Idyllwild is the prettiest little town you wish never existed. You know that kind of town, with that kind of cabin, no policemen and a hospital an hour away. Pile on a blizzard, impassable roads and that demented serial killer rabbit and then you’re either in a impromptu B-movie sequel of “The Shining” or more likely you’ve lived in the city for way too long.
“It was over the summer,” Blaine said. She had been an instructor at an outdoor science school in the area. “We were hiking up to Tahquitz and were camped out.” “The kids were looking for firewood and the next thing I know a bunch of them suddenly came back with a fleshy gelatinous mound. Then they led us over to the full sized silicone doll which was completely dismembered. So naturally we wanted to know why it was ripped apart and who would have brought it up here. It was hard to explain to the kids. We never did find out who or why.” Another unexplainable story in a town that’s filled with unsolved mysteries and unanswered questions. This is a Halloween town, with the winter time fog shroud and voices whispering in the wind.
A mile high and nineteen miles removed from Hemet in one direction and a mile high and thirty five miles from Palm Springs in the other direction, Idyllwild is a small arty enclave which is as close to Southern California comes to Norman Rockwell perfection. When you arrive it seems to magically appear like a moment straight out of a David Copperfield sketch. The streets are lined with art galleries and shops, a favorite spot for 60’s hippies to escape to and make a living on selling you their hand made trinkets and crafts. It all seems a bit much, and you can’t help but think, “Who buys this crap,” but I haven’t come to shop for dream catchers. Today I’m shopping for stories.
TUXEDO TIM
It’s Saturday night in paradise and there are a pair of drunks straggling outside the melting pot of the rag-tag, a drinking hole in the heart of town called Joann’s. Inside sits “Tuxedo Tom” famous for his butchered atonal versions of Frank Sinatra tunes. The microphone is pressed to his awkward lips as he sings “New York, New York.” He is half breathing, half singing, half grunting, one half more than a whole. Bald and in is 50’s he has a knack for costumes and multiple personality disorders. He’s a little slow on the draw with a genetic mental flaw. But he’s still proud and thinks he owns this town. “Have you ever seen him in that California Highway Patrol costume, makes you feel safer doesn’t it” someone told me once. “Stories?” he says to me. “I’ve got stories but its going to cost you.” His eyes wander over to the red head a few seats away.
THE RED HEAD
At times you’d swear she’s anorexic not just of the body, but also of the mind. Her penchant for changing hair colors daily is peculiar. Her penchant for changing her attire weekly even more so. At once she is kid who wears Goth black, free love and bell bottoms, a fashion icon for an unfashionable town. She’s not pretty with her braces and acne scars, but she also not a simple ditty. She is an independent, a loner and you can’t help but believe she knows more than just the name of every man in town. “Stories?” she says to me with a smile sly and insecure. “I like to play soccer.”
PUERTO RICO PAULO
Paulo has played soccer with the red head before. He’s good with his feet and that’s not all I hear. But Paulo is a soft spoken man of medium build, small stature and slowly built suffering. He owns the liquor store just down the block from Joann’s. He came from Puerto Rico almost two years ago. “Why did you come to Idyllwild?” I asked him. “I don’t know, I guess this is just where I ended up.” He has a young attractive face, but his stares are often vacant like a dead man’s glare. His wife and daughter died in a car accident a few years back in Puerto Rico and he headed to the States to escape the sadness and try to start anew. “Are you going to stay here for long?” I ask him. “No, no, there’s nothing going on in this town and I miss the island.” “Do you ever hear any unusual stories?,” I ask. “Oh yeh,” he says. “Like what?” I ask.
THE SERIAL KILLER
They found his tent off of Saunders Meadow on the property of an outdoor science school. Inside his tent they found “How to Gut Small Animals” and biographies of several serial killers. Apparently he’d been camping out on the property for several weeks. People saw him walking dazed along the roads with his long nappy hair and a backpack that had seen better days. His consistent muttering and admonition to the sidewalk made one pause. And those scared and tired eyes were hard to mistake as anything but psychotic. The town had been trying to kick him out for months, but since when was walking through town a crime. Suddenly intrigued by the plethora of small animals, also known as children at a nearby school, he decided to relocate to school property. Luckily the policemen found him before the little kiddies did.
MOOSE
They call him Moose. Moose doesn’t drink and rarely goes out. A bushy beard Santa Claus who’s been living in the bush for a bit too long. He stands almost 6’5 and weighs in at well over 200 pounds. This monster of a mountain man has an eagle eye and a knack for making jalapeno bread. He’s quiet and his sense of humor is slightly estranged from what we would call normal. “Do you have any strange stories,” I ask him. He thinks for a moment. “Did you hear about that guy at Aroma’s?”
OPERA JAY
At the Aroma Café you can hear the music of love sung by new owner and resident Rico Suave, Mr. Opera Jay. You can certainly imagine a married woman, a weekend trip away from the husband and kids listening to Jay and his operatic tenor. Aroma was sold only a few months back. The previous owner was suspicious and gigantic. A gigantic man with a gigantic appetite for women and amphetamines. As rumor has it he was the center of Idyllwild’s small, but thriving drug ring. I ask Jay for some information, but he offers me little. “Oh, he died a few months back,” he says. “Don’t you like the new café?”
JOHNNIE THE CLIMBER
Johnnie’s sense of humor has been called unique. He likes to play with his collection of grenades, unused and loaded. When his finger is on the pin, he gets a thrill. Most others aren’t quite as fascinated. His friends say Johnny gives them a better sense of themselves. Everyone else tells you, “Oh, Johnny, he’s fucking nuts..” He will regale you with tales of rock climbing glory. He will tell you how he made it into Climbing magazine and how they have a route on Suicide Rock named after him. He was one of the first to climb it. “Do you know why it’s called Suicide Rock,” he asks.
THE SUICIDE
His website has his picture on it and the dates January 24th, 1974 – October 1st, 2002 written beneath. Brian had come up the mountain to work and had stayed with his girlfriend. By all aspects he was a good kid with a troubled mind. Things went awry when his girlfriend and him started breaking up once a week and he was laid off from his job. It was September 30th and no one had hear from him since he borrowed his friends truck days before. The first sign of worry was left on his ex-girlfriends desk. It came in the form of an angry note and shotgun shells strategically placed close by. His friends and family were frantically searching, but this was a big stretch of mountain and not hard to hide out for a little while. When it hit 12:01 on October 1st you wondered if at that moment he was still dead or alive. They could only hope. Three days later the van was spotted up by Tahquitz and soon thereafter he was found without a head and a shotgun nearby.
THE REAL DEAL
Convicts, con-men and crank heads. The down home, down on their luck and dirty harry's. An honest smile, the hippy in denial and the occasionally ornery outsider. The pushy tourists, the pushy bikers and the locals, with the thousand yard stare and fist clenched anticipation for that snotty hot shot from LA. Sounds like the Wild West and in many ways while the West was won, Idyllwild was left a mile high and untouched. This town can be rough around the edges, but the edges most will see, unless you look real hard, are as smooth as can be. In this town you can rarely separate myth from reality and the good from the evil. In this town there is no such thing as truth. The festering and simmering underside to this small town skin; an infected blister filled to the brim waiting to be popped. But for all the things that will scare you away, you can’t help but love the place and the pace and the eccentric odd bunch that will keep you coming back for more.
