires, the memory of my painting them black to look new comes back. Back then restaurants made their own French fries and they bring remembrance of the cook scolding my potato peeling. She grabbed the peeler from my hand and showed me how to use slash down strokes not upward peels to minimize potato waste, a lesson in time management, I still disobey at home.
In January 1962, midway through my senior high school year, the employment wheel spun and stopped on a jackpot, Frontier Village, a just opened western theme park, in south San Jose. It’s gone now, a victim of high land values. The only drawback working there was the 25-mile commute from where I lived in Santa Clara.
At Frontier Village the pay scale for part time staff was $1.25 for first 3 months, $1.40 for the next 9 months and $1.50 after a year. The dirty secret was most never made it to $1.50. Part timers were terminated after 9 to 12 months, not to save on the pay scale but because their smile to the public was worn out.
Full time employment was limited to management, public relations/flack catcher, maintenance and two theme characters, Indian Jim on Indian Island and the Village law keeper, the Marshall, Marshall Ron.
The part time staff were college student cowboys and cowgirls who operated mechanical rides and were trash picker uppers, known euphemistically as groundskeepers. Only cowboys were delegated to grounds keeping, a gender reverse preference. Most did an initial 3 month stretch as a groundskeeper before becoming a ride operator.
After a Monday interview, during which I smiled a lot, I started work the next Saturday. I roamed the park as a groundskeeper, dressed in cowboy green Levi’s, short sleeved shirt with FV emblem, deputy sheriff badge, silk scarf and cowboy hat to a continuous background of cowboy music.
In my left hand was a metal drop and plop open dust pan with 90-degree handle bar grip. In the right was a little broom. My prey was trash, spilled popcorn and cigarette butts the predominate game. With a drop of the dust pan, offending items were whisked by the broom out of sight until the pan filled. Once full, I went to a trash bin and dumped my load where it was supposed to be originally. Only popcorn mashed into asphalt by crowd walking delayed my roaming pace.
At the minimum $1.25 per hour, an 8-hour work day was a $10 a day job, the weekend $20! As I strolled on the lookout for trash, my mind was absorbed calculating exactly how much was falling in my pocket every minute walking. With complicated mental calculations, it was determined at $0.0208, prior to the government dipping its beak in and tilting its head back for a drink.
The Park’s concessions, restaurants, popcorn stands, arcade, saloon, fish pond, even the stagecoach and burro pack train rides were leased out to quasi-independent entrepreneurs. Most of these want to be millionaires eked out a profit close to my minimum wage earnings. The General Store, the largest concession, operated by Marty Davis, was different. He knew how to make money, big money. He operated other theme parks with Frontier Village only one of his many concessions.
As I swept around ride operators, I was the pony express of Village gossip. Those who had concessions fascinated me by their potential but when grilled about their businesses it was soon evident only Marty Davis was making real money and he wasn’t leaving. He had a middle-aged woman run the store with her teenage daughter. Once trained, she ran the store and he moved on to other investments. I asked how he kept her honest once he let her run things as he traveled to his other concessions. He called me Smiley, not Jim.
“Well Smiley, it’s easy. I hire an attractive divorced woman about 40 who has a teen aged daughter to help her. I make her manager of the store, provide her an expensive executive briefcase and pay her an excessive car allowance. The daughter stays off the employment roll with mom giving her what she wants, but mom’s salary is boosted to cover for cost of 2 employees. The exaggerated car allowance allows mom to avoid taxes on part of her income. It’s a great deal for her.”
“It sounds like it but how do you keep them honest?”
“That’s not a problem. First off, what I sell for a dollar, I pay at most 10 cents for, so if they take home inventory it’s not a big loss, but she has to keep track of inventory and sales in the expensive briefcase. If figures don’t match, they know they lose a great deal, so they match.”
“How about they bring their own stuff and sell it without ringing it up on the cash register?”
“Smiley, you should open a concession! Eventually most do that or some other gimmick. That’s why I’m working here beyond the store manager training time. I compare gross sales to park gate entrance count. After 3 months an average works out. If my store manager jiggles numbers, I’ll know the average is skewed down. Then I get a new store manager.
In the meantime, my travel expense is low. I sleep at her house when checking up on her concession. She may appear a little old for you but she’s 10 years younger than me.”
The General Store also had a helium balloon concession to sell balloons out front of the store on the main street but Marty had no one to sell balloons.
“Smiley, do you know anyone who would like a job selling balloons? It’s hard to find a guy who is good with kids selling balloons. The markup’s even better than the stuff in the store.”
“Yeah, I know just the guy. I’ll have him come talk to you.”
To offset gas travel expense, it was necessary to get friends at school to also work at Frontier Village for carpooling. My first referral hire was Louie Silva to Marty Davis, not the sharpest knife in the drawer but great personality. Marty hired him on the spot when he came out for the interview. Unbeknownst to me, Louie had the knack of selling, inflating and tying off balloons, and was honest. Mr. Davis liked his sales results and me for the referral.
The second referral to the Village, another Louie, Louie Ravizza. Both played high school football with me. At times, riding together, the song, “Louie, Louie” would come up on the radio as we commuted. In my red and white, 1953 Chevrolet convertible, we sang a chorus, “Louie Louie, oh no, you take me where we gotta go, yeah, yeah, we gotta go work now”, the few words we could decipher and paraphrase in the song.
Once my 3 months groundskeeper duty passed, it was ride operator at $1.40 an hour. I shifted among antique autos, merry-go-round, train and mine cars. The borrow pack train and stagecoach rides had real cowboy operators.
Obtaining ride operator status revealed draw backs which surpassed the 15 cents wage increase. Unlike roaming the park as groundskeeper, you were stuck standing and interrelating with the public all day. The kids were pests, didn’t listen to the rote warnings about getting on and off rides, but it was the parents who were the more trying. Correction of children by another, results in irrational parental ire.
The 2 better rides to operate were the merry-go-round and the mine ride. On the merry-go-round you worked in the shade and walked about the carousel, mounting and dismounting youngsters with parents and kids calmed by the carousal melody. Drawbacks were cotton candy and 8 hours of repetitive music.
The mine ride required standing all day in the sun and dealing with kids who didn’t listen and their irrational parents, but it had a secret perk. Inside the dark mine ride were scary exhibits and hanging stalactites. Before every mine car was set off the ride operator recited a rote verbal warning about keeping one’s hands in the car and not standing up to avoid injury due to the low hanging stalactites.
Adults, kids and girls obeyed but often 12 to 16-year-old boys didn’t. They came to the ride with pockets stuffed with rocks for throwing at the exhibits. Given extra detailed instructions of keeping hands inside the car, they were sent off to tour the mine. What they didn’t know was, there was a secret door near the launch button to the interior of the mine which gave access directly behind the mine car before it met the first exhibit.
The dark provided cover, I carried the wood handle of a grounds keeper’s broom and walked unseen behind the mine car. When a bad boy reached in a pocket, took out a rock and raised their hand to throw, I released pent up public relations pressure with a broomstick handle thwack to the offending paw.
With the pleasing sound of, ow, ow, I returned to my station and greeted the bad boys when they exited the mine, clutching an offending hand. Getting out of the mine car, they exclaimed there were low hanging objects in the mine. Pockets still filled with rocks, they ambled off to a safer ride.
Despite the perks of the merry-go-round and the mine ride, even dabbling, I yearned for the freedom of being a groundskeeper despite its low esteem status. Constantly smiling while dealing with irrational people with kids and standing next to the ride controls with aching legs, usually in the sun, wasn’t worth the extra earned.
Roaming the Village seeking trash was better.
Groundskeeper had its perks. You took breaks when you wanted. You walked instead of stood all day with aching legs. You transmitted gossip among the employees and concessionaires stuck to their spot. You could sneak in the arcade and waste quarters and you could scurry behind attractive women and ogle them discreetly, pretending to be immersed with your broom and dust pan.
The drawbacks were the public’s view of you as a lowly status popcorn and cigarette butt picker upper and restroom cleaner. I didn’t care about the public’s portrayed low status. As I day dreamed pushing kids on and off running rides, I schemed on making groundskeeper the highest paid part-time job in the park instead of the lowest.
Theme parks targeting families need to present a family clean appearance. Management was constantly harping on everyone pitching in to help keep the park clean. With two popcorn concessions, cotton candy and snow-cones sold in the fountain, 3 to 12-year old kids delegated to holding these while munching and straw sipping this was difficult. In addition, most adults smoked and butts were tossed and stepped on. The need for groundskeepers, their dustpans and little brooms was obvious.
The problem was those delegated to groundskeeper duty were new hired males at minimum wage who didn’t see the advantages of the position. They tended to slough off and retreat to the back country or Indian Island out of public view until their 3 months to ride operator status.
Standing in the hot sun, guiding kids holding popcorn or cotton candy in and out of electric track autos, I devised my pitch to management. During my afternoon break I humbly entered the president’s office, with a suggestion to Mr. Zukin, the real Marshall of Frontier Village.
“Mr. Zukin, I have a suggestion to help make the park more attractive to families. Can I have a minute?”
“Jim, why don’t you write it down and I’ll review it.”
“It’s too complicated to write down but only takes a minute to explain.”
“Okay, you got a minute, what is it?”
“The park needs to be kept spotless to attract families. I can do this if you let me select and manage the groundskeepers. Instead of being a new hire position it should be an elite position.”
“And how are you going to do this?”
“Let me select a groundskeeper crew from the new hires and move them to $1.50 an hour as privileged employees. I’ll make it a team who scurry about and pick up the popcorn as soon as it drops.”
“And you?”
“$1.75 and hour, the park and restroom will be kept spotless. If not, then fire me and do what you’re doing now.”
“Who’s your first groundskeeper selection?”
“Louie Ravizza who rides to work with me.”
“So, you move up to $1.75 an hour and he gets bumped up to $1.50 and the 2 of you keep the park clean?”
“Yes, but on Sunday’s you’ll still need the 3rd groundskeeper due to the crowds. I get to select from new hires who stays as groundskeepers.”
“We’ll give it a try. If it doesn’t work, I’ll take your suggestion and we’ll go back to the old way.”
“Thank you, sir. It will work.”
Leaving the office, I went and talked to Louie working on the merry go round. At first, he was skeptical but soon was won over.
So, it was, I was head of the groundskeepers, strolling the park among the visitors with my dust pan and broom. Paid more than any ride operator, I spread gossip and rumors, played arcade games, followed attractive females, plopped my dust pan down with a bang if I wanted them to turn around for a better look and took my breaks when desired, but always ensured the park was clean.
I cherry picked new hires, those who wanted quick move up from $1.25 to $1.50 an hour and who worked fast with the dust pan and broom. A couple even became life long friends. With their vigorous efforts my break times became longer. There, I sat, smoked, ate glazed donuts and drank coffee and chatted with all to expand my repertoire of gossip and rumor.
Every 2 hours groundskeeper status was elevated to actor as the Village undertaker when the Marshall shot the bad guy robbing the Frontier Village Bank. This was done by arriving after the shootout dressed as an undertaker with an open wood wheel burrow, lifting the bad guy onto a wooden wheelbarrow and yelling to the Marshall, “He’s still kicking!” when the bad guy’s leg kicked up while on the wheelbarrow. The Marshall then shot him again and the undertaker wheeled the bad guy to the break room, another chance for a break.
The Marshall, Marshall Ron, was one of the originators in development of Frontier Village. He sold stock and assisted in its design. He was a Gun Smoke TV, Matt Dillion type. He didn’t act as the Marshall. In his mind, he was the Marshall of Frontier Village.
The gunfighter shootout act started at high noon when the bad guy robbed the Frontier Village Bank. He had a real Colt 45 pistol, waved it at the terrified teller, took phony cash bags, holstered his pistol and ran out on to Main Street. Coming the other way was the Village hero, Marshall Ron, with his 45-caliber revolver slung in his waist belt holster. A crowd by this time had gathered to the groundskeeper roped off area for the confrontation.
The bank robber refused commands to surrender. It then was a quick draw re-enactment of Okay Corral with 45 caliber blanks, loud bangs and plenty of smoke to delight the audience. The Marshall always won the quick draw every 2 hours after noon with 4 acts a day. The killed bad guy, swept clean by the undertaker and carted away to the break room, resurrected and played bad guy again in 2 hours. It was the best exhibit of the park and free.
Like most theme parks, including Disney, the Village attractions were make believe fakes, but unlike others there were real attractions. The stagecoach was a real stagecoach with real horses, including their apples. The burro pack train ride had real burros which on occasion required shocking brute force to overcome stubbornness.
While the robbery and shoot out were make believe, the guns were real. Only the bullets were blank. They were still dangerous with powder and wading blown out requiring the crowd to be kept back and the Marshall and bad guy to retain a sufficiently safe distance.
Additional groundskeeper duties were raising and lowering the flags at the park entrance, cleaning restrooms and directing traffic for parking when the crowds were large and parking scarce. I did my best standing in front of cars and guiding them to potential parking spaces but confess, occasionally I sent cars I didn’t like (Mercedes) to dead ends, difficult to back out of. Cleaning the restrooms educated me to the fact men are much tidier than women when someone else is picking and cleaning up.
Of all the grounds keeper’s duties, I enjoyed raising and lowering the flags at the Park’s entrance most. I was careful the California bear and US stars and stripes never touched the ground.
Louie Silva, selling balloons on Main Street in front of the General Store, had a closeup view of the quick draw shootout action. He also had a 6-shooter revolver at home, albeit a lightweight 38 caliber compared to the 45’s. He started practicing quick draw at home on a 20-acre orchard in Mountain View back when Mountain View still had open spaces.
Once he convinced himself he could out draw Marshall Ron, he formally challenged the Marshall to a quick draw shootout after work. The Marshall, as a real Marshall in mind, agreed.
Commuting together with just one Louie, the day of Louie balloon man’s scheduled quick draw shootout, he informed me, based on his shooting at his orchard, the danger of the blanks was real.
“Hey, you know something?”
“Louie, I know everything.”
“No, I’m talking about blanks being dangerous. I put one up close to a 2 X 4 and it went right through it.”
“No way.”
“It did.” When they keep the crowd back and a distance between the Marshall and the Clyde, the bad guy, it’s necessary”
“You sure you’re shooting blanks”
“Look at the box, it says Wad Cutter.”
I glanced at the box in his hand with a couple of bullets he’d extracted while driving. They looked like the blanks Marshall Ron used only a tad smaller. I didn’t give it further thought as I pulled into the Park’s parking lot and parked at a far parking space reserved for employees.
After the park closed, as usual I went to the front entrance with the block houses to take the flags down. Passing the balloon sales spot, Louie was taking the helium tanks into the General Store, his revolver in its holster on his belt. He’d worn it all day for the big shoot out coming.
I asked, “When’s the quick draw with the Marshall?”
“Been postponed until tomorrow. He’s in a management meeting.”
As I ambled on, he finished his balloon wrap up chores and came out to the parking lot where I’d started taking down the stars and stripes US flag. Disconsolate the quick draw was postponed, he drew the pistol out and waved it around, then pointed it at me.
I’d grown up with guns. I’d bought my first, a single shot 22, for $10 on the lay away plan with paper route money when I was 12. I’d taken the hunter safety course. I knew when you handled a gun, you were ever cognizant of where the barrel was aimed and assumed the gun was loaded. I knew you never, ever pointed a gun at a person. Now one was pointed directly at me, supposedly loaded with blanks.
“Louie, don’t point that gun at me!”
"It’s just got blanks.”
“I don’t care. Don’t point it at me.”
He fired off a round near my feet. Gravel spewed up.
“Don’t do that!”
He waved the gun around and again pointed it at me. I walked away to get distance. He fired again. My right arm flew back, a hole through the forearm. Blood gushed out.
“You shot me!”
He was in disbelief, but not me. I rushed over to the entrance gate blockhouse where they were tabulating the days receipts. I knew there was a first aid kit there. I opened the door and told the cowgirl counting money I needed a tourniquet. She looked up and started screaming. Obviously, I wasn’t getting first aid there. I pulled off my cowboy silk neck scarf and tied it tight with a left hand and teeth above the bullet hole on my arm. The blood flow eased.
Her hysteria ebbed and she wanted to call an ambulance. By then I knew it was just a flesh wound with no broken bone. I decided to have Louie drive me to the San Jose Hospital. At the car he was shaking and blubbering about not knowing the gun was loaded. I decided to drive the 10 miles myself.
At the emergency room blood flow was at the seeping stage, not flowing. They wheeled me right into an operating room with my cowboy uniform still on. After a couple of needle injections for antibiotics and arm anesthesia and swabbing the holes with an antiseptic, a young doctor started slicing away. I watched his hacking and cutting in the reflection of the operating lamp rim. It looked like they were cutting my arm off but were just opening the outside down to the bullet hole and scraping the trajectory path clean. He sewed up his handy work as I watched the reflection, amazed it was my arm yet I felt nothing.
Satisfied with his handiwork, he let me get up from the operating table and directed me to sit in a little recovery room until the anesthesia wore off. There, listening to Louie’s pleas for forgiveness, the door burst open. A police officer entered to take a shooting report.
He went carefully over the details, looked at the wad cutter bullets, shook his head while giving Louie a disgusting glance and concluded I was very lucky because a wad cutting bullet is like a dumb-dumb bullet, meant to flatten when it hit something solid like a bone. He said it was only to be used for target practice where the bullet was supposed to splatter when it hit the target or the wall behind. He filled out his paper work, assured by me it was all an accidental shooting and got up to depart. I stopped him.
“Officer, at the station you file your report, correct?”
“Yes, why do you ask?”
“You know newspapers are always looking for a story. A Frontier Village cowboy gunned down taking the flag down at closing by a balloon guy who was supposed to have a quick draw shoot out with the Marshall would be a tempting story.”
“Where are you going with this?”
“Frontier Village is a good family amusement park. It makes San Jose a better place. They’re very generous with free passes and ride tickets for the police and their families. We don’t want to damage its reputation. At headquarters there’s probably 2 file piles, one for mundane and one the newspapers root through. It would be good if your report was in the mundane folder.”
He smiled.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
He left. I drove Louie to his car and then drove home. Mom was hysterical but calmed when I moved all my fingers on the shot arm hung in its sling and explained it was just a flesh wound.
I called Frontier Village to explain I needed a month off. They were all abuzz about what happened and of course misinformed based on sketchy information provided by the cashier in the block house who couldn’t apply a tourniquet.
A few days later, after school, Louie finally able to drive, we went to Frontier Village to be interviewed by our employers. As we passed the General Store, Mr. Davis came out and assured Louie he still had his job. He joked he’d keep him even if he had shot the Marshall, proof it was hard to find good balloon salesmen.
Mr. Zukin, Marshall Ron, and the personnel director did our inquisitions. As when criminals are queried, they’d kept us separate, the shooter testified first. There was no need to get our stories straight. What happened was straight forward simple. I was working taking down the flags in the parking lot, Louie pointed a gun at me, I tried to get away, Louie shot me. End of story.
As soon as I sat down, Mr. Zukin told me.
“Jim, Frontier Village does not allow horseplay. We are terminating your employment.”
I was fired. It took a bit to respond but then I did.
“Wait a minute. Let me get this straight. I’m doing my job, cleaning up the parking lot, taking down the flags, a concessionaire balloon sales guy brings a gun to Frontier Village because he and Marshall Ron are going to have a quick draw shootout contest. He brings unknown to me real bullets, he follows me out to the parking lot, points his gun at me, I try to get away, he shoots me and I get fired but he keeps his job? After being shot I have to tie my own tourniquet, drive myself to the hospital, and after laying on the operating table I get the police officer who responded to the shooting to keep it out of the newspaper, and I get fired?
How about a better newspaper story? Frontier Village cowboy gets shot while taking down US flag, has to tie his own tourniquet to stop bleeding, drives himself to hospital, in thanks gets fired and has to sue his employer, yet the shooter keeps job?
I’m not talking about suing because I don’t think my employer did anything wrong. Louie Silva has agreed to pay my hospital bill. How about, instead, I recover and I return to work, end of story.”
Mr. Zukin was silent during my response but Marshall Ron winced with his name brought into the discussion.
I knew from talking with Mr. Davis, Zukin told him to fire Louie but Mr. Davis replied, “Hell no, he’s great selling balloons. He can shoot the Marshall for all I care.”
So Zukin pondered my position and replied, “Jim, your explanation adds more information. Please go to the other room and we will re-consider our decision.”
It was about 15 minutes before I was called back in. I knew they were chewing not on the equitableness of my dismissal but their liability and press exposure. When I sat down Zukin again did the talking.
“Jim, after listening to your explanation we’ve decided to retain your employment here. I want to thank you for helping us understand what happened. Please let us know when you are well enough to come back to work.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Out of the office I knew that for 3 years, the statute of limitations for suing, I had job security.
Once back to listening to cowboy background melodies, following pretty females and plunking down my dust bin I was again heads groundskeeper. I even managed to ring up 999 free games in the arcade baseball pinball machine to give to some kid. The Village was kept spotless and when car-pooling to work it was... “Louie, Louie, we gotta go work now, yeah, yeah, yeah.”
I continued to work there 2 and half more years until better jobs came up. I never sued Frontier Village and the public never heard of the real shootout.
Shootout(Jim)
Up close, he pointed his revolver at me. I moved away. He fired. The bullet hit the ground. Gravel sprinkled my feet from the impact.
Holding the American flag, I’d just lowered from its pole, I ran back. He fired again. It felt like a puff of wind. My right arm flew back. Blood spurted out. I’d been shot. I was 18 years old.
My first gainful employment was picking prunes in Santa Clara Valley’s bountiful orchards. It took two heaping buckets to fill a lug box which netted 25 cents. In 1952, at age 8, the first year, I netted $25 cash. It was all mine. No government entity got its beak wet between the farm contractor and me.
Prunes, beans, strawberries, blackberries, any fruit which could be harvested without use of a ladder was my farm picker fate until 16, the age the government determined I was mature enough to fall out of a ladder and hurt myself. Then it was apricots and cherries, easy money, in comparison. There was also year-round work as a newspaper boy and cutting neighbors lawns.
I branched out to a used car lot boy at 15 and learned tricks used to fool customers. At 16, as bus boy at a bowling alley, I learned the pecking order of cook, waitress and me.
Every time I buy car tires, the memory of my painting them black to look new comes back. Back then restaurants made their own French fries and they bring remembrance of the cook scolding my potato peeling. She grabbed the peeler from my hand and showed me how to use slash down strokes not upward peels to minimize potato waste, a lesson in time management, I still disobey at home.
In January 1962, midway through my senior high school year, the employment wheel spun and stopped on a jackpot, Frontier Village, a just opened western theme park, in south San Jose. It’s gone now, a victim of high land values. The only drawback working there was the 25-mile commute from where I lived in Santa Clara.
At Frontier Village the pay scale for part time staff was $1.25 for first 3 months, $1.40 for the next 9 months and $1.50 after a year. The dirty secret was most never made it to $1.50. Part timers were terminated after 9 to 12 months, not to save on the pay scale but because their smile to the public was worn out.
Full time employment was limited to management, public relations/flack catcher, maintenance and two theme characters, Indian Jim on Indian Island and the Village law keeper, the Marshall, Marshall Ron.
The part time staff were college student cowboys and cowgirls who operated mechanical rides and were trash picker uppers, known euphemistically as groundskeepers. Only cowboys were delegated to grounds keeping, a gender reverse preference. Most did an initial 3 month stretch as a groundskeeper before becoming a ride operator.
After a Monday interview, during which I smiled a lot, I started work the next Saturday. I roamed the park as a groundskeeper, dressed in cowboy green Levi’s, short sleeved shirt with FV emblem, deputy sheriff badge, silk scarf and cowboy hat to a continuous background of cowboy music.
In my left hand was a metal drop and plop open dust pan with 90-degree handle bar grip. In the right was a little broom. My prey was trash, spilled popcorn and cigarette butts the predominate game. With a drop of the dust pan, offending items were whisked by the broom out of sight until the pan filled. Once full, I went to a trash bin and dumped my load where it was supposed to be originally. Only popcorn mashed into asphalt by crowd walking delayed my roaming pace.
At the minimum $1.25 per hour, an 8-hour work day was a $10 a day job, the weekend $20! As I strolled on the lookout for trash, my mind was absorbed calculating exactly how much was falling in my pocket every minute walking. With complicated mental calculations, it was determined at $0.0208, prior to the government dipping its beak in and tilting its head back for a drink.
The Park’s concessions, restaurants, popcorn stands, arcade, saloon, fish pond, even the stagecoach and burro pack train rides were leased out to quasi-independent entrepreneurs. Most of these want to be millionaires eked out a profit close to my minimum wage earnings. The General Store, the largest concession, operated by Marty Davis, was different. He knew how to make money, big money. He operated other theme parks with Frontier Village only one of his many concessions.
As I swept around ride operators, I was the pony express of Village gossip. Those who had concessions fascinated me by their potential but when grilled about their businesses it was soon evident only Marty Davis was making real money and he wasn’t leaving. He had a middle-aged woman run the store with her teenage daughter. Once trained, she ran the store and he moved on to other investments. I asked how he kept her honest once he let her run things as he traveled to his other concessions. He called me Smiley, not Jim.
“Well Smiley, it’s easy. I hire an attractive divorced woman about 40 who has a teen aged daughter to help her. I make her manager of the store, provide her an expensive executive briefcase and pay her an excessive car allowance. The daughter stays off the employment roll with mom giving her what she wants, but mom’s salary is boosted to cover for cost of 2 employees. The exaggerated car allowance allows mom to avoid taxes on part of her income. It’s a great deal for her.”
“It sounds like it but how do you keep them honest?”
“That’s not a problem. First off, what I sell for a dollar, I pay at most 10 cents for, so if they take home inventory it’s not a big loss, but she has to keep track of inventory and sales in the expensive briefcase. If figures don’t match, they know they lose a great deal, so they match.”
“How about they bring their own stuff and sell it without ringing it up on the cash register?”
“Smiley, you should open a concession! Eventually most do that or some other gimmick. That’s why I’m working here beyond the store manager training time. I compare gross sales to park gate entrance count. After 3 months an average works out. If my store manager jiggles numbers, I’ll know the average is skewed down. Then I get a new store manager.
In the meantime, my travel expense is low. I sleep at her house when checking up on her concession. She may appear a little old for you but she’s 10 years younger than me.”
The General Store also had a helium balloon concession to sell balloons out front of the store on the main street but Marty had no one to sell balloons.
“Smiley, do you know anyone who would like a job selling balloons? It’s hard to find a guy who is good with kids selling balloons. The markup’s even better than the stuff in the store.”
“Yeah, I know just the guy. I’ll have him come talk to you.”
To offset gas travel expense, it was necessary to get friends at school to also work at Frontier Village for carpooling. My first referral hire was Louie Silva to Marty Davis, not the sharpest knife in the drawer but great personality. Marty hired him on the spot when he came out for the interview. Unbeknownst to me, Louie had the knack of selling, inflating and tying off balloons, and was honest. Mr. Davis liked his sales results and me for the referral.
The second referral to the Village, another Louie, Louie Ravizza. Both played high school football with me. At times, riding together, the song, “Louie, Louie” would come up on the radio as we commuted. In my red and white, 1953 Chevrolet convertible, we sang a chorus, “Louie Louie, oh no, you take me where we gotta go, yeah, yeah, we gotta go work now”, the few words we could decipher and paraphrase in the song.
Once my 3 months groundskeeper duty passed, it was ride operator at $1.40 an hour. I shifted among antique autos, merry-go-round, train and mine cars. The borrow pack train and stagecoach rides had real cowboy operators.
Obtaining ride operator status revealed draw backs which surpassed the 15 cents wage increase. Unlike roaming the park as groundskeeper, you were stuck standing and interrelating with the public all day. The kids were pests, didn’t listen to the rote warnings about getting on and off rides, but it was the parents who were the more trying. Correction of children by another, results in irrational parental ire.
The 2 better rides to operate were the merry-go-round and the mine ride. On the merry-go-round you worked in the shade and walked about the carousel, mounting and dismounting youngsters with parents and kids calmed by the carousal melody. Drawbacks were cotton candy and 8 hours of repetitive music.
The mine ride required standing all day in the sun and dealing with kids who didn’t listen and their irrational parents, but it had a secret perk. Inside the dark mine ride were scary exhibits and hanging stalactites. Before every mine car was set off the ride operator recited a rote verbal warning about keeping one’s hands in the car and not standing up to avoid injury due to the low hanging stalactites.
Adults, kids and girls obeyed but often 12 to 16-year-old boys didn’t. They came to the ride with pockets stuffed with rocks for throwing at the exhibits. Given extra detailed instructions of keeping hands inside the car, they were sent off to tour the mine. What they didn’t know was, there was a secret door near the launch button to the interior of the mine which gave access directly behind the mine car before it met the first exhibit.
The dark provided cover, I carried the wood handle of a grounds keeper’s broom and walked unseen behind the mine car. When a bad boy reached in a pocket, took out a rock and raised their hand to throw, I released pent up public relations pressure with a broomstick handle thwack to the offending paw.
With the pleasing sound of, ow, ow, I returned to my station and greeted the bad boys when they exited the mine, clutching an offending hand. Getting out of the mine car, they exclaimed there were low hanging objects in the mine. Pockets still filled with rocks, they ambled off to a safer ride.
Despite the perks of the merry-go-round and the mine ride, even dabbling, I yearned for the freedom of being a groundskeeper despite its low esteem status. Constantly smiling while dealing with irrational people with kids and standing next to the ride controls with aching legs, usually in the sun, wasn’t worth the extra earned.
Roaming the Village seeking trash was better.
Groundskeeper had its perks. You took breaks when you wanted. You walked instead of stood all day with aching legs. You transmitted gossip among the employees and concessionaires stuck to their spot. You could sneak in the arcade and waste quarters and you could scurry behind attractive women and ogle them discreetly, pretending to be immersed with your broom and dust pan.
The drawbacks were the public’s view of you as a lowly status popcorn and cigarette butt picker upper and restroom cleaner. I didn’t care about the public’s portrayed low status. As I day dreamed pushing kids on and off running rides, I schemed on making groundskeeper the highest paid part-time job in the park instead of the lowest.
Theme parks targeting families need to present a family clean appearance. Management was constantly harping on everyone pitching in to help keep the park clean. With two popcorn concessions, cotton candy and snow-cones sold in the fountain, 3 to 12-year old kids delegated to holding these while munching and straw sipping this was difficult. In addition, most adults smoked and butts were tossed and stepped on. The need for groundskeepers, their dustpans and little brooms was obvious.
The problem was those delegated to groundskeeper duty were new hired males at minimum wage who didn’t see the advantages of the position. They tended to slough off and retreat to the back country or Indian Island out of public view until their 3 months to ride operator status.
Standing in the hot sun, guiding kids holding popcorn or cotton candy in and out of electric track autos, I devised my pitch to management. During my afternoon break I humbly entered the president’s office, with a suggestion to Mr. Zukin, the real Marshall of Frontier Village.
“Mr. Zukin, I have a suggestion to help make the park more attractive to families. Can I have a minute?”
“Jim, why don’t you write it down and I’ll review it.”
“It’s too complicated to write down but only takes a minute to explain.”
“Okay, you got a minute, what is it?”
“The park needs to be kept spotless to attract families. I can do this if you let me select and manage the groundskeepers. Instead of being a new hire position it should be an elite position.”
“And how are you going to do this?”
“Let me select a groundskeeper crew from the new hires and move them to $1.50 an hour as privileged employees. I’ll make it a team who scurry about and pick up the popcorn as soon as it drops.”
“And you?”
“$1.75 and hour, the park and restroom will be kept spotless. If not, then fire me and do what you’re doing now.”
“Who’s your first groundskeeper selection?”
“Louie Ravizza who rides to work with me.”
“So, you move up to $1.75 an hour and he gets bumped up to $1.50 and the 2 of you keep the park clean?”
“Yes, but on Sunday’s you’ll still need the 3rd groundskeeper due to the crowds. I get to select from new hires who stays as groundskeepers.”
“We’ll give it a try. If it doesn’t work, I’ll take your suggestion and we’ll go back to the old way.”
“Thank you, sir. It will work.”
Leaving the office, I went and talked to Louie working on the merry go round. At first, he was skeptical but soon was won over.
So, it was, I was head of the groundskeepers, strolling the park among the visitors with my dust pan and broom. Paid more than any ride operator, I spread gossip and rumors, played arcade games, followed attractive females, plopped my dust pan down with a bang if I wanted them to turn around for a better look and took my breaks when desired, but always ensured the park was clean.
I cherry picked new hires, those who wanted quick move up from $1.25 to $1.50 an hour and who worked fast with the dust pan and broom. A couple even became life long friends. With their vigorous efforts my break times became longer. There, I sat, smoked, ate glazed donuts and drank coffee and chatted with all to expand my repertoire of gossip and rumor.
Every 2 hours groundskeeper status was elevated to actor as the Village undertaker when the Marshall shot the bad guy robbing the Frontier Village Bank. This was done by arriving after the shootout dressed as an undertaker with an open wood wheel burrow, lifting the bad guy onto a wooden wheelbarrow and yelling to the Marshall, “He’s still kicking!” when the bad guy’s leg kicked up while on the wheelbarrow. The Marshall then shot him again and the undertaker wheeled the bad guy to the break room, another chance for a break.
The Marshall, Marshall Ron, was one of the originators in development of Frontier Village. He sold stock and assisted in its design. He was a Gun Smoke TV, Matt Dillion type. He didn’t act as the Marshall. In his mind, he was the Marshall of Frontier Village.
The gunfighter shootout act started at high noon when the bad guy robbed the Frontier Village Bank. He had a real Colt 45 pistol, waved it at the terrified teller, took phony cash bags, holstered his pistol and ran out on to Main Street. Coming the other way was the Village hero, Marshall Ron, with his 45-caliber revolver slung in his waist belt holster. A crowd by this time had gathered to the groundskeeper roped off area for the confrontation.
The bank robber refused commands to surrender. It then was a quick draw re-enactment of Okay Corral with 45 caliber blanks, loud bangs and plenty of smoke to delight the audience. The Marshall always won the quick draw every 2 hours after noon with 4 acts a day. The killed bad guy, swept clean by the undertaker and carted away to the break room, resurrected and played bad guy again in 2 hours. It was the best exhibit of the park and free.
Like most theme parks, including Disney, the Village attractions were make believe fakes, but unlike others there were real attractions. The stagecoach was a real stagecoach with real horses, including their apples. The burro pack train ride had real burros which on occasion required shocking brute force to overcome stubbornness.
While the robbery and shoot out were make believe, the guns were real. Only the bullets were blank. They were still dangerous with powder and wading blown out requiring the crowd to be kept back and the Marshall and bad guy to retain a sufficiently safe distance.
Additional groundskeeper duties were raising and lowering the flags at the park entrance, cleaning restrooms and directing traffic for parking when the crowds were large and parking scarce. I did my best standing in front of cars and guiding them to potential parking spaces but confess, occasionally I sent cars I didn’t like (Mercedes) to dead ends, difficult to back out of. Cleaning the restrooms educated me to the fact men are much tidier than women when someone else is picking and cleaning up.
Of all the grounds keeper’s duties, I enjoyed raising and lowering the flags at the Park’s entrance most. I was careful the California bear and US stars and stripes never touched the ground.
Louie Silva, selling balloons on Main Street in front of the General Store, had a closeup view of the quick draw shootout action. He also had a 6-shooter revolver at home, albeit a lightweight 38 caliber compared to the 45’s. He started practicing quick draw at home on a 20-acre orchard in Mountain View back when Mountain View still had open spaces.
Once he convinced himself he could out draw Marshall Ron, he formally challenged the Marshall to a quick draw shootout after work. The Marshall, as a real Marshall in mind, agreed.
Commuting together with just one Louie, the day of Louie balloon man’s scheduled quick draw shootout, he informed me, based on his shooting at his orchard, the danger of the blanks was real.
“Hey, you know something?”
“Louie, I know everything.”
“No, I’m talking about blanks being dangerous. I put one up close to a 2 X 4 and it went right through it.”
“No way.”
“It did.” When they keep the crowd back and a distance between the Marshall and the Clyde, the bad guy, it’s necessary”
“You sure you’re shooting blanks”
“Look at the box, it says Wad Cutter.”
I glanced at the box in his hand with a couple of bullets he’d extracted while driving. They looked like the blanks Marshall Ron used only a tad smaller. I didn’t give it further thought as I pulled into the Park’s parking lot and parked at a far parking space reserved for employees.
After the park closed, as usual I went to the front entrance with the block houses to take the flags down. Passing the balloon sales spot, Louie was taking the helium tanks into the General Store, his revolver in its holster on his belt. He’d worn it all day for the big shoot out coming.
I asked, “When’s the quick draw with the Marshall?”
“Been postponed until tomorrow. He’s in a management meeting.”
As I ambled on, he finished his balloon wrap up chores and came out to the parking lot where I’d started taking down the stars and stripes US flag. Disconsolate the quick draw was postponed, he drew the pistol out and waved it around, then pointed it at me.
I’d grown up with guns. I’d bought my first, a single shot 22, for $10 on the lay away plan with paper route money when I was 12. I’d taken the hunter safety course. I knew when you handled a gun, you were ever cognizant of where the barrel was aimed and assumed the gun was loaded. I knew you never, ever pointed a gun at a person. Now one was pointed directly at me, supposedly loaded with blanks.
“Louie, don’t point that gun at me!”
"It’s just got blanks.”
“I don’t care. Don’t point it at me.”
He fired off a round near my feet. Gravel spewed up.
“Don’t do that!”
He waved the gun around and again pointed it at me. I walked away to get distance. He fired again. My right arm flew back, a hole through the forearm. Blood gushed out.
“You shot me!”
He was in disbelief, but not me. I rushed over to the entrance gate blockhouse where they were tabulating the days receipts. I knew there was a first aid kit there. I opened the door and told the cowgirl counting money I needed a tourniquet. She looked up and started screaming. Obviously, I wasn’t getting first aid there. I pulled off my cowboy silk neck scarf and tied it tight with a left hand and teeth above the bullet hole on my arm. The blood flow eased.
Her hysteria ebbed and she wanted to call an ambulance. By then I knew it was just a flesh wound with no broken bone. I decided to have Louie drive me to the San Jose Hospital. At the car he was shaking and blubbering about not knowing the gun was loaded. I decided to drive the 10 miles myself.
At the emergency room blood flow was at the seeping stage, not flowing. They wheeled me right into an operating room with my cowboy uniform still on. After a couple of needle injections for antibiotics and arm anesthesia and swabbing the holes with an antiseptic, a young doctor started slicing away. I watched his hacking and cutting in the reflection of the operating lamp rim. It looked like they were cutting my arm off but were just opening the outside down to the bullet hole and scraping the trajectory path clean. He sewed up his handy work as I watched the reflection, amazed it was my arm yet I felt nothing.
Satisfied with his handiwork, he let me get up from the operating table and directed me to sit in a little recovery room until the anesthesia wore off. There, listening to Louie’s pleas for forgiveness, the door burst open. A police officer entered to take a shooting report.
He went carefully over the details, looked at the wad cutter bullets, shook his head while giving Louie a disgusting glance and concluded I was very lucky because a wad cutting bullet is like a dumb-dumb bullet, meant to flatten when it hit something solid like a bone. He said it was only to be used for target practice where the bullet was supposed to splatter when it hit the target or the wall behind. He filled out his paper work, assured by me it was all an accidental shooting and got up to depart. I stopped him.
“Officer, at the station you file your report, correct?”
“Yes, why do you ask?”
“You know newspapers are always looking for a story. A Frontier Village cowboy gunned down taking the flag down at closing by a balloon guy who was supposed to have a quick draw shoot out with the Marshall would be a tempting story.”
“Where are you going with this?”
“Frontier Village is a good family amusement park. It makes San Jose a better place. They’re very generous with free passes and ride tickets for the police and their families. We don’t want to damage its reputation. At headquarters there’s probably 2 file piles, one for mundane and one the newspapers root through. It would be good if your report was in the mundane folder.”
He smiled.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
He left. I drove Louie to his car and then drove home. Mom was hysterical but calmed when I moved all my fingers on the shot arm hung in its sling and explained it was just a flesh wound.
I called Frontier Village to explain I needed a month off. They were all abuzz about what happened and of course misinformed based on sketchy information provided by the cashier in the block house who couldn’t apply a tourniquet.
A few days later, after school, Louie finally able to drive, we went to Frontier Village to be interviewed by our employers. As we passed the General Store, Mr. Davis came out and assured Louie he still had his job. He joked he’d keep him even if he had shot the Marshall, proof it was hard to find good balloon salesmen.
Mr. Zukin, Marshall Ron, and the personnel director did our inquisitions. As when criminals are queried, they’d kept us separate, the shooter testified first. There was no need to get our stories straight. What happened was straight forward simple. I was working taking down the flags in the parking lot, Louie pointed a gun at me, I tried to get away, Louie shot me. End of story.
As soon as I sat down, Mr. Zukin told me.
“Jim, Frontier Village does not allow horseplay. We are terminating your employment.”
I was fired. It took a bit to respond but then I did.
“Wait a minute. Let me get this straight. I’m doing my job, cleaning up the parking lot, taking down the flags, a concessionaire balloon sales guy brings a gun to Frontier Village because he and Marshall Ron are going to have a quick draw shootout contest. He brings unknown to me real bullets, he follows me out to the parking lot, points his gun at me, I try to get away, he shoots me and I get fired but he keeps his job? After being shot I have to tie my own tourniquet, drive myself to the hospital, and after laying on the operating table I get the police officer who responded to the shooting to keep it out of the newspaper, and I get fired?
How about a better newspaper story? Frontier Village cowboy gets shot while taking down US flag, has to tie his own tourniquet to stop bleeding, drives himself to hospital, in thanks gets fired and has to sue his employer, yet the shooter keeps job?
I’m not talking about suing because I don’t think my employer did anything wrong. Louie Silva has agreed to pay my hospital bill. How about, instead, I recover and I return to work, end of story.”
Mr. Zukin was silent during my response but Marshall Ron winced with his name brought into the discussion.
I knew from talking with Mr. Davis, Zukin told him to fire Louie but Mr. Davis replied, “Hell no, he’s great selling balloons. He can shoot the Marshall for all I care.”
So Zukin pondered my position and replied, “Jim, your explanation adds more information. Please go to the other room and we will re-consider our decision.”
It was about 15 minutes before I was called back in. I knew they were chewing not on the equitableness of my dismissal but their liability and press exposure. When I sat down Zukin again did the talking.
“Jim, after listening to your explanation we’ve decided to retain your employment here. I want to thank you for helping us understand what happened. Please let us know when you are well enough to come back to work.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Out of the office I knew that for 3 years, the statute of limitations for suing, I had job security.
Once back to listening to cowboy background melodies, following pretty females and plunking down my dust bin I was again heads groundskeeper. I even managed to ring up 999 free games in the arcade baseball pinball machine to give to some kid. The Village was kept spotless and when car-pooling to work it was... “Louie, Louie, we gotta go work now, yeah, yeah, yeah.”
I continued to work there 2 and half more years until better jobs came up. I never sued Frontier Village and the public never heard of the real shootout.
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Gail Moore
10/03/2019What a wonderful story. I think on today’s standards you would most definitely been a lot better off suing. Haha.
What a great job you had. Certainly not a boring moment :-)
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Jim
10/03/2019Economics is not the only issue. There is also morality and who was responsible.
Frontier Village was not responsible for my being shot. Only a Portuguese fellow who I got the job as a balloon salesman was responsible for shooting me.
I enjoyed working there and met friends who have lasted a lifetime.
Thank you for your kind words.
I'm pleased you enjoyed the story.
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JD
09/30/2019Thanks for sharing another of your interesting and entertaining true life stories on Storystar, Jim, and congratulations on being selected as one of the Short Story STARS of the Week! :-)
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JD
10/04/2019PS - That was a really fun read with so much American history added in that it was also very educational and informational. And I think you're quite a brilliant negotiator, salesman, and quick-on-your-feet hustler. Very impressive!
I'm glad you were not more badly injured.
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Kevin Hughes
09/30/2019Jumping Gee Whilikers, Jim,
If you don't write a book soon- you should be sued! LOL
Smiles, Kevin
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Jim
10/01/2019Thanks again.
I'm writing another little story of 4 years ago when I was still young at 71.
I fell in a fire pit and couldn't get out and ended up 38 days in a hospital burn unit where the big issue was to whack my leg off or try to save it. Due to my reptilian abilities, my skin grew over the exposed bone and tendon so it was saved and I'm falling bing lumber now pretending to be a lumberjack on a property I own.
Again luck rather than brains is what counts in life.
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Kevin Hughes
10/01/2019I agree, Jim...I too have been "Lucky more than smart." LOL Your True stories not only tell the story of your life (which is pretty doggone amazing all by itself) but give a rare insight into Americana. The history, the wages, the way people thought and lived - all that permeates your stories too. Your contempt for the Government shows through too- but that might be a Universal. LOL
The cars, the towns, the way we lived in the fifties through the eighties - is in all of your True Stories. Even when I don't agree with some of your sentiments - I still find it interesting and a slice of real life.
Smiles, Kevin
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Jim
10/01/2019Well I did write one but under totally different background.
I may clean these stories up and make a book called
"It's Better To Be Lucky Than Smart".
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