An oil boomtown located over a thousand miles north of the Canadian border;  Fort St. John  British Columbia, in 1980 was right out of a John Wayne western. I soon learned that it was worlds away from anything I had ever seen before. It was, for the most part, more like the Old West of this country than anything I had seen in the 20th. Century. It’s not that they didn’t have indoor plumbing and television but that disputes would be settled in large bar fights every night and grudges were never held for long. Broken tables were leveled off with an ashtray beneath one leg.

Fort St. John was the only town I ever lived in that could legitimately boast of having more moose than cattle.

I had been accepted into the MFA program in Creative Writing at the University of British Columbia in Vancouver. The University of Iowa had turned me down and I thought a change of scenery might be helpful. It also didn’t hurt that UBC offered writing workshops in a diversity of genres while Iowa was interested primarily in novels, poetry and short stories. Okay, Kurt Vonnegut taught at Iowa and that would have been so cool but Canada was The Great White North and, in the long run, was a much better move for me.

Shortly after arriving in Vancouver I discovered that to get a student visa I would need $3500 in the bank, which I didn’t have. After talking with the Chairman of the Creative Writing Department, it was decided that I would attend the MFA program the following year, which gave me enough time to make the $3500. While sitting in the student union and going through the classified section of the Vancouver Sun, I found an opening for a cabaret D.J. in Fort St. John. When I asked a nearby student where Fort St. John was all they could say was, “Pretty damned far!” It was far indeed. Worlds away from Vancouver. A universe away from L.A.

Now I should mention here that while I was an undergraduate student in Radio-TV-Film at the University of Wisconsin in Oshkosh I had been fired as a nightclub D.J. My experience had been in radio where you don’t see your audience and then, suddenly in a club, I’m surrounded by people watching my every move. I was trying to learn more about the equipment the first night and the second night I found another excuse not to speak. I found myself stuck right in the middle of a mental block. After not talking for four days they decided to fire me. So going to Fort St. John for a job I had already been fired for seemed a bit insane. It’s not as if I had many options. Fort St. John didn’t care about work visas and everyone else in Vancouver did.

The drive from Vancouver to Fort St. John is one of the most scenic trips you’re ever going to take, especially as you near Jasper Park. If you drive into the city of Jasper late at night you’ll find stray elk roaming the side streets and alleys looking for a free meal. It is both surreal and exciting. In L.A. we consider ourselves blessed if we see a coyote eating a squirrel.

The Northland Inn in 1980 was a cabaret, bar, lounge, and hotel all in one. Let me just say it wasn’t exactly the Hilton but it was a job. As soon as I arrived I went straight to the elevated D.J. booth and talked on the microphone. It broke the ice and I went on to become the most profitable D.J. in the 75-year history of the Northland Inn. At least that’s what my boss, Hector, told me when he wanted me to stay.

A different stripper would arrive every Monday from Vancouver on their dancer circuit through B.C. and Alberta. I would play their music while they danced in the bar during the afternoon. Those strippers taught me how to play backgammon. If you’re living in the big city and used to professional strippers you might have been surprised by the occasional lack of talent. My son’s 14 year old rottweiler is a better dancer than some of them and he’s got bad hips. One stripper, though, used hand puppets in her act and I must say I’ve never seen Kermit quite so happy. It was a fascinating place to work. The cook and I made the radio commercials for the cabaret in the DJ booth and for a brief while we were both local celebrities.

My first night in Fort St. John I slept with a native Indian woman. No other woman would have anything to do with me for months after that because I was an outsider and didn't make anywhere near the money the roughnecks on the oil rigs did. Some of the local ladies would walk up into the elevated D.J. booth and let me do whatever I wanted to do with them in the booth but once the lights came up at the end of the night they wouldn't even talk with me. My life changed considerably for the better when I met  a new waitress in the cabaret a few months later. Gypsy had long red hair, double D’s and a voice that could make a dead man hard. She was a gift from Heaven. 

The guys working on the oil rigs would come into town every two weeks with a wad of cash and little time to spend it. There were only a handful of hookers in town but they made out like bandits. I knew all of them because they hung out in my cabaret. I just couldn’t afford them. Stupid me. I was saving for graduate school. If I had it to do over I would definitely have spent the hundred bucks and gone for my personal favorite; Tweety. She at one time even offerred me a discount rate of $99.95.

Now in 1980 hockey wasn’t that popular in The States. Canadians, on the other hand, are the only people who actually love hockey more than sex. If you had a game show that combined both it would be a ratings gangbuster up there. Once, during a break in the cabaret, I was standing around a small group of locals when the conversation turned to Wayne Gretsky, who was still playing for Edmonton at the time. I asked who Wayne Gretsky was and you would have thought I had asked who Jesus Christ was! If you want Canadians to know you’re an American act dumb about hockey.

All the apartment buildings in Fort St. John have small posts with an electrical outlet at each outdoor parking space. With temperatures dipping very low every night you would be able to get your car started in the morning unless you had a heater installed in your engine block.

The cabaret played hard rock until I arrived at which time the manager felt disco would be more profitable. The roughnecks, in town for only a few days, continually threatened me if I didn’t play rock. Who dances to the Doors? I even had to be escorted to parties by bouncers because it wasn’t safe outside the cabaret after hours either. Although those guys off the oil rigs complained, most of them loved to dance to disco. They just would rather die than admit it.

After Gypsy and I had dated for a couple of weeks I ran into her ex-boyfriend. Tim was notoriously violent and was best known for breaking off a beer glass on the edge of a table and then ramming it into someone’s stomach. One night, in a moment of insanity, I approached him with an attitude and started a fight. He said he would be waiting outside for me and then both cowardice and common sense set in. I was to blame for starting the fight and later I told him just that. He walked away but soon the fact that I had backed out of a fight spread around town. Now everyone wanted to fight me.

Duke had partied with my other friends in the small hotel room I lived in. He picked a fight with me and for the rest of the night cabaret patrons would offer me advice on how to win a fight. Some of them said they would wait for Duke in the parking lot. Since Duke was one of the few Blacks living in Fort St. John at the time I could see this was getting racist real quickly. I couldn’t let the fight get outside. At the end of the night and as we walked toward the back door I asked Duke to look at me. When he did I hit him as hard as I could. His head snapped back at an odd angle and for a moment I just stared at what I had done. Then I hit him three more times and it was all over. No one picked a fight with me again. The threats for playing disco never ended.

Most of the city streets in 1980 were unpaved and so it was considered only common courtesy to remove your shoes as soon as you entered someone’s home. To this day I can still remember going to parties and seeing 50-75 pair of shoes in one huge pile at the front door. All this time later and I cherish the memory of all those shoes. That and the last time I saw Gypsy in the shower. It’s funny what you choose to remember.

The TV show, “Northern Exposure” reminds me so much of my experience in Fort St. John. Located right off the Alaska Highway, Fort St. John had much in common with the fictional Cicely. The people were genuine and sincere. Unique and fascinating. It was a time and world I miss often. To this day I wonder what ever happened to all those fine people.

I get email from Gypsy now and then but getting her anywhere near a shower is just another dream. For now.

For more comical info on the writer of this blog go to:  WorldHumour.bravehost.com

Tom Neuhoff
World Humour
"Funnier Than You"

Hollywood Daze/Yahoo 360

Fort St. John