Fugitives And Refugees Part 5

In the bathrooms the trash lids start to swing by themselves. Water will start running in the bathroom sinks. You'll hear the sounds of someone doing their business in empty toilet stalls. Some mornings, the staff will arrive early to find the water running in sinks. Some nights, they'll hear the noise of parties in the private upstairs dining rooms that are empty.

At the Rose and Raindrop Restaurant, server Jenna Hill says, "A lot of people will go into the bathroom late at night and come out looking kind of pale."

Built by Edward Holman in 1880, the building at 532 SE Grand Avenue was for years the Barber and Hill Undertakers and Embalmers. In the dozen apartments above the restaurant, it's a given that clocks will reset themselves all the time. Mark Roe, an artist who sells his work at Portland's Sat.u.r.day Market, remembers, "I had a girlfriend who lived in an apartment above the restaurant, and I'd stay overnight. You could still still smell the formaldehyde coming up through the floors." smell the formaldehyde coming up through the floors."

The building once housed the Nickelodeon Theater, one of Portland's first vaudeville and silent movie houses, as well as Ralph's Good Used Furniture store, owned by Ralph Jacobson, the man who taught the Hippo Hardware team their trade.

It was designed by Justus F. Krumbein, who also designed the original state capitol building. For several years it housed a restaurant called Digger O'Dells, named for the gravedigger character from the Life of Riley Life of Riley radio show in the 1940s. radio show in the 1940s.

The two private dining rooms-where you can hear mysterious parties at night-are named the Duffy and Baker rooms, after two traveling vaudeville troupes. Both rooms are directly over the haunted bathrooms. These, Jenna Hill says, are above the crematory ovens in the bas.e.m.e.nt. Those ovens are walled over, she says, but still there.

12. UNMARKED GRAVES.

n.o.body wanted to work late nights at Michaels (the arts and crafts store) when it was located at NE 122nd and Sandy Boulevard. Lights and a loud compressor would turn themselves off and on at night. It seems that road widening has crowded the adjacent pioneer cemetery, and scores of graves have been misplaced. The rumor among Michaels employees is that their old parking lot is paving over a good share of those plots. As a result several lawsuits against the county are pending.

Several employees at the neighboring Kmart confirm these stories, mostly the lights and noise at night, but asked not to be identified. This outlet of Michaels has since moved a few blocks, to more peaceful ground along Airport Way.

13. MARYHILL MUSEUM.

"The first thing you need to learn is the difference between Maryhill myths and Maryhill reality," say Lee Musgrave, the media spokesman for Maryhill Museum.

Every year, people come visit this fine arts museum in the desert above the Columbia River, and they insist on the wildest things.

They insist that the builder, railroad magnate Sam Hill, kidnapped Queen Marie of Romania and kept her prisoner in a bas.e.m.e.nt cell. And they insist the museum used to keep the world's largest sturgeon in a bas.e.m.e.nt swimming pool. And And the queen's gold gown on display in the main hall is covered with real diamonds that the museum staff replace with rhinestones whenever they need money to cover operating expenses. the queen's gold gown on display in the main hall is covered with real diamonds that the museum staff replace with rhinestones whenever they need money to cover operating expenses. And And Queen Marie was the lesbian lover of dancer Loie Fuller. Queen Marie was the lesbian lover of dancer Loie Fuller. And And the place is haunted. Really haunted. A Druid funeral barge, acquired but never displayed, is still stored in pieces somewhere in the museum. And, and, and . . . the place is haunted. Really haunted. A Druid funeral barge, acquired but never displayed, is still stored in pieces somewhere in the museum. And, and, and . . .

To start with, Lee says, "We don't even have have a bas.e.m.e.nt." a bas.e.m.e.nt."

He explains how the huge Italian villa was built out of poured concrete, with the wooden floors laid over it. As the building heats and cools, it makes a lot of odd noises. He says, "I've been here in this building by myself at night, and I can tell you there are sounds that make you think there's someone in here with you."

Once, a constant knocking from the second floor turned out to be a raven caught between a window and an ornate iron security grille.

About the queen and Loie Fuller, the museums collections manager, Betty Long, says, "They were very personal. They were very warm. Loie Fuller was gay-that was was established. She did have a lover. But there was no same-s.e.x relations.h.i.+p between her and Marie." established. She did have a lover. But there was no same-s.e.x relations.h.i.+p between her and Marie."

Ironically, the true stories Betty and Lee offer are better than the rumors. The museum houses royal Romanian court furniture and artifacts, including the pen used to sign the Treaty of Ghent. For years the children and relatives of curators celebrated Christmas in the main hall, using that same priceless throne room furniture, the kids scribbling with the famous pen.

The museum collection includes chunks of the sailing s.h.i.+p Mayflower. Mayflower. It has the first Big Bertha sh.e.l.l fired during World War I. And a sizable collection of Rodin sculptures. And Native American artifacts. And Le Theatre de la Mode haute couture mannequins from 1946 Paris. Sure, they've collected a lot of items, but a ghost? It has the first Big Bertha sh.e.l.l fired during World War I. And a sizable collection of Rodin sculptures. And Native American artifacts. And Le Theatre de la Mode haute couture mannequins from 1946 Paris. Sure, they've collected a lot of items, but a ghost?

"I'm here at night for hours," Betty says, "and I don't scare easy. But one night I was working late and came downstairs to see Lee. We were alone in the building. I asked him, 'Why were you going up and down in the elevator so much?'"

Sitting here now, Lee laughs and says, "And I told Betty, 'I thought you you were using the elevator . . .'" were using the elevator . . .'"

To find Maryhill Museum, take Interstate 84 east for about two hours to exit 104. Turn left and cross over the Columbia River. Then follow the museum signs. They're open March 15 through November 15, 9:00 to 5:00, seven days a week. about two hours to exit 104. Turn left and cross over the Columbia River. Then follow the museum signs. They're open March 15 through November 15, 9:00 to 5:00, seven days a week.

14. SUICIDE BRIDGE.

The Vista Avenue Viaduct was built in 1926 to replace the wooden Ford Street Bridge. The arched, reinforced-concrete bridge connects Goose Hollow to Portland Heights and pa.s.ses over SW Jefferson Street. The bridge's dramatic height-and the five lanes of pavement below it-have made it an inevitable magnet for local jumpers.

15. OSCAR.

"At first we weren't allowed to discuss it," says Janet Mahoney, the room division manager for the Columbia Gorge Hotel. "The official policy was: Oscar does not exist. Oscar does not exist. Now it's: Now it's: Doc.u.ment every occurrence." Doc.u.ment every occurrence."

And doc.u.ment they do, starting from the early 1980s, when the hotel's third floor was renovated and opened to guests for the first time in fifty years.

Built in 1921, the forty-room Columbia Gorge Hotel was an isolated three-hour drive from Portland. That made it a favorite love nest for Hollywood types from noted s.e.x maniacs Clara Bow and Rudolph Valentino to Jane Powell, Myrna Loy, and s.h.i.+rley Temple. The hotel was dubbed "the Waldorf of the West" but was eventually forgotten and neglected as a retirement home. Restoration started in 1978, and the hotel again became a lovely clifftop retreat for guests including Burt Reynolds, Kevin Costner, Olivia Newton-John, and Terri Garr. for guests including Burt Reynolds, Kevin Costner, Olivia Newton-John, and Terri Garr.

Trouble started a few years after the 1978 restoration, when they reopened the third-floor honeymoon suite. One day, in the few moments the third-floor hallway was empty, something turned every wall sconce upside down. Janet says, "It took the maintenance man half a day to turn them all back."

On another day, she says, "A guest comes in from the parking lot. She slaps her hands down on the counter and demands, 'Is there something I should know about? I just saw a woman with dark hair, in a white gown, throw herself from the tower and disappear.'"

According to Janet, a honeymoon bride in the 1930s killed her husband in the third-floor suite, then jumped from the hotel's tower, landing in the parking lot. Just recently, another honeymoon couple sat in bed and watched a woman in white emerge from their bathroom, stand looking at them for two minutes, and disappear.

AH over the third floor, water starts running in the bathrooms while the maids clean. Fires start by themselves in fireplaces. In empty rooms heavy furniture moves up against the door so no one can enter from the hallway.

"n.o.body's ever gotten hurt," Janet says. "n.o.body's ever had more than the wits scared out of them."

One bartender, Michael, stays over some nights and reports the television turning itself on and off and a phantom hand being placed on her face.

A hotel maid, Millie, nicknamed the spirit or spirits "Oscar" after she started finding flowers left every day in the exact same place on the attic stairs. In the attic, marbles roll out of the shadows. They roll uphill against the slanted floor.

To find the hotel, take Interstate 84 east for about 1.5 hours. Take exit 62 and turn left at the stop sign. Cross back over the freeway, toward the river, and turn left again. The hotel will be between you and the cliffs. It's that yellow building-with the tower.

16. POWELL'S RARE BOOK ROOM.

Employees swear that the ghost of Walter Powell, the bookstore's founder, still walks the mezzanine outside the Rose Room. Check for Walter near the drinking fountain. Steve Fidel in publicity says Tuesday nights are the most likely time. Also check out the sculpture of stacked books outside the northwest street door. Inside the carved stone are the ashes of a man who wanted to be buried at Powell's. The canister of his cremains sat on a bookstore shelf for years until it was sealed inside the new sculpture.

(a postcard from 1988)

This year I'm living in a two-story town house at 1623 SW Montgomery Street-with severed heads and hands hidden in the back of every kitchen cabinet. Some are male, most are female.

My roommate, Laurie, works as a window dresser at the downtown Meier & Frank department store and tells me about meeting guys and f.u.c.king them in the store's big display windows along SW Fifth Avenue. You have about two feet of dark, filthy room to maneuver, she says, between the inside wall and the scenic part.i.tion that the mannequins stand in front of. Beyond the mannequins is nothing but plate gla.s.s and a zillion people walking past. The narrow s.p.a.ce limits your s.e.x positions but it's private. Plus, Laurie says, you get the thrill of rush-hour crowds waiting for their bus only a couple feet away.

Unless you want to get fired, she says, you can't go too wild or you'll make the mannequins shake.

When we drink, Laurie tells me about her childhood. How her mother used to get up every Sunday morning to cook a hot breakfast. While her mom was busy, Laurie would crawl into bed with her dozing father and suck his c.o.c.k. This was every Sunday morning for years, and after a few gin-and-tonics Laurie can see how this might color the rest of her life.

At home our severed hands and heads are mannequin samples, and Laurie shows me how the dummy industry designs them for each market. Mannequins made for California have bigger b.r.e.a.s.t.s. They're sprayed to look tan. Mannequins made for Chicago aren't. The creepy clutching hands. Or the bald heads with high cheekbones and staring gla.s.s eyes. We stash them everywhere. Under the bathroom sink with the extra toilet paper. In the cabinet with the breakfast cereal. The one time Laurie's dad comes to visit, he goes hunting for coffee filters and almost has a heart attack.

The only mannequin Laurie has all of is a female she calls Constance. Connie's made to sit, with both legs stretched out in front, her knees bent a little. She's made for the Portland demographic: pale and small breasted with a dishwater-brown wig. Laurie dresses her in a pink chiffon gown from the thrift store St. Vincent de Paul on Powell Boulevard. It has yards of flowing pink chiffon that hang down, like angel wings. Up the back of the dress, you can see thick black tire treadmarks that suggest a very ominous end to some prom night.

One Sat.u.r.day, we're drinking gin-and-tonics before watching the Starlight Parade. The official kickoff event for the annual Rose Festival, the parade features lighted floats and marching bands and starts at dusk, moving through downtown in the dark.

It also features the year's crop of Rose Festival princesses, all of them in pink prom gowns, standing on a float and waving with gloved hands. The more gin-and-tonics we drink, the more important it seems to make a political statement. You know, attack the idea of women as objects on display. We have to put Constance on the boot of Laurie's MG convertible and sneak her into the parade. We have to reveal the Rose Festival for the s.e.xist inst.i.tution that it is.

Really, we just want our share of the attention.

In the North Park Blocks where the parade a.s.sembles, we tell the officials we're part of a local car club but we've missed our entry time because of traffic. Near us, the parade float full of real princesses glares at our dummy with the black tire tracks up her back.

As troublemakers, we cannot be more obvious. But as each official mentions a real car club or a detail like parade entry dues, we latch onto said detail and roll it into our story. Each time we're pa.s.sed up the ladder to another official, our story has more heft. More validity. Yes, we say, we're with the Columbia Gorge Car Club. Columbia Gorge Car Club. Yes, we've paid the Yes, we've paid the $200 entry fee. $200 entry fee. As extra proof we show people a map of the parade route that an earlier official has given us. As extra proof we show people a map of the parade route that an earlier official has given us.

Our every exhale is a lie.

At the edge of the parade one last official gives us the go-ahead. We're in. We're ready. Heady stuff. Then he warns us, two blocks away is the judges' platform, and if we aren't an official entry, they'll hit us each with a $1,000 fine. And then arrest us for trespa.s.sing.

By then, our gin-and-tonic political enthusiasm has worn off. We don't have the spare two grand to risk. But the crowds love Constance and people run out into the street to touch her stiff fibergla.s.s hands. The real princesses glower. Those willing tools of s.e.xism. A block away the police are waiting to catch us, Laurie and me, but for just these few minutes, people wave and smile at us. They laugh and applaud. Despite all the terrible s.h.i.+t we've done, these total strangers seem to really want us here.

Souvenirs-. Where You Have to Shop

TO GET A MANNEQUIN of your own, check out Grand & Benedict's "Used Annex" at 122 SE Morrison Street. They usually have enough naked dummies for a creepy afternoon in the Twilight Zone. For a cheap souvenir or a relic from Portland's history-we all have that magpie urge to acquire stuff-check my favorite places for finding something unique without spending a ton.

THE "As-ls" BINS Officially, this is the Goodwill Outlet Store, but locals have called it "the bins" forever. Come pick through the bins of unsorted, unwashed goods at 8300 SE McLoughlin Boulevard and pay for your new wardrobe by the pound. Phone: 503-230-2076.

PERIODICALS & BOOKS PARADISE.

The world's largest store for used magazines is right here at 3315 SE Hawthorne Boulevard. From nudie mags to Sears catalogs, it's waiting for you to spend a rainy day here. Phone: 503-234-6003. catalogs, it's waiting for you to spend a rainy day here. Phone: 503-234-6003.

THE REBUILDING CENTER.

Here are salvaged chunks of Portlands best buildings, selling for cheap. For doors, lights, masonry ornaments, ironwork, lumber, and plumbing fixtures, go to 3625 N Mississippi Avenue and drool. Phone: 503-331-1877.

RED, WHITE, AND BLUE THRIFT STORE.

It's courting death to tell you about every local's favorite used-clothing and junk store. But it's at 19239 SE McLoughlin Boulevard. Phone: 503-655-3444. Good luck with parking.

WACKY w.i.l.l.y'S SURPLUS.

An always changing mix of craft and medical supplies, electronics, toys, sporting goods, and more. Here is your next big art project waiting to happen. One store at 2374 NW Vaughn Street. Another store at 2900 SW Cornelius Pa.s.s Road. Phone: 503-525-9211.

(a postcard from 1989)

It's August in the Swan Island s.h.i.+pyards, and I'm exploring the inside of an old cruise s.h.i.+p while it sits in dry dock.

The s.h.i.+p is the S.S. Monterey, Monterey, a forgotten pa.s.senger liner. She's been mothballed in the Alameda section of San Francis...o...b..y since the 1960s, until the Matson Lines towed her to Portland for hull work. They'll do just enough work in the United States to allow her to be registered here, then tow her around the world to Finland, where she'll be gutted and refitted for luxury cruises to Hawaii. a forgotten pa.s.senger liner. She's been mothballed in the Alameda section of San Francis...o...b..y since the 1960s, until the Matson Lines towed her to Portland for hull work. They'll do just enough work in the United States to allow her to be registered here, then tow her around the world to Finland, where she'll be gutted and refitted for luxury cruises to Hawaii.

The man showing me around is a marine architect named Mark. I met him at a potluck, and Mark told me about living aboard the s.h.i.+p while it was moored at the seawall along NW Front Avenue, waiting for its turn in dry dock. Without fuel or pa.s.sengers, he says, the s.h.i.+p rides high in the water-so high that when anything from a barge to a canoe goes past, the towering s.h.i.+p will rock from side to side. The white hull is streaked with rust and bird s.h.i.+t, and the staterooms inside are hot and dusty.

As the s.h.i.+p rocks, Mark says, doors swing open and shut. When she was mothballed, china was left on tables in the dining room. Pots and pans were left on the stoves. Now, these things slip and fall to the floor in the middle of the night when Mark's the only person aboard. He sleeps in the s.h.i.+p's old nursery, where murals of Babar the Elephant dance around the walls. He keeps the nursery doors locked. There's no power aboard the s.h.i.+p, so he uses a flashlight to get down the pitch-black pa.s.sageways to s.h.i.+t outside, in a chemical toilet installed near the faded shuffleboard outlines on deck.

By August this ma.s.sive hulk of iron and steel has been soaking up heat all summer. She never cools down, and the temperature inside bakes a crust of dried sweat and dust on your skin.

The marine architect, Mark, he thinks I love old s.h.i.+ps enough to sleep with him. This is capital-NOT going to happen, but Mark leads me through the security gates and into the huge floating dry dock. He tells me about his viral load, the amount of HIV in his bloodstream, and says how he's nicknamed his last two white blood cells "Huey and Dewey." He's twenty-something. He looks healthy.

We crouch underneath the s.h.i.+p, next to the wooden keel blocks that balance the gigantic baking-hot hull above us. Mark winks and asks if I want to see the "s.h.i.+p's b.a.l.l.s."

Instead of an answer, I ask about the huge fans and sheets of plastic that hang inside the s.h.i.+p. Mark says it's asbestos containment and removal. The air is hazy with floating strands. The gray dust coats portholes and stairway railings.

In the s.h.i.+p's ballroom little tables and chairs stand around the edges of a wooden dance floor, warped and buckled into waves from the heat. Planters around the room hold the papery dried stalks and leaves of a tropical jungle, real plants mummified by decades of California summers and rooted dead in potting soil dry as talc.u.m powder. The floor is crunchy with broken china and wine gla.s.ses. In the s.h.i.+p's big stainless steel kitchens, the saucepans are streaked with food at least thirty years old. With flashlights we explore the s.h.i.+p's theater and find an upright piano lying on its back.

Up on the bridge Mark shows me the s.h.i.+p's b.a.l.l.s. These are two spheres of cast iron that flank the compa.s.s. They counteract the magnetic pull of the s.h.i.+p's ma.s.s, forward and aft.

In an empty stateroom Mark says that when the s.h.i.+p gets to Finland everything inside will be trashed. The china and furniture and carpet and framed hotelish paintings. The bedspreads and sheets and towels. Mark with his two white blood cells flops down on a dusty bed. The stateroom baking hot, it's the honeymoon suite. The dust is asbestos. In a couple days, Mark will ride his huge dead s.h.i.+p around the world. A rusted hulk getting towed by a tugboat. Without power or fresh water. Alone with just Huey and Dewey.