“The Nickel-Plated Spanish 38”
by Randall "Ted" Berkeley
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| Potters Topanga Trading Post (pic: Huntington Library / Ernest Marquez Collection) |
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| Spanish 38 revolver [1983-09-22 Messenger, art by Sandy Bell] |
About thirty-five years or so ago I lived on Old Topanga Road down on the beach in Malibu. The surfing was second to none when it was up. My wife, Sylvia, and I, at that time, had two youngsters and later God gave us three more, all raised in this most beautiful area.
There were only two grocers in Malibu at this time, one, Ray White, at the old entrance to the Malibu Colony, and one across the street from our house at Topanga, called Charlie Potter’s Trading Post, so consequently we traded there.
Every night when I came home from work I would stop at Charlie’s and buy my cigarettes and some beer. When I entered his store I would first reach under the counter by the cash register and take out of a holster, a nickel-plated Spanish 38 revolver that Charlie kept there for his own protection. I would fondle it and admire it and then return it to its holster.
Charlie told me an interesting story about this gun. It seems that his store had been broken into a few years before and among other things, the revolver was stolen. Charlie made out a police report and then forgot the whole thing.
A year or so later the police contacted Charlie and told him that his pistol had been recovered and it was identified by the serial number. It seems as though the guy who had stolen it held up a bank in Reno, Nevada and had been shot and killed in the attempt.
This story only added to my interest in this weapon, and Charlie, sensing my affection for it, said that when he passed away it would be mine.
One night, as I usually did after entering the store, I reached for my “some-day-to-be” gun and it was not there. I jokingly said to Charlie, “Where is my pistol?” He was startled. “Don’t play jokes on me, Ted, what did you do with it?” I was astounded. He was serious!
I vowed I had not taken his gun and he became very angry. With that, I walked out and was never to return until much later.
There was, at that time, in the neighborhood, an old Scotchman whom we called Scotty—naturally. Scotty earned his livelihood as a handyman, doing anything that he could for a few dollars. The people who rented the house on our north were moving away and they employed old Scotty to clean out under their house, as it had been a playground for their two little boys. While he was doing his job, he unearthed the Spanish 38, and, recognizing it, took it over and gave it to Charlie. Apparently these little boys had been fascinated by the thing as I had, and the temptation was too great and they carted it away.
Shortly after this, there was a knock on my beach door one night and I was appalled to see Charlie Potter standing there with big tears in his old eyes. In his hand was our pistol. He begged forgiveness and told me he wanted me to take it as a present. I brought out a bottle of whiskey and we drank to eternal friendship.
A number of years later, Charlie suffered a serious heart attack and the doctor told him he was not to work until told to do so by him. Directly behind where the Raft now stands, which in those days, was Marinos’s Fish Market, was a little house on the side of the hill with a sign over the door that said “High Nuff.” This was the Potters’ home—within walking distance of the store. Every evening instead of going to the store, I would go to “High Nuff” and have a session with dear old Charlie.
I was sent to Tucson, being a propman in the motion picture industry—for just one week. When I returned, I was told the horrible news by my wife that Charlie was no longer with us.
I went to visit Eleanor Potter, Charlie’s lovable wife and she told me the macabre story.
She had been taking care of the store each day while Charlie sat unhappy and alone at '“High Nuff.” She told me that on the fateful night she locked the store as usual and walked the short distance home. On arriving, she found old Charlie very morose and did what she could to try to cheer him up. She asked him if there was anything special that he would like to have for dinner and Charlie responded that he might like to have a broiled chicken. She donned her coat and walked back to the store where she picked out the nicest chicken she could find, and then walked back home.
What she saw when she opened the door must have followed her to her grave. Still sitting in his chair—with no head—was Charlie. He had placed a shotgun between his knees and pulled the trigger.
I was haunted for years to come by the thought that, had I not gone on that location trip to Tucson, and continued my nightly visits to see Charlie, perhaps this tragic suicide could have been avoided.
Sometimes when daydreaming of the old days in Malibu, I think of my dear old friend, and also wonder what happened to my old nickel-plated Spanish 38. It had been stolen out of my equipment box on stage one night. I wonder if it is causing misery or if it has brought two people together in beautiful friendship as it had with me and a beautiful guy named Charlie Potter.
