Temple Bandits

Do you remember my friend Sean who lived with his mother at the old St. George hotel downtown? Yeah, the spider monkey looking guy with scraggly dreadlocks that taught us how to get into all the abandoned buildings downtown after the earthquake.

He was the champion squatter, and we would climb up sheer building walls following his lead; gripping onto small concrete ledges for dear life and then spelunking down dark secret passages into the innards of the condemned brick buildings. The entire shopping district downtown had either fallen down or been deemed unsafe and fenced off. Because the spotlights were trained on the storefronts and street down the middle, at night we had our run of the joint by crawling through back entrances cut in the barbed wire and then accessing all the buildings from their rooftops. Some of us set up cardboard and milk-crate apartments in the heating ducts of the Del Mar theater, and we had a well run shadow society with food and booze shared by all, and a code of conduct enforced that included packing out your own waste. Our one rule was the golden rule. "Don't be a dick." at least not to each other.

For us, the quake and the housing glut that followed was the long awaited Redistribution Of Wealth. The karmic pendulum. We were always being chased outta somewhere downtown and now nature had kindly turned the tables. Now if we saw something of use we could take it for our own. No matter if it was a millionaire's turn-of-the-century mansion that had bounced into the street, the owners-on-paper wouldn't show up for awhile, and that red tag on the door made it ours. Besides, any losses were covered by insurance, right? Sure there were some drug-addled creeps in our gang of street rats, but for the most part we were about fun in the sprit of adventure, and for a few short months all of downtown was our nocturnal playground.

A group of four or five of us would split a half a sheet of 'orange sunshine' acid and lower ourselves down into the old county jail building to play hide and seek. Splitting up just as the drugs were starting to kick in, we would scare the shit out of each other, sending lonesome wails echoing down the cell-block tiers. We'd hear cell doors clanging shut in the catacombs below; sounds like demon blacksmiths striking hot metal in the foundries of hell. Some people would start freaking out and screaming, "Get me outta here! I'm scared!" over and over, and you'd never know if it was part of the game.

One night Sean gathered up a core group of marauders and told us in hushed tones that he had a special mission for us that evening. All the squatting skills we had learned over the season would be called into play. Repelling, camouflage, and high danger would be involved, and of course we jumped at the chance to be included in Sean's crew of ninjas for the night.

You could taste the anticipation and sea-kelp in the fog as we headed out, dressed in black and full of cheap beer. We knew we were heading into uncharted territory and along the way Sean filled us in on the plan.

At the very top of the Pacific Garden Mall where Pacific Avenue collides into Front street there is a flat-iron building built into the sharp wedge between the two thoroughfares. Ornate victorian masonry, and yellowing cast iron framed windows project an impenetrable front, but if you take the time to look twice, a mystery lurks within. At first glance through the windows it was like any other office of it's time, with compact boards stacked in the corners and creaky wooden desks covered with bankers boxes full of paperwork, but no one had ever been seen sitting at those desks, or going in and out of the building. The whole set up appeared as a sort of staged and shabby window dressing.

99% of the townsfolk never looked up or gave the building a second thought as they rushed about their lives on their way to the post office or whatever, but we were curious why it was arranged so carefully. Like a hippie dressing up extra bummy to camouflage his trust fund, you could tell something didn't add up. We wanted to know what was going on behind the facade, and more importantly, who could afford to pay for empty offices to obscure what was happening inside.

Today the flat-iron building is a Jamba Juice full of cheery teenage smoothie jocks shuffling bewildered tourists through lines of bright chromatic blenders, and much of it's magic has disappeared, but that night as we approached, it loomed before us as an imposing gothic fortress, stark against the foreboding sky. In front, atop a massive green marble obelisk an enraged and militaristic bronze eagle stood guard. Stretching her wings out in a promise of fierce retribution, she silently screamed her warning to the street below. The stone masonry edifice along the roof, ringed by plodding copper grizzly bears, frowned a furrowed brow of condemnation down towards us thieves in the night. We shuddered at the thought of ancient curses cast upon us for violating this citadel.

Sean was undaunted, and like a scientist expertly dissecting his cadaver he pointed out the dumpster around back, giving us a step up to a set of drain pipes and window terraces leading all the way to the top of the building. From there he pried open a trap door, and we creaked down a narrow set of stairs into the interior upper floors. Wandering through disheveled office suites scattered with empty file cabinets, we looked at Sean like "what's the big deal?" He just winked and hugging the wall to avoid being seen from outside, took us back to a freight elevator shaft at the rear of the building and hopped right down in.

Again, it helps to be a gibbon to do this kinda stuff, and having no choice but to follow, we dismissed our fears and took the plunge into the black guts of that haunted old carcass, sketchily repelling over jagged iron ridges and around huge burrs of fraying steel cables, their rusted wires slicing into our shins as we bounced ourselves down into the basement, rats scurrying away from our bobbing flashlights.

Moving in a cautious clump behind Sean we inched forward into the gloom and through a series of dank hallways, finally opening up into a secret inner sanctum, chock-a-block with ritualistic resplendence. Sean lit a circle of tea candles and our eyes adjusted to the light, revealing this basement temple, in all it's gaudy glory.

Laid out between two rows of beautifully carved mahogany pews, a red and gold-threaded persian rug climbed up altar stairs and led our eyes to a huge throne cushioned in lush purple velvet and inlayed with iridescent flashes of abalone and pearl. Hanging on the walls behind, medieval candelabras and a row of scabbards cast pointed shadows towards the centerpiece of the room. Draped over a mannequin's torso and cascading down in rivulets of purple opulence, was the royal vestments (that's cape and sashes to you commoners) of the Grand Poo-Bah of the Independent Order of Odd Fellows. Toppled from the throne and lying at our feet in the only apparent effect of the earthquake on the room, was his fabulous silk turban, festooned with golden chains and crowned with the all-seeing eye; that ancient symbol of power and fraternity that Odd Fellows share with the Free Masons and Egyptian Pharaohs.

Mouths agape, we spread out into the room, hesitant to touch these marvels like children with a sense of being watched, we silently dared each other to step across that red line. To dress and act like an Odd Fellow. I don't know who initially lunged for the Grand Poo-Bah outfit but a great clamor arose upon that first move. Scabbards were claimed and brandished, and with chaotic fanfare it was agreed and pronounced that Sean should ascend to the throne and be crowned Grand Viceroy-Elect in charge and Head of Cheese so that drinking may commence. This was determined as the only way to keep the peace in a room so full of weapons, and a gallon jug of Chateau Alberto - Albertson's finest vino - was produced and quickly passed around.

As the bottle lowered swill by swill, merriment began in earnest. Many times the throne of Sean was challenged by rabble, and as many a time he would retain his authority by clever distraction, by long-winded story telling, and by bogarting the joint. The cape and turban held us spell-bound, and we were helpless but to listen and wait, until finally, at the end the of the wine jug, someone yelled, "Fuck this! It's armed rebellion! I know he has more booze!"

As Sean leapt from his throne, sword drawn to repel his attackers, he bounded past our mutinous surge and led us on a frantic chase up the stairs and out onto the abandoned moonlit rooftops. Scabbards flashed, and battle cries were raised. Sean's backpack was the prize and once captured, it's bearer was targeted by all in a sadistic game of kill the pill. Of course the real prize was the beer inside, 11oz bottles of Lucky Lager, the cheapest beer at the time. Rank and uriney to the last drop, it was nonetheless our favorite due to the tiny pictograms under every bottle cap, and because of it's shape; a well rounded glass grenade, perfect for hand to hand combat and games of 'base-bottle', our national pastime.

As soon as the beer was vanquished a hearty round of 'duck the shattering glass' ensued. Everywhere you ran there was brown glass exploding above you, raining down sheets of vicious little shards into your hair and eyes if you were dumb enough to look up. During the battle there was hardly a safe place to go piss, but I heard later that that's what got the cops called on us. Someone was spotted urinating down the side of the building into the well-lit street below, and before we knew it, we were surrounded by spotlights and assaulted by bullhorns ordering us to "get on the ground!"

In those years my instinct was to run from police. I knew they couldn't follow my secret escape routes through the city, and I was rarely cornered. We dropped our swords and scattered like cockroaches when you turn on the kitchen light, our senses and physical abilities heightened by adrenaline. Fleeing the fenced areas downtown we reconvened across the river at a steep and graffiti blotched culvert we called the 'spider walls'. Sean was missing from the group and we feared the worst.

The next morning, fresh out of county jail and with a mischievous look on his face, Sean ambled into our squat at the old ice factory and threw the grand poo-bah outfit and sword at our feet. "Thanks for helping me stash the loot guys," he said cuttingly. "You all owe me, but for now let's go see how much pot Margot will give us for this stuff."

Margot was the den-mother to our band of skalliwags. Really she was a surrogate mother to us all. She understood that what wayward children need is a place to go and just smoke weed and veg, or hang out and watch her television for hours on end without judgment. Just a small sanctuary where it's safe to do your thing. I used to rent the crawl space under her living room for $100 a month and I would keep the whole family up at night having loud sex. Also I had a regular habit of spilling bong water on her floor, but she never ever kicked me out, except for that one time when she came after me with a kitchen knife, which is strange because I don't remember what I did to piss her off so much. I do know Margot was an all over sweet lady, and I was always let back into her graces before long.

We would all migrate over to her yard on lazy afternoons and maybe take mushrooms and just trip out on her collection of Art Deco sculptures and other Gypsy mish-mash everywhere you looked . If Margot was a hoarder, she was a hoarder of the highest order, and kept only the best, weirdest stuff. When you were at Margot's you felt as if you were in a secret swap meet, an Aladdin's den of treasures you'd actually be interested in. Stimulating both for your eyes and your sense of culture.

Of course Margot was our pot dealer as well, and a desirable oddity like the Poo-Bah's vestments would get us an eighth at least, I was sure. Sure enough she was interested and somehow cleared a space of honor for it in the living room - right in between two menacing Tibetan devil masks - rolling their terrible blood-shot eyes and sticking their tongues out to greet you.

That autumn and winter passed quickly. The battle on the roof must have inspired more security downtown because private guards were hired and we were blocked from getting back into the buildings. A new era of Silicon Valley investment dollars and police state lockdown tactics was descending upon our naive and broken little village. The shopping district needed to be rebuilt ASAP, and it had to be to spec. No longer the misfit mecca, it became a straight corridor of commerce. Gilded with University Money and baited by promises of unlimited tax revenue from McMansion re-zoning, our 'socialist' city council sold us out to the highest bidder. But none of that mattered to us. What we noticed was all the new enforcement. Everywhere you looked there was stationed a tan-shirted, wanna-be cop, security guard - we called them 'chipmunks' because one of the first was named Alvin and had buck teeth - all of em with radios cocked, ready to snitch.

Some of the more ambitious ones even followed us around like the school narc, chasing us out of our drinking spots along the river, which was a fun game of keep-away at first, but then just got annoying. It was only a matter of time before our squats were discovered and began to be targeted by the police.

One day we were all gathered at 'the bench' downtown to discuss the worsening situation when word came down that Margot had been ratted out by one of her clients, and that the cops were raiding her house at that moment. As the rumor grew, so did our outrage and our need to do something about it. A list of likely suspects for the rat was drawn up, and some of us decided to stroll on past her gate just to see what was happening.

As we approached her driveway, lurking behind the wisteria, were two burly plainclothes policemen, waiting to nab unsuspecting customers. They must have gotten bored with the stake out because from our vantage point we could see that one of them was fully decked out in a purple velvet cape and turban. The other cop, kneeling in the gravel, was accepting knighthood from his liege, a tender tap upon his balding dome from the sword of the king.

Spotting us staring at their pantomime they calmly pulled back their jackets to show their guns in holster, and chuckling, ordered us to, "move along - nothing to see here." Cursing our lack of weed and the cops that made it so, we hurried along as we were told, but I shot a glance back in time to see the kneeling policeman knock his buddy's turban off his head with the sword, and then they both went tearing off after each other down the driveway like two little boys.

"It just goes to show we're all human," I thought, laughing to myself. "Except for those Odd Fellows. They must be aliens from a bizarre purple planet out there.."