Published Otherzine  Issue Seven  Sep 2004

It happened at the Green Parrot Theater in Seattle in the late 1930′s. The Parrot, or Dirty Bird, to its later low-life customers, lasted until 1979. At the end it was a bottom-of-the-gutter porno theater on First Avenue. Sadly, it was destroyed by an arson fire. Although it had descended from its lofty beginning during the silent film era to cinema degradation it was part of the protected Pike Street Market historic area and could not be torn down. It took a “fire of suspicious origins” to make it give way to what many call progress. Or maybe it was the hand of fate. Fate that had not been cheated, but merely delayed, when it escaped a firey end forty years before.

It had been built in the early twenties as a legitimate movie theater. It was built in the glory days of the silent film. It was before selling popcorn and Coca-Cola became an integral part of the show. Not needing a snack bar, it had only a small lobby. It had a long, narrow auditorium that seated five hundred. There was a small balcony. The square marquee jutted out over the sidewalk. Originally hundreds of incandescent lights adorned it. Later they were replaced by neon. The incandescents only remained as a frame around the edges, controlled by an ancient mechanical chaser circuit device. By the mid 1950s, as the skid road neighborhood grew rougher; it became a sub-run, or sub sub-run house. In the sixties you could see a western triple feature for 35 cents. In the seventies you could see hard-core sex for five dollars. By then much of the neon was broken. There was a Coke machine in the lobby. The incandescents on the marquee still happily chased each other. The patrons inside chased each other in the dark.

On the night of the fire it was still a respectable downtown theater. Just down the street was the beautiful Liberty Theater. Within a short walk were other grand movie palaces. It was the era of reel to reel projection. It was before multi-plexes and automation. A union operator manned the projection booth at all times. Every twenty minutes he would make a seamless reel change without the rapt audience being any the wiser. He would start the show by dimming the house lights, opening the main curtain and projecting the first image, usually a Hollywood studio logo, on the scrim curtain. As the logo faded to black he would open the scrim, bring down the colored foot lights, and the credits would appear on the naked screen. The film stock swiftly running through the projector was called Nitrate. It was aesthetically the best film stock ever created. It was discontinued in the 1950′s. It possessed a black that defined black and white. A black that was black. A black that few filmgoers have ever seen. A black that does not exist in modern film stock. Unfortunately, it could also burst into flame.

In accordance with strict fire codes all projection booths were lined with fire proof metal. Metal walls, ceiling and door. Over the port windows, through which the projection beam passed, were suspended metal shutters. They ran on tracks, much like a guillotine blade, poised to fall at the first sign of flame. Slim chains restrained them. The chains ran through pulleys, over the projectors, and were linked to the projection booth door. Directly above the projector the chain was joined by a heat fuse link. This link would melt at 180 degrees Fahrenheit. If the film caught fire, the heat fuse would melt, all of the port window shutters would slam down, and the booth door would slam shut. This would contain the fire to the booth, protecting the theater’s patrons and the theater owner’s investment. The projectionist was on his own.

All projection booths contained a carbon tetrachloride type fire extinguisher which produced phosgene gas in the presence of flame. Phosgene gas is poisonous. It was used in trench warfare during World War I. By both German and Allied armies. Phosgene often had a delayed effect; apparently healthy soldiers were taken down with phosgene gas poisoning up to 48 hours after inhalation.

At the top and the bottom of the projector the film would pass through tight rollers. They were called fire rollers. They were designed to snuff out the flame. Sometimes they worked. A typical fire would start when the film broke and lodged in the aperture gate. The flame would travel upward. If it passed through the fire roller the upper reel, with up to two thousand feet of film, would be in full flame in ten seconds. The fire would produce copious amounts of smoke and poison nitric acid gas. At the first sign of flame the sensible projectionist would run for the door, jerking the chain as he passed through.

On the warm summer night in question the projectionist was the intrepid Ash Bridgham. He had joined the Union in 1927, making the transition from silent to sound. He was also a pioneer aviator and member in good standing in the OX-5 club, open only to those who had flown in Ox-5 airplanes in the teens and twenties. He wasn’t likely to panic in the face of fear. When the fire started he was standing near the projector. Quick as a cat he grabbed the upper reel and jerked it away from the projector, breaking the film. Unfortunately the burning end of the film came away with the reel. The fire rollers snuffed the fire out before the flames reached the lower reel. Luckily, there was a window in the projection booth. It opened onto First Avenue. A couple of feet below it was the top of the flat marquee extending several feet over the sidewalk. In one motion Ash tossed the burning reel out the open window. He grabbed the extinguisher and ran to the window intending to snuff out the flame. He expected to find the burning reel resting on the flat roof of the marquee. Ah, tis many a slip twixt cup and lip. The burning reel wasn’t there!

Fire extinguisher in hand he clambered out the window onto the marquee. He looked down the street. Maybe it was adrenaline that had made him toss it too far. Maybe it had just bounced. Maybe the hand of fate of had reached out and carried it. In any case, the reel, in full flame, was rolling down the middle of First Avenue. The avenue sloped gently downward to the south. The reel rolled and rolled and as it rolled it unspooled the burning film behind it. Passing cars gave it wide berth. Ash watched until it rolled out of sight.

The Green Parrot remained in business for another forty years before flames finally closed its doors forever.

Is it  possible that the Costa Concordia was taken close in to the rocks to impress the girlfriend of the captain?  Of course it is.  Is it possible that a similar thing happened in the state of Washington on the sunny waters of Puget Sound on October 2, 1983?  Well, absolutely.  Here is the sordid tale of that infamous date.

The Washington State ferry Elwha first set sail in 1967 and was one of only two Super Ferries in the Washington ferry system.  Super is capable of going out on the ocean and could sail into international and other nation’s waters.  Her normal route is from Anacortes to the San Juan Islands.  She  also makes  run to Sidney in British Columbia, Canada.  She can handle 2,500 passengers and 144 vehicles.  The only other Super ferry in the WSOT system is the Chelan

It was a beautiful fall day when she set sail on her fateful cruise.  At the wheel was her captain, Billy Frittro.  He had made the run many times and saw nothing ahead but blue skies and getting laid.  That was where the trouble began.  Beside him that day in the wheelhouse was the winsome Peggy Warrack.  She owned a house on the shore of Grindstone Harbor.  Suave Cap’n Billy said “How about pointing to where your house in  and I’ll take us by for a look.”  Exactly what he was looking at as he said this I am not sure of, but I would guess it was part of Ms. Warrack’s winsome anatomy and not out toward any navigational hazards.  It wasn’t very long after that the the Ferry Elwha struck a submerged rock and ran aground.  There is no official record of what this did to to the little romance Billy had in mind.  There is official record that Captain Billy eventually resigned as the truth eventually emerged from murky depths. His boss Capt. Nick Tracy was later fired for trying to cover up the embarrassing mess.

All passengers and crew escaped death in this debacle. I wish that was the same with the Costa Concordia.

That was not the end of the story.  Shortly after that the Island City Jazz Band released their one and only hit record “Elwha On The Rocks.”  The band consisted of trumpter Tom Skoog, Don Anderson on trombone, Bill Bassen on clarinet,  Skip McDaniel on banjo, Tom Bassen on piano, Vern Conrad on drums, and Gary Provonsha on tuba.  George Burns, no not that George Burns, did the singing.

In 1989 the submerged rock was formally named Elwha Rock by the Washington State Board on Geographic Names.  That was in response to efforts made by Seattle used book deal Greg Lange.

You’d think that Captain Charles Peterson would have learned from the event.  Nope, he took the Elhwa fifteen miles off course in 1996 and scraped  bottom but escaped grounding.  He was summarily fired.  I wonder if his wife was pleased that he tested positive for marijuana after that crash. Wouldn’t  that be better than being distracted by another woman?

When I get time my next blog post will be the even more sordid tale of the Freighter Chavez and the ill fated captain Rolf Neslund.