This is the Art Whiles police story that occurred in Grand Rapids, MI. This is a true story, and it is a great story.
It's great because the participants and principal characters in the story played multiple rolls, yet in fact had no idea they
were doing so.
The story starts out a few years earlier when I quit
working in the yard and decided to try working the road. During one of
my early trips to Battle Creek, MI. a friend of mine took me to the local uniform store to get a carrier for my punch. I had
been carrying my punch in my jacket pocket because I didn't like the Amtrak punch holder. One had to unbuckle ones belt to
slide the Amtrak punch holder on and unbuckle ones belt again to take it off each day - if not more than once each day. This
was more trouser buckling and unbuckling than I cared to do, so I carried my punch in my jacket pocket. My friend claimed to
have a solution for this problem and in fact he did. At the uniform shop one could purchase a gun holster of a size that would
hold a 38 caliber pistol and that holster would also carry an Amtrak punch very nicely. So I purchased one. It clipped on the
belt without unbuckling anything. I will try and include a picture of this punch holster since I still use it today.
The Grand Rapids run. A great trip, with a great view, right along the lake and through some very nice towns: St. Joseph, MI.,
New Buffalo, MI., Holland, Mi. and Grand Rapids itself. The problem with this particular run was that it had a very short lay
over. The federally mandated eight hours rest occurred only on paper. And yet, there is so much to do in Grand Rapids. So
much to do, so little time. A hotel van would pick us up at the train station and deliver us to the hotel where we would leave
our grips in the lobby and head right out again. It was the only way, there was no time to change clothes or enjoy the other
amenities.
As I mentioned at the beginning, this is the Art Whiles police story. Art was the brakeman working with me on this particular
evening. Assistant Conductors, we call them now. Art and I both enjoy a good game of pool so we immediately headed to a local
tavern that we had frequented before, where we knew the lone pool table in the back of the bar was apt to be available. It was.
This was a week night and the small tavern/bar wasn't even half full. Perhaps six or seven people sitting at the bar itself,
and in this
long skinny room another ten or twelve people sitting at the tables across from the bar. And now Art and I at the pool table
in the rear.
Art preceded to teach me something about the game of pool in the first two games, and then I began to come into my own. I
usually follow the 'two beer rule' and won't play pool until after having consumed a couple, my game improving as I unwind.
But due to the time constraints of working the Grand Rapids job we had plunged right in. So here is the picture: Art and I in
our dark trousers and shiny shoes, tieless but with vests, enjoying our third game of pool in a quiet little bar.
Boxed in. That's how Art left me after the break. I was going to try a one rail kick shot on that wee small two ball when we
first heard a commotion at the front of the building. Glancing up from the table we both focused our attention on the noise
and noticed a fellow who was leaping over the bar from the bartender’s side. Several patrons were shouting things like: "Hey
stop!" And, "That guy just grabbed money out of the cash register!"
A thief! Some guy had come into the bar, glanced around quickly, and seeing no one behind the bar at that particular moment
(our bartender was powdering her nose apparently) had decided to jump the bar, snatch the money and run. A poor choice you
see, since he too, was. . .
Boxed in.
Because at that moment two gentlemen were entering the bar from the front door. And these two gentlemen happened to be off
duty policeman. Not too much of a surprise, really, since this tavern was a cop bar, frequented by off duty policemen.
Apparently our thief was aware of this arrangement, oddly enough. However, Art and I were not, having only played pool there
a few times, and had always kept pretty much to ourselves.
"Police! Hold it right there."
The thief didn't hesitate a moment. The front door was blocked. So he took off running towards the rear, towards the pool
table at the back, towards Art and I, where a large sign on the wall proclaimed, 'exit'. I was still bending over the table
where I had been lining up my shot as it began to dawn on me that Art and I were in the middle of the path down which this
thief was attempting to beat a hasty retreat.
About Arthur: say, 6 ft. 2, 210 pounds, biker type. Good-looking devil but a definite obstacle on one's way to the exit.
About myself: 5' 8", graying hair, maybe 155 pounds. The thief was starting to veer my way.
As I started to straighten up a worn spot on the inside of my vest hooked on my punch. I dropped my pool cue on the floor
(which produced a loud cracking noise – ever heard it?) and with one hand tried to lift my vest away and with the other hand
untangle it from the punch holster. I hadn't even thought yet to take a step back and remove myself from harm's way.
The thief observed my actions as he was running towards me and threw on the brakes, skidding to a halt and raising his hands
in the air, screaming "Don't shoot, I give up!". Instantly the two policemen were on him and the cuffs came out. They seemed
to know this fellow. "Why'd you try it, Charlie?"
"I cased the joint half an hour ago and knew it was empty. I figured it'd be an easy hit. I didn't count on the off duty
detective here."
The cops looked at me and Art. Me and Art looked blank. "These guys aren't cops," they announced. Art and I already knew
that.
"Sure they are, that guy there was reaching for his gun!" The closest cop looked me up and down. "You got a gun buddy?"
He asked.
"Heck no, I work for the railroad."
"He does so, look under his vest." I gingerly lifted the corner of my vest revealing my holster and punch.
"See? I told you he was armed."
"And I told you I work for the railroad. This isn't a gun, it's my punch. You know, ticket please ticket please?"
I pulled it out slowly, and grabbing a table napkin gave a brief demonstration of my punching ability. I made several lovely
and distinct punches for everyone's benefit. I was about to launch into a dissertation about how every conductor’s punch is
different when a commotion broke out between the prisoner and his two guards.
"Jesus Christ! Holy shit! You mean, . . . I was busted by a guy with a paper punch? I don't f....ing believe it!"
Strange things can happen when you feel. . .boxed in.
Of course, once things returned to normal and Art and I were enjoying our free drinks for saving the day - I kicked the two
ball smack into the corner pocket. I might even have won another game or two, now that the pressure was off. We were always
welcome after that, at the Cop Bar.