"Sober" the Dog ©Linda Dawn Hammond 1981
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DAWSON CITY CONTENTS
Images and text ©Linda Dawn Hammond 2006
"Sober" the Dog ©Linda Dawn Hammond 1981
I was down to my last seven bucks, not even enough to buy a hamburger in Dawson, when I finally found a job. It was at the Westminster Cabaret, otherwise known as the "PIT", or more specifically, "The ARMPIT", due to the slanted condition of its chairs after years of clients collapsing on the armrests. I was happy to get the job, but people were already taking bets as to how long I'd last in what was reputed to be the roughest bar in town. The owners were also known to be tough, to work for, that is.
Eileen was of Scottish origin and slowly going blind, yet it hadn't dulled her temper or imperious nature. Her husband, Fabien, hailed from Quebec. He was more soft-spoken, always drawing thoughtfully on his pipe, and in all matters apparently deferred to Eileen. He had painted a series of portraits depicting locals which adorned the walls of the Cabaret section and were marvellous examples of naive painting. I quite liked his art, but confess to having been somewhat alone in my opinion.
Fabien's Paintings ©Linda Dawn Hammond 1981
Eileen instructed me in the gentle art of serving our Dawson clientele. I was to carry the cabaret tray laden with beer on the tips of my fingers. As the tray became depleted, one was commanded never to succumb to the temptation of steadying it using any part of the body (such as waist or hip), or attempt to put it down on a table while serving customers. Instead, I was required to perform what amounted to a juggling act; readjusting the cabaret with my fingertips dancing around beneath as I attempted to maintain balance while removing the beverages... no easy task with a heavy tray laden with bottled beer or cocktails!
I enjoyed certain aspects of the job- the relationships I developed with my favourite customers, whose special drinks I knew long before I learned their names. Two of us waitresses worked the bar during busier times, and a game developed involving the juke box whereby our customers would demonstrate loyalty to one barmaid or the other by playing our favourite selections. It was an ongoing serenade which made the owners a wealth of quarters. The other barmaid and I had vastly different tastes known to all. Hers ran in the direction of country and Christopher Cross. To prove the dedication of my following, I had indicated that the fucking song by Yoko Ono was my absolute pick. It consisted mostly of a series of screams and grunts and had inexplicably found its way onto the selection list. No-one liked it, and I'm not certain that I did either, but my miners and other assorted slugs played it for me constantly that summer, annoying the hell out of everyone! I began the job a teetotaler but as the months progressed, I buckled under the pressure of being told that because I didn't drink with them, I had gained the reputation of being a snob. Once I'd succumbed, however, they soon understood what it was I'd been keeping in check by not drinking. Which is another story (as long as members of my family have internet access, and as I intend to return one day!)
Pit Jukebox ©Linda Dawn Hammond 1981
In addition to being the roughest and toughest, the Pit was also the cheapest bar in town and so we attracted a loyal following of locals and the more money conscious of tourists- invariably German. One quiet afternoon a group of them came in and ordered beer. They were my only clients. I reminded them in halting German that tips aren't included in the cost and was about to deftly begin my balancing act, when one of my locals appeared in the doorway. He was a 40 year old Metis from Alberta and had a crush on me which he now began to exercise, literally. He strode up and decisively removed my tray from its fingertip perch to place it on an adjacent table; then right in the aisle beside the aghast German tourists, he pinned me to the floor and proceeded to cover my face with kisses. In a panic, envisualizing Eileen walking in on the scene and blaming ME, I started screaming,"Get off me! You're going to get me fired!!!"(Which was my primary concern as I'd exhausted every other job possibility in town, including volunteering to clean up the cemetery for minimum wage, with no takers!) At this point, my besotted paramour picked me up, kicking and screaming, and threw me over his shoulder to carry me into the hotel lobby. I believe he thought it a more private setting for his molestations. There I finally managed to break away. I ran back into the Cabaret, picked up my abandoned tray of beer and resumed serving the Germans with as much dignity as possible under the circumstances. Their eyes were wide, their mouths hanging open. They were staring in disbelief, having travelled to the Yukon in search of the Wild West, but obviously not really expecting to find it served up with their beer. "Vy do zey let him in here?,"one of them stammered in a thick German accent, his voice more a plea than a demand. They? I wondered who they were, especially since I was alone in the place, and part of my job description was bouncer. I shrugged in reply and motioning in the direction of the lobby door, now thankfully unoccupied, answered, "Oh, him? He's just local colour.", at which their disbelief expanded to include me!
Bear Skin ©Linda Dawn Hammond 1981My mostly male clients were generally sweet to me, which probably had as much to do with my gender as anything else- fresh female blood of all varieties being highly coveted after the long winter. After I left Dawson in September to hitchhike to Alaska, I was standing on the street of another Yukon town hundreds of miles to the South, when a male voice called over, "How are things at the PIT?" It turned out that he and a friend had travelled all the way to Dawson just to have a beer at the Pit because they'd heard tell of a "cute, new barmaid". Only to look, mind you, as they hadn't even bothered to speak to me beyond ordering! I was touched- which only betrays my naivete in believing this to have been the sole purpose of their trip!
Linda in front of The Pit, 1981
It was unfortunately true that I was also expected to serve as a bouncer. Sometimes things would get out of control in the bar and I was expected to deal with it. I learned to ignore drunken challenges from some of the women to "step outside", having witnessed enough disastrous hair-pulling scenes on the street. When fights broke out amongst the miners, Eileen would order me to intervene and on one occasion I did, receiving an accidental swing of a fist for my trouble. The poor man was contrite when he realized that he had hit me, but after this I refused to step in.
When more than one waitress was working the floor, we were required to pool tips. My tips were always lower than the other woman's, whom I suspected as having better math than I. It wasn't the result of her superior charms, or so I thought, until she confronted me one day over my habit of carrying the tray with the left hand while extending my elbow to the right. This was aimed at better establishing "contact" with any unfortunate who may try to grab me in passing. "The reason you don't get higher tips," she told me, "is because you don't let them touch you. I hear them complaining. It isn't fair, you know, because we split tips and yours are always lower." I couldn't believe it. The job was hard enough without that. "The ones I want to touch me, can. The ones I don't, won't", I replied, and as far as I was concerned, that was that. My favourite customers, the ones I liked and trusted, were allowed the occasional hug or a sit on the lap, but the rest - the elbow. I resolved to be more careful when giving change. Another dispute we had was when I found a one hundred dollar bill lying on the ground in my section. I looked around and saw that one of my customers, a miner fresh out of the bush, was lying passed out in his chair. I could see a roll of hundred dollar bills emerging from his pocket, also in danger of falling. The one I'd found obviously belonged to him. I tapped him on the shoulder to wake him up and handed it back, telling him that he should be more careful with his money. The other waitress and the bartender were incensed with me. "That was supposed to go in the tips.", they said angrily. "He was too drunk to even notice when you gave it back. Anything that falls on the floor is ours, that's the rule." I wondered if that included the miners...
Cabaret client ©Linda Dawn Hammond 1981
I actually gave up meat in Dawson and have never eaten it since. I stopped initially for a very practical reason. My campsite had no running water or electricity, which meant that there was no refrigeration. One day I came back to my tent to discover that wild dogs had polished off a Hungarian goulash I had just cooked. They returned another day while I was reading on the makeshift "porch" of my wall tent frame. They couldn't see me, or so I thought as I was hidden behind a garbage bag windbreak. I leaped out yelling "BOO" or something equally silly, fully expecting them to run off in fright. Instead, I was confronted with the cold white eyes of the leader of a small pack. He coolly entered into a staring match which he easily won. It was quite disconcerting to be stared down by a dog. After this they returned periodically and I was afraid for the cat I was babysitting, who had just given birth to five tasty kittens. I stopped eating meat to reduce the chance of raids, although the cats and I did feast on the occasional salmon offered in barter for beer by local fishermen. My cat was an avid hunter, constantly depositing birds and tiny shrews at my "door". Some mornings were hell as she would instruct her kittens in the fine art of the kill by chasing a shrew around my inert body, already crammed inside a 2 man tent. On one occasion I picked up yet another of her birds and carried it sadly down to the Service cabin, my closest neighbour, to chat with Tom Byrne on the porch. I told him I felt sorry for the cat's little victims. As I examined its limp little body, something compelled me to kiss it. All of a sudden, the bird "sprang to life"and flew from my open hands into the sky! Just for a moment I became the "Snow White of the Klondike" and Tom, always the Irish romantic, regarded me with wonder after that day. Oddly enough, another of my other neighbours, who must have been a hunter as he evidently owned a gun, threatened to shoot my cat if he ever saw her killing any more birds.
Linda Dawn Hammond and "cabin",
Dawson City, 1981
One morning I awoke in my tent to hear a familiar voice calling my name. It sounded like that of my ex-boyfriend in Vancouver... but it couldn't be. He was thousands of miles away. Sure enough, I crawled out of my pup tent to discover him playing with my kittens. He had come all the way to Dawson to propose marriage (oddly enough, to me!) And sell some hash. On either count this was not a good idea, but in terms of the hash, it was well known that Dawson was used as a training ground for RCMP narcs. Why they should bother with such a small, remote community I have no idea. I had discovered this when my bus had been stopped and searched en route to Whitehorse. It was routine for the RCMP (or rather, their dogs) to sniff through all baggage going North. As a result, there was little to be had in Dawson of the pot or hash variety. Beyond that, well, as an example of the dearth, a local once took me on a visit of the archeological museum. I was impressed until I realized that his interest in archeology was limited to peering longingly through the glass display at a century old vial of medicinal cocaine. (Just before I left Dawson my favourite restaurant, the Midnight Sun,was raided and larger amounts of the substance seized. People regarded each other with amazement and some in dismay at having NOT been privy to the secret!) I wasn't happy with my ex for endangering himself and me with yet another attempt at the entrepreneurial spirit. I suggested that he rid himself of it as quickly and effectively as possible and sent him in what I hoped was the right direction. One of these directions was unknown to me personally- a mistake. A few days later, two men entered the bar. I'd never seen them before. I noted they were both over 6 feet (required height at the time for RCMP officers), were sporting moustaches within regulation limits, and seemed overly enthusiastic. They looked around the empty bar, glanced at the other waitress, Hazel, who was a conservative, 40ish woman from Burnaby, then at me... and headed straight in my direction. They wasted no time. "Do you know where we can get some smoke?", one of the asked in a conspiratorial whisper which immediately confirmed my suspicions. "Smoke?", I chirped innocently. "Why, yes..", I leaned in closer, their eyes gleamed in anticipation. "...right over there, behind the bar.", as I gestured towards our cigarette display. "No, No. You don't understand," they continued, a hint of annoyance creeping in, "We mean smokesmoke." "Ohhh, (I replied, as if I suddenly comprehended) Smoke smoke?", I repeated, gesturing with my fingers the habitual way most dope smokers hold their joints. The two fairly quivered with renewed enthusiasm. "Yes, Smoke smoke!!", they cried. I'll admit I was enjoying this. "NO." I told them in a flat note of finality. "Look" , one of them wheedled, "We KNOW you KNOW." I looked at them both and said slowly, "Well, right now, down by the river, near the paddlewheeler on the bank, are about 30 drunken slugs having a party. If you go down there and join them, I'm certain that one of them will have a joint they would love to share with you!" I laughed inwardly at the prospect of these dolts trying to infiltrate that tight group! The pair knew too and looked positively disgruntled, muttering again that they knew I knew. "Look," I finally said, "I DON'T KNOW. And even if I did, I wouldn't tell you, because you're probably RCMP!!!" They looked at each other and immediately got up, but instead of leaving, unwisely headed for the other waitress' section. After a few minutes, I heard her wrathful shriek, " WHAT? HOW DARE YOU SUGGEST SUCH A THING TO ME ! BANNED FOR LIFE!! YOU'RE BOTH BANNED FOR LIFE!!!, at which the two of them scurried out in the direction of the lobby exit. A minute later Fabien walked in and overheard me informing Hazel that they had been undercover RCMP officers. She was denying it. Fabien slowly withdrew the pipe from his mouth. "She's right." he pronounced, indicating in my direction. "Fabien," I asked, "Why do you believe I am right?" After all, he hadn't been in the bar at the time. "Well," he said pointedly,"I was standing in MY lobby of MY hotel drinking one of MY beers, when they ran past, and as they ran, one of them stopped to inform me that it is illegal to drink in a hotel lobby. Only the RCMP would do that." And with that, Fabien resumed his smoke. Shortly after my ex returned to British Columbia, where we were eventually re-united, (but never did marry.)
The Pit's bartender (L) and Hazel the waitress(R) ©Linda Dawn Hammond 1981
While I was in Dawson, there was a horrible grizzly attack 20 miles down river in a fishing camp. Three people were badly mutilated by a mother bear, and everyone was scared of another attack as she hadn't yet been found. One night after work, Hazel drove me back to the road which led to my campsite in the woods. "Aren't you afraid to stay there alone?", she demanded. I asked her not to talk about it. It was September and we were no longer experiencing perpetual light. I stumbled up the path and warily turned the first bend. I paused, half expecting to hear something but not really, when a horrible growling confronted me directly in the dark. I had no idea what it was, but turned and ran down the path as fast as I could to the road. A friend had left his van parked on the road for me in case of emergency. It only operated in reverse, but I couldn't drive anyway. I hopped inside and sat shivering all night in my little summer dress until morning. When I finally got up the nerve to investigate my campsite, something had indeed been rummaging through my area. The cats were cowering in the tent, "walls" were ripped up and my chair had fallen clear off the "porch". But as my cannned goods had no teethmarks in them,I suspected dogs rather than bears. Wild dogs are domestics, often team dogs, which have been abandoned after the winter. Once the tourist season ends, the strays (dogs, that is) are rounded in the following manner. A bitch in heat is placed in the back of a pick-up and driven around town, then up to the dump on the Dome where her whole panting entourage are shot. The man relating this story winced at the last part, I think because the waning days of summer feel a bit like that for the unnattached local men as well. A frenzy sets in. My amorous Metis offered me my own dog team if I'd spend the winter with him. A cynic suggested that he'd made me the offer only because he couldn't afford to feed both of his teams! After a night of drinking, I awoke in horror to recall that I had actually agreed to spend the winter in a teepee with another local, in grizzly country, with no dog team! His girlfriend of the winter past had been alone in their teepee when a grizzly had wandered in, and she'd been required to spend hours perched in the support poles until it finally left. I tracked down my friend and we were both relieved to cancel the arrangement!
Captain Dick was the captain of the only functioning paddlewheeler in Dawson, The Yukon Lou. His boat steams down the river past the remains of older paddlewheelers, wrecks of mud-filled cars, and by the abandoned Native village of Moosehide. It was courtesy of his generosity that I managed to take large format photographs of Moosehide, as he would drop me off on the shore while his tourists were enjoying a salmon bake on a nearby island. The Captain has two diamonds (at last count) embedded in his teeth and a penchant for young Costa Rican "old maids"of 21, whom he imports regularly on a temporary basis. Most of the time we got along famously, although I never did drink the Sourtoe Cocktail, which would have won me the distinction of being a bonafide "Sourtoe". Next time. The certificate would look good beside my degrees and probably inspire more admiration. For those not acquainted with Goldrush folklore, a "Sourdough" was and is someone who has spent the winter in the Klondike and managed to survive. (Conversely, we summer folk who leave as soon as the darkness sets in are branded "lightweights".) The "Sourtoe Cocktail "also requires a certain degree of fortitude. A pickled human toe (severed) is dropped like a perverse cocktail olive into a glass of champagne. Empty the glass, and one is rewarded with a certificate signed by Capt.Dick proclaiming membership in the company of fellow "Sourtoes". The year I was there, one of my customers partook of the beverage in an inebriated state (the best way) but in his enthusiasm, swallowed the toe! The glass was empty! According to the famed Robert Service cabin orator and poet in his own right, Tom Byrne, Capt. Dick attempted to retrieve it by remaining beside the lad until it made its unholy exit, in the form of a little bone. A call went out across our great nation for someone to donate another toe. Eventually a woman on the East Coast sent her diseased specimen to the good Captain Dick, and all was well again in Dawson. The boy who swallowed the toe continued to thrive and cause havoc all summer. One afternoon as I was standing by the bar, he crawled into the Pit on all fours barking like a dog and bit me on the ass. I was worried- besides the rabies and scabies these creatures carry, such things have been known to cause copycat reactions and I was afraid of becoming part of a new rite of passage- ie.,"The Bark and Bite the Barmaid Certificate!
Capt. Dick©Linda Dawn Hammond 1981
The Captain and I eventually experienced a falling out, close to the end of my career as a Dawson barmaid. It was an unusually busy night at the Cabaret. The bar was packed with miners, in town after months of working in the bush. It was a particularly rowdy bunch and contained few of my regulars. Capt.Dick and a large group of friends came in and took over a table in my section. They ordered a round of Grand Marniers- an expensive drink in the North. I was wearing my usual protective gear- a big, baggy dress which went down to my ankles. What lay beneath was meant to remain unseen. I sensed that a conspiracy was emerging, but I had no idea of what nature. As I turned to lift the tray of liqueurs off the bar, Capt.Dick suddenly dashed up behind me and raised my dress past my waist, for all to see. There was a sudden silence in the bar. I was mortified. To compound the problem, I had been wearing a particularly skimpy set of underwear which had a tendency to become lodged between my cheeks- I was in effect, wearing nothing but the equivalent of a G-String... Time was suspended as I contemplated dropping the entire bloody tray on his smirking, triumphant head, but I couldn't really afford the hundred bucks it would cost me. Instead I resorted to that beloved battle cry of old, "BANNED FOR LIFE! YOU'RE BANNED FOR LIFE AT THE PIT!!!', but I knew full well that Eileen would never ban the Captain, and that she would rather ban me for invoking the hated nickname. Actually, of the two owners, only Fabien was present from what I recall. He was unfortunately located at the table directly behind where I was standing. Although I now think fondly upon my firm young 23 year old butt and imagine the greater horrors I could stir, should a similar incident occur today, Fabien at the time removed his pipe to comment definitively, "THAT WAS DISGUSTING." I suddenly realized that he wasn't referring to the perpetrator of the humiliating act, but rather to my temporary state of undress! Hmmm... thanks a lot, Fabien. Soon after this incident, physical harassment towards me in the bar escalated, but instead of allowing me to kick the problems out as before, they were merely told to switch over to the other barmaid's station. Around this time, one of my regulars slipped half a bottle of tabasco into Eileen's coffee while none of us were watching. She suddenly began screaming that she'd been poisoned and her hazy vision and logic settled upon me as the obvious culprit. I finally had to quit for good and shortly thereafter hitchhiked to Skagway. I took the boat down to Prince Rupert and then continued inland to the Okanogan Valley, where I walked straight into a small town bar to ask after the whereabouts of my ex Leo, only to look over and see him standing there, pool cue in hand, looking gorgeous. We fell in love all over again and I ended up spending the winter with him in a teepee after all.
It has been suggested to me in certain Irish bars that these stories reflect my half-Irish roots and granted, we do originate from the county Cork, home to the Blarney Stone. However, my reply is that my imagination is pale alongside the things I have seen, and I wouldn't even attempt to compete with fabrications! Although for the sake of those who care not to be thus revealed or may choose to pursue litigation at some future date, I shall stake a claim that these accounts be mere flights of fancy, and you can believe what you will!Appreciate the work put into creating this website? Leave a
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