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- Subscribe - Contact Us - Rate Card - Place an Ad Archives Revels Classifieds Real Estate Menu Guide Wedding Weather Subscribe Contact Us March 6, 2006 Essentially Ashland Ashland bank robber washes way to freedom Plausible perps coming out of the woodwork, but the real deal got away clean Lance Pugh We were driving home from Lithia Grocery one summer’s afternoon in the ’70s when I noticed that my block was blocked at each end by police cars. With no officer present to explain the nature of the detour, I drove around the vehicle, then pulled up and parked in front of my house. As I got out of my Volkswagen van, I noticed all manner of uniformed officers crouching behind hedges, trees, fences and gates, busy making hand signals amongst themselves. There was certainly trouble afoot, but what it was defied me. I suddenly noticed that there was a man beginning to sit up from the bench on my porch, all the while yawning and stretching. It took me a second, but I soon recognized him as my good friend Hollis, who had threatened several times to ride his bike from the Bay Area to visit us, but for manifold reasons seemed always to find a reason to defer his cycling pledge. Hollis walked towards me briskly, arms held high as an invitation to embrace. I reciprocated, yet could not help but notice as one officer cycled his shotgun (if you don’t know how to do this, e-mail Dick Cheney) as another made ready what looked to be a .45 ACP (automatic Colt Pistol, for those of you still mumbling something about birdshot). It was only when those weapons and more were trained on Hollis that I knew that I had it within my power to avert a tragedy right in my own front yard. I raised my hands even higher and bellowed my best “How are you, my good, old friend?” This, although sounding forced and artificially boosted from my diaphragm, effected the desired results. Slowly, one after the other, the weapons were safed and pointed towards the ground. I thought that the police would be pleased, but their countenances were dour, downcast and sullen to a man. After recycling my newly shaken friend back again to the porch, I sought out the commanding officer for a little background on the SWAT operation. It seemed that a tall, unshaven, dark-haired man (Hollis was short, clean-shaven and a balding blond) had, just the hour before, jumped the counter at the bank next to the Community Food Store location in full view of staff and patrons and escaped with a bag of cash, along with his hop-along shotgun. The word was the robber had hit the alleys and was making his way towards Mountain Avenue, not too far from my duck-blind domicile. With Hollis no longer a suspect the troops were crestfallen, there were no longer any plausible perpetrators. Plausible perps? I must have missed something, so I asked for clarification, as it seemed as though Hollis had not been the only suspect that day. I clearly detected a marked hesitation in the reply, though feeling on the moral high-ground after having both my houseguest and myself in the crosshairs, I continued to press until the truth gushed out like flood waters through a spill gate. I listened to the story, offered the obligatory closed lip smile, then reflected on what had come to pass: The wily robber had rolled out a ruse, then escaped in plain sight. The resultant contrite clutch of constables was not in the mood to salute such an inspired escape. As the tale expanded, I came to learn that an eyewitness had espied a shotgun- and bank-bag-toting man of a certain perfect description disappear into a second-story apartment some blocks away. A squad of police arrived and reportedly banged at the door with both authority and clear intent. A man answered a minute later, wrapped in a towel. Then things began to unravel. In response to a police request to come outside for questioning the respondent at the door begged off for a minute, this to “turn off the shower.” Reasonable enough, thought the duty-sworn men at the door, who waited dutifully for the reappearance of the modest man in mid-performance of his aquatic ablutions. At first, doubt peaked around the corner like a mouse in the night. Then the self-questioning began to murmur like a memory of elephants. No longer in doubt that something was amiss, the door was opened and the apartment searched. Mr. Clean had escaped out the bathroom window and into the pages of history, at least in a figurative way, for he was never seen again. I had at least learned why no one was elated that Hollis was summarily exonerated. A bank robber had come and gone, slipping through collective grasping fingers like a chased cat through a loose hedge. Twenty witnesses, a caging in an apartment and a porch-napping cyclist later resulted in a breaking story, which was soon swept under the community rug. After rehashing the aforementioned, I thought to the most recent capture of a bank robber, a hapless fool who tried to leave town by way of Oak Street, not aware that it was closed due to bridge construction. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose. Like a coin, a lot of the luck can be in the toss. Keep your head up or you might end up on your tail. Future columns will focus on various businesses as well as key individuals and events that will lead the charge from times past to lend perspective to the revival of Ashland. Send your favorite remembrances to: [email protected]. 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