The Bottle Cap Story

Do kids still collect stuff these days?

When I was little kids squirreled away all sorts of odds and ends like baseball cards, stamps, Matchbox cars, rocks, and marbles. But I wonder what valuable commodities today’s kids might be amassing for trade and amusement: Happy Meal toys? Action figures? Apps for their smart phones?  Sadly, either I’m really out of touch or times have really changed - probably a little of both- because I really don't know the answer.

But if the question had been asked of me- and I was still a kid- I'd have trotted out my own bedazzling collection of bottle caps.

Yes, bottle caps. Not the twist off things that come on today’s plastic soda bottles. I'm talking about the little metal crowns at the top of a glass beverage bottle. The kind you needed a bottle opener to slip over and pop off.

I wonder how often that little utensil gets used anymore, too. If at all.

Anyway, bottle caps- real bottle caps- with cork inside and the brand logo on the top were for me, at nine years old anyway, the 'it' items to amass and stockpile.

As a hobby, collecting bottle caps came pretty cheap. Twenty five cents for sodas I bought at the 7-11 or out of a vending machine; nothing if the cap came off a pop bottle Mom and Dad paid for. But the challenge was finding as many different caps to add to my accumulation.

The rest of my collection was gathered in public parks, along busy roadsides and wandering through vacant lots. These places were like magnets for discarded bottle caps. Garbage cans were a good place to look, too, if you didn't mind getting your hands dirty.

My little sister even helped. When playing or walking in an area where a bevy of cast-off bottle tops might be lying in wait- like a park or open field- if Sue spotted one on the little treasures on the ground, she'd pick it up and ask "Do you have this one?" She uncovered several pearls for me, including the cap from an “Upper 10”, a 7-up like drink that I’d been trying for months to get my hands on.

It was easy getting the biggies, like Coke, 7-Up, Pepsi, Dr. Pepper; they were a dime a dozen. I had all the root beers, too- Dad's, Frostie, Mug and Hires. After that came a cornucopia of caps from other brand name sodas like Bubble Up, Diet Rite Cola, Orange Crush, Grape Crush, Fresca, all the Nehi flavors, Tab, Squirt, Royal Crown Cola, Canada Dry Ginger Ale and White Rock Creme Soda.

But what made the compilation special and worthy was finding rare gems- like the Upper 10- or Schweppes's Bitter Lemon, Vernor's Ginger Ale or Sun Crest Imitation Grape Soda cap. I picked that one up in Land Park, though I'm not sure Sun Crest was even sold anywhere near California. But now I had one of their bottle caps, and it enhanced my standing as a true bottle cap connoisseur. It was like coming across a clearie marble.

However, what made my assortment superior were all the bottle caps that’d come from beer bottles. These were the cream of the crop because, in our house, they were much harder- if not impossible- to come by. Mom and Dad didn't drink beer or associate with anybody who did, at least as far as I knew. So it was really a labor of love (or luck) to scrounge up cap off of bottle of Budweiser.

But somehow I did. I also had bottle caps from such fine brews as Olympia, Hamms, Coors, Lucky Lager, Pabst Blue Ribbon, Miller, Falstaff, Burgermeister, Schlitz, Busch Bavarian and Carling Black Label. Though these lagers and pilsners were all fairly common and regionally distributed, I had to work really hard to acquire their lids. I wasn't hanging around bars at that age, and bottles from these brands of refreshment would not be found in any of our trash cans. So these were always good scores.

But in addition to picking off the widespread beer brands circulating in the West, I was also able to harvest a few bottle cap nuggets from East Coast brews. These caps came courtesy of friends with relatives on that side of the country. Sometimes I secured them out of generosity, other times it was a business transaction.

When Buzzy Whitnall took a trip to see an aunt and uncle in Philadelphia, he returned with a Schaffer and a Blatz. Buzzy was a pal. He didn’t ask for anything in return. But obtaining a Ballentine, and a cap off a beer made at Iroquois Brewery in Buffalo cost me a nickel each. Richard Arthur brought them back for me after a family reunion in New York. But he wouldn’t hand them over till I paid him. Richard was a little more mercenary than Buzzy and some of my other friends.

The complete bottle cap collection was stored in a Dutch Masters Cigar box. I got the carton from my friend Glenn Vogel, although I have no idea where he got it because his old man didn’t smoke cigars. And Lord knows cigars weren't allowed in our house either. Nevertheless, I was happy to have it because the cigar box held all my caps with room to spare. Plus it featured a nice easy flip top to open and examine them. Or show them off…

…which I did one summer evening when Reverend Nelson and his wife were over at our house for dinner. We hadn't been attending his church all that long, and I assume the schmoozing was for the good Reverend to become better acquainted with our family, and he with us.  

When dinner was finished, and before I’d been excused, Reverend Nelson asked if I had any hobbies. Up until then, I'm not sure any church official had ever asked me anything of such a non-Biblical nature. This was cool and I though a moment before answering, wanting to impress the man with a worthy response. "Sure. Wait here”.

Desert hadn’t been served yet- so I knew he wasn’t going anyplace- but made a beeline for my bedroom anyway, just in case he didn't want any of Mom's brownies. "Hey, hey, hey, no running in the house" Dad commanded at my back and, like a dog I pulled up short on a leash, I immediately slowed to a brisk walk down the hall.

In my room, from under the bed I pulled out the bottle caps box and hurried back to the kitchen, although at much more controlled pace. Then I proudly handed it over, opening the  box up so Reverend Nelson could inspect my cache. "Go ahead. Take some out and look at 'em if you want." Like sifting through somebody's lost fortune, his fingers caressed several bottle caps before choosing a pair. He pulled them out and studiously appraised them, as if they were pieces of silver. "Very nice. It looks like you've got quite a collection going. Where did you find them all?"

I though he was genuinely curious, though I'm sure he was just being polite. Didn't matter because when Mom was done slicing up the brownies and finally noticed what I'd brought to the kitchen table, she became immediately mortified. There, in front of God and everybody, her little boy was showing the pastor of our church, a bunch of bottle caps. Filthy, disgusting bottle caps, gathered from who-knows-where. And not just Coke or 7-Up bottle caps; but a whole mess of BEER bottle caps, too. And all displayed in a Dutch Masters cigar box.

Oh, the humanity.

Practically shrieking my name, like she'd discovered a dead body in a closet, Mom issued a command. "Put that box away! Reverend Nelson doesn't want to see your dirty old bottle caps. Take them out of here and back to your room. Now."

I’m sure Mom was probably worried what the Rev might think. She worried what everybody thought. But if Reverend Nelson got the idea that either Dad, or she, (or both) had been the consumers of all the beer that produced all those-bottle tops, Mom would be unable to ever show her face- or her families faces- in his church.  But if he thought they were the hosts of many a wild party- and cigar smokers to boot- he’d think our house was the source of everything evil in the Sacramento suburbs and we’d have to leave town.

I’m sure that was running though Mom’s mind. But not Reverend Nelson’s

My parents? Wild partiers? Puh-leese. The idea couldn't have been any farther from the truth than Sacramento is from Shanghai; a theory grounded in as much reality as the Roller Derby. Besides, as as a man of cloth, the Reverend probably didn't dabble in petty snap-judgements- particularly new parishioners. Instead, he was kind and gracious. He chuckled at Mom's over-reaction and told me I had an “A plus” bottle cap collection and to keep it up.

I still wanted to cry, though, because I'd just been bawled out in front of company. So I took my little box of treasures and slinked back to my room. I didn't even get a stinkin' brownie, and didn't make another appearance till told to, and that was only for the sake of ‘being polite’ and say good night. The next day, Mom asked for the cigar box. "Your collecting days are over. Give me the box."

And after sending me out to play, she deposited it in the garbage can. But I got even. Unknown to her, I reclaimed the box and most of the contents, and added to it until I traded them all to Teddy Shea for his entire baseball card collection. It was a pretty shrewd deal, too, because 15 years I was short rent money and sold the cards for a hundred bucks to stay current with the landlord. See Mom? And you wanted me to throw all that stuff away.

Pretty sharp kid after all, right?  

What Becomes of the Brokenhearted, Part 2

The sight of her kissing him remained stuck in my brain. It also remained unbearable.

I drove and drove, for nearly two hours, from early evening twilight into Friday night darkness, from North Spokane to Stateline, Idaho. I drove with no direction or purpose until finally stopping at a pizza joint and tavern someplace in one of the South Hill neighborhoods.  It was a long way from the roller rink and a long way from Whitworth and that was fine. I didn’t want to run into anyone I knew. But no matter how far I ran, I couldn’t outrun the inescapable truth: I’d lost her for good.

It was May 6, 1977 and I couldn’t deceive myself any longer. My relationship with Kelly was officially and unalterably over. Dead, done, expired. Cause of death?  Irreconcilable differences- she was over me, had moved on and found someone else while I couldn’t stop being over her, didn’t want to move on and didn’t want anyone else. I guess that’s about as irreconcilable as it gets.  Damn.

Parked near the tavern’s entrance, I rubbed my eyes again before getting out of the car. It was Friday night and but the place was pretty dead. Having absolutely no desire to be around a lot of people, for me, that made it the place to be. I found a dark corner, ordered a pitcher of Old Milwaukee from the server and was left alone to drink it. (Okay, so it was a pony, but that was a lot of beer to me). I usually liked Old Mil, too, but that night it went down hard; kind of like the evening had so far. But broken dreams didn’t go down easy, either, I supposed.

Nobody bothered me, except the quite efficient server. Just doing her job, she’d swing by often to dutifully check on my progress. But I was taking my time, occasionally glancing at the TV hanging from a corner above the bar, thinking… hurting…. observing the few couples at other tables interacting with each other… thinking… aching…. gazing at the three old men at the bar loudly debating various issues of the day with themselves and the bartender…and thinking some more, passing the time slowly and polishing off the pony pitcher even slower.

The server/barmaid/whatever was always pleasant and always came with a smile. But it wasn’t a smile of warmth or friendliness, just the one offered for three bucks an hour plus tips before walking away.  I didn’t even notice if she was pretty or not.  However when I finally drained the first pitcher and she offered another, she didn’t have to ask twice  And after pony number two came, I maintained my silent vigil; observing the assorted clientele, sitting unmoved and drinking, as slowly as before.

By then I'd calmed down but after crying a bucket of hot tears earlier my eyes were still scalding red.  “Anything the matter, sugar?” the server/barmaid/whatever asked next time she was at my table. “Allergies”, I answered glumly, making only brief eye contact before focusing again on my half-empty glass. “Okay. Just let me know if you need anything else”, she replied then walked on.  What I needed was something I’d never have again. Love. So, alone again I returned to my friendless brooding.

One half of one of the three couples made their way to the jukebox and plunked in a quarter. The first selection that came on was something country.  Next was something I was familiar with but didn’t give a crap about. And then…Dammit!...“Miracles”… Dammit!.... the song that was playing on Kelly’s bedside radio the night we first….Dammit! I didn’t want to think about it. ”Miracles”…  Dammit!  Why now? Why tonight? 

In the absolute worst pain I’d ever known I was begging for a miracle. But not from Jefferson Starship.  Not now, not tonight. And at seven minutes and change in length, there was no way I was going to torture myself that long waiting for it to be over.  So with a hushed anguish in my heart, tears again in my eyes and that stupid song blaring from the jukebox speakers, I pushed aside the unfinished second pony, got up and left. Dammit!

The server/barmaid/whatever said good night from across the room and I gave her a silent nod on my way out. Remarkably it was 1:00 in the morning.  I had no idea I’d been there nearly 4 hours. Who knew you could nurse a pony and a half of beer that long?  But when it came to Kelly I never could keep track of time. Even post-Kelly.

When I left the tavern I knew I was intoxicated, though not to a degree I hadn’t experienced before.  But I was as emotionally drained as I think I'd ever been, physically exhausted and probably not in the most optimal condition to drive.  Didn’t stop me, though. However I proceeded slowly and with the window open which, if I’d had the presence of mind to contemplate it, didn’t make a whole lot of sense. Spent and devastated by then, I didn’t care if I lived or died anymore so it’d have been counter-intuitive to exercise any sort of caution.

Nevertheless I made it down the South Hill with no problem, and without a lot of other traffic. It seemed a little busier once I got into downtown Spokane, but when I turned north towards Whitworth and onto the Monroe Street Bridge, it was like mine was the only car still out that night. Kelly remained on my mind as I crossed, but the misery of my imagination was amplified by the Starship song still in my head and the beer swilling in my belly and I wondered what she might be doing at that exact moment. It was precisely what I didn’t need, thoughts of him enjoying the pleasures of her company. But I couldn’t seem to stop thinking about it. And with visions of someone else’s happiness dancing in my head and still wasted enough to not be thinking completely clearly, I decided that was the absolutely perfect time to stop and look out over the river.

I pulled to the side and slowed the car to a stop just north of the first portal. Then I got out, walked over to the edge. The Washington Water Power building and Post Street Bridge were the most obvious landmarks in sight, with Riverfront Park tiered beyond. Spotlighted below, the loud rushing waters of the Spokane River bashed and crashed over the rocks and outcroppings that created the Lower Spokane Falls. The noise was thunderous. It was awesome.

Overhead, it was a beautiful night with lots of stars, and I leaned on the retainer wall and thought about Kelly again; about wishing on a shooting star with her. Wishing I could go back to that night. And then wishing I hadn’t seen her at the rink on this night. Wishing I’d never seen her kissing that guy. It’d killed me. It was still killing me. And knowing I'd now never get her back was killing me. So it dawned on me. If I couldn’t have her in my life anymore, why have a life at all? After all, I was on this elevated bridge running over a deep river gorge. I could just do a quick leap over the small barrier and that’d be it.

It’d be a very long drop into a swift moving river, cluttered with rocks and boulders. I’d be dead when I hit the water and bashed to bits when they found my body downstream. IF they found my body. But whether they did or didn’t, Spokane wasn’t a big town and Kelly at some point wouldn’t be able to escape hearing or reading about the broken, battered soul, who “authorities believe jumped to his death from the bridge”. And maybe then she’d finally feel bad and want me back. She might even cry some, too. That’d be fine by me. Though I wouldn’t be around anymore, it’d be nice to imagine her at last feeling something for me again.

I could actually picture the newspaper article. It’d start with a quote from the coroner:  Suicide brought on by the betrayal of the victim’s ex-girl friend.  Then from a police spokesman: “After interviewing survivors, investigators believe the young lady is now satisfied that the only guy who ever really loved her is permanently out of the picture, leaving her free to openly pursue the asshole who the broken-hearted, and now quite deceased young man spotted making out with at a local roller rink. Funeral services are pending as soon as divers can find the rest of the body.”

Yeah. That’s good. I couldn’t wait for her to read it. That’d fix her. I kept looking out at the great rush of water, pondering my plunge and oblivious to everything else. But then my late night daydream was suddenly cut short by a roll bar of blue lights and beam of a flashlight being pointed at me. ”Sir, is there a problem?” Huh..? I looked at the light but couldn’t see who was talking. I did see the cop car in the background, though. ”Is there a problem?” the officer asked again, continuing his approach. “No. No problem.”

“Then step away from the railing, please.”  He was still several yards away and if I was quick about it, could’ve just taken one quick step and a leap and I’d be over. It’d be over. And he’d never be able to stop me. Debating what to do next, I noticed cars slowing as they crossed the bridge, drivers and passengers in both directions no doubt wondering what was going on. Where’d they all come from? Still, there was time to jump. If I hurried and if I wanted to. “Please step towards me, NOW”.

It seemed we’d both been out there for hours but, this time, the officer’s request sounded much more like a command.  Moment of truth time. I had one last split second to think and react; fight or flight. But instead, I took an anti-climactic deep breath and complied with the man’s directive. He quickly closed the remaining distance between us, took my arm and led me to the curb next to the roadway. ”May I see some identification please?”  I fumbled in my pocket and pulled out my wallet, removing the driver’s license and student ID and waited quietly as he looked them over.

”Hmmm..Whitworth College. I have a friend whose daughter goes there.” He was trying to be friendly, conversational but not wanting to leave me unattended with the tempting bridge rail so close he instructed me to accompany him to the patrol car. ”So why are you stopped on the bridge tonight?” he asked as we walked. ”We don’t generally allow that. You having car trouble?”

In spite of myself, I’d done a smart thing by driving with the windows open because the chilly night air had worked to clear my head and I was able to answer very clearly. “No sir. It's a pretty night and I just wanted a look at the river, and see how far below it is, ya know?” I held my ground pretty well, appearing reasonably un-tipsy. And he didn’t pull a breathalizer out on me either. He didn’t need to though. When I completed my thought, adding I’d just broken up with my girlfriend, he knew; he knew I’d hadn’t been consoling myself with soda pop.

I thought he’d offer a comment, but all he said was, “Would you mind getting into backseat, please?” Again, this wasn’t a genuine inquiry but an actual order and again, I complied. Although given a choice, my answer would’ve been, “Yes I mind.” Sitting in the backseat of the patrol car as he radioed in my license information, I asked if I was under arrest. He said, no, he just wanted me off the bridge.

By now it was after 2 a.m. The cars that earlier had slowed for the officer’s blue lights were long gone and Monroe Street looking north appeared deserted. As did the downtown area behind us; it was just me and the cop and I was starting to get nervous. But after the dispatcher confirmed that I wasn’t a fleeing felon, he asked sympathetically, “Been a rough night, huh?” I nodded, biting my lip to keep from crying.

”Look, tonight it may seem like your life has ended, has no meaning; that you’ll never love again and never get over this hurt. But Rich.. Can I call you that?” I nodded. “Rich, I’ve been in your spot and know it’s tough. But trust me on this, throwing yourself off a bridge is no way to get your girl back.”  He said it straight faced, but I think he was making a joke. I almost laughed, too, but realized I was still sad and still in the back of a cop car. There was little funny about that. But how’d he know what I was thinking and feeling? Was he being clairvoyant, or just a smart ass?

“For one thing, she’s not going to come down here and pick up the pieces. For another thing, she’s not worth it. Your life is going to go on, as is hers. But she’s the one that's going to have to get along without you. Have you thought about that? The loss is hers, not yours.” He was being nice, trying to make me feel better. But I knew better. The loss was mine and I was the one who was going to have to learn to get along without her. But with thoughts of suicide dashed- at least for this night-I was too tired to debate the issue and just wanted to go to bed. So I passively nodded in agreement.

“Okay. Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to look the other way and not write you up for being a traffic hazard. But you’re not driving home. You're going to get in your car and very carefully drive off the bridge and pull off on the first side street. I’m going to be following. And that’s where you’re going to park your car for the night. You can make your own arrangements to pick it up tomorrow. Then, I’m going to take you back to campus, okay?”  What could I say? It was literally the “offer I couldn’t refuse” so I followed his instructions and drove two blocks and locked my car up for the night at a gas station. The station was closed but the parking area was well lit.

Then I got back into the officer’s patrol car. This time, though, he let me sit in front. He radioed the dispatcher, saying he was ‘assisting a motorist’ on North Monroe, which I guess was mostly true. Then he floored it, like responding to an emergency (sans turning on his lights) until dropping me off in front of South Warren Hall.  During the day, getting from downtown to North Spokane could take as much as a half an hour, depending on traffic. But he made it in just over ten minutes. Of course he was going 65 and hitting all the lights right, too.  Must be nice being a cop sometimes.

We didn’t talk much during the accelerated ride. He asked about my classes and when I’d be graduating and I answered. But the rest of the time I remained quiet, listening to the occasional crackle of the police radio, alone with my thoughts and trying to figure out why the hell I was sitting in a police cruiser at 2-something in the morning. Did I really want to throw myself over the bridge? I dunno. I was sad, hurt, devastated and drunk enough to maybe want to. But the mere fact that this Spokane City cop had cared enough to see me home safely- when he just as easily could’ve dumped me in the drunk-tank for the night--made me think there might be something still salvageable about my life after all. Even if at that particular moment, I didn't really believe it.

But when we he dropped me off, though still embarrassed and feeling as if I was living in a surreal world, I managed to look at him straight in the eye and thank him. “I really mean it, thank you so much.” Still an emotional wreck, I didn't know what else to say so quickly shut up. But I was grateful. Sincerely. “Not a problem. But I don’t want to find you out driving drunk again, okay?  Next time, we won’t be coming here. We'll be going someplace else. Got it?”

Yes, I got it. Mildly inebriated or not, I understood perfectly. I thanked him again and waved as he drove slowly away, then walked as erect as possible into the dorm and up to my second floor room. I closed the door behind me and with total exhaustion finally taking over, dumped myself onto my bed and passed out. At least I think that's what happened, because next thing I knew, I was waking up fully clothed.

And the sun was out and life had gone on.