Venerable Vigilantes -- Group's Slapstick Brand Of Comedy Has Helped Area Youths For 44 Years

When Trudy and Doris, ``Thriftway's best-known checkers,'' have rolled by in a convertible, a rhythmic rumble pulsates, it seems, from beneath the pavement. Hrrrmp hrrrmp, hrrrmp, hrrrmp.

Then, gunfire.

And louder now: Hrrrmp, hrrrmp.

Then, a few giggles and groans of recognition from the crowd lining California Avenue Southwest last Saturday for the American Legion Grand Parade at the West Seattle Hi-Yu Festival.

The Lake City Western Vigilantes chug down the middle of the street in their 1946 International ``paddy wagon.'' Hrrrmp, hrrrmp. The engine grinds. The wagon's front end bounces. Two young men straddle the wagon's caved-in fenders. They cling to handles bolted to the truck as if they were riding a bucking bull.

The men tumble off when the wagon lurches to a stop. Like the troubadours of the Middle Ages, the Vigilantes rely upon a canon of time-tested material. Now they spring hastily into an act known as ``Old Man.''

One Vigilante, adopting a wobbly-legged gait, calls out the rest of the crew to a fight. They run 25 yards ahead, line up across the road and wait for him to draw. He begins to snore and appears to fall asleep. Another Vigilante disembarks from the truck and slaps him with a plastic baseball bat. Old Man then fires one shot - everyone uses blanks, never live ammunition - and the other men collapse, ``dead.''

They're quickly revived with a spray of water from a Vigilante who rides shotgun on the paddy wagon.

Then it's another block of wheelies - hrrrmp, hrrrmp - and another one-minute performance.

The Vigilantes deal in good-humored street theater on-the-cob. Hrrrmp, hrrrmp! Cornier they could not get. But the group's undignified brand of comedy benefits dozens of local youth groups, and has done so since 1946.

Selling their Vigilante buttons, the group collected $552.39 from the crowd at the West Seattle parade. Since the group formed 44 years ago, it has raised more than $220,000. Last year, the group funneled about $10,000 to its causes.

More than 90 percent of that goes straight to youth-oriented activities: Little League baseball, drill teams, scout groups, hospitals, college scholarships. The rest of the money goes for tinkering on the paddy wagon, administrative costs and ammunition.

This year, the Vigilantes will travel to more than 20 parades throughout the summer. They'll appear as far away as Winthrop and Ellensburg. They travel with the Sidekicks, a counterpart organization of their wives and companions.

The Sidekicks started nine years ago, when the Vigilantes asked their wives and significant others for help in selling the Vigilante pins. Some members says the Sidekicks' inclusion mellowed the Vigilantes somewhat. The drinking parties after out-of-town gigs grew less frequent. But the group gained long-term stability, members say.

The Vigilantes and Sidekicks are institutions at Lake City Pioneer Days, which takes place Friday and Saturday. They'll operate a hot-dog stand there, with proceeds going to their usual beneficiaries. The

Sidekicks also host an annual Halloween party and an Easter egg hunt for children at the Lake City Community Center.

The Vigilantes, who now number 18, have strict rules against drinking before or during performances. A member with liquor on his breath once reported to perform at an International District parade. His colleagues, in a sanction peculiar to their association, relieved the man of his Western vest and sent him packing.

``You can't blow beer or booze in someone's face when you're raising money for kids,'' says Ron Palin, Vigilante secretary.

The Vigilantes take pride in their independence from corporate Seafair. Unlike the Seafair Pirates, Vigilantes support themselves. Seafair pays to insure the Pirates and finances the upkeep of their vehicle.

When asked about the Seafair Pirates - have the two units ever rumbled? - Vigilantes and their kin strain to set themselves apart.

``The Pirates fit in more with what you might call `downtown Seafair,' '' says Virgil Flaim, senior Vigilante.

Vigilantes point out that their organization is four years older than the Pirates. The Vigilantes also have a stronger emphasis than the Pirates on raising money for causes.

Sally Bresnan, this year's Sidekicks president, openly expresses what Flaim and others choose to merely imply. ``The worst thing you could ever do is compare the Vigilantes to the Pirates,'' she says. ``That's an insult.''

But then, Sally has been at the center of a festering conflict with the Pirates. It seems that every year when Sally filters through the crowd selling the Vigilante pins, a particular Pirate sneaks up on her and frightens her.

``Lately, he's been sticking a rubber spider in my face,'' she says.

A mitigation plan has quietly developed, explains Sally's husband, Mike Bresnan.

``We're going to give him a ride one of these days in the paddy wagon the whole length of a parade.''

Vigilantes are close, on and off the parade route.

Their out-of-town appearances have evolved into family camping trips. For the past 12 years, they've had 12 spaces reserved on about the same weekend at the Ellensburg KOA campground. They pitch the tents and park the motor homes in a big ``U'' shape.

Closer to home, there are picnics and dinners and holiday parties at each other's homes. When someone moves, Vigilantes appear with pickups to help out. When someone is ill or has a death in the family, they probably will receive a card and maybe flowers from the Vigilantes.

The group lost one of its own this year. Lee Forbes, 40, a Vigilante for 10 years, died in April. The Vigilantes and Sidekicks had a dinner for Sue Cusick, who had been Forbes' companion for more than 15 years. Last Saturday, Cusick donned her Sidekicks vest and circulated through the crowd selling the Vigilante pins. She has done so most of this summer.

Cusick calls the Vigilantes and Sidekicks a ``second family.'' She admits it hasn't been easy for her to be involved this summer.

``It's a little bit hard,''she says. ``But Lee was real supportive of the group, and I think I should continue in his name to help. They're my friends, and I can't just leave them.''

The Vigilantes range in age from 22 to 67. The 67-year-old is Flaim, a 40-year veteran and the group's current patriarch. The 22-year-old is Roger Parks. He's in his first summer of Vigilantism.

Parks has wanted to be a Vigilante as long as he can remember. Vigilantes bylaws state that one must be 21 years old to strap on the gun belt.

``I'd always think, `God, I'd like to be a Vigilante,' '' Parks says. ``But I was always too young. It was always my favorite thing to go to a parade and see. When I was a little kid, I remember the Pirates scared me. The Vigilantes didn't scare me.''

The Vigilantes says they don't try to scare anyone, even if the blasts from their guns startle people. They also undergo regular gun-safety instruction, because even weapons firing blanks can be dangerous when handled improperly.

Flaim is referred to by others as the group's ``father figure,'' even if this year he is not chief of the group (that's Dan Dennis). Flaim was a member of the Vigilantes when they were called the Lake City Bearded Vigilantes, and before that, the Kangaroo Kourt. When the group became the Bearded Vigilantes in the early 1950s, the men were required to grow beards for the parade season. The group went clean-shaven in the late 1960s when beards became the counterculture fashion.

Flaim was among the previous generation of Vigilantes who were annually deputized by the King County Sheriff's Office. Usually, the ceremony was for fun only. Sometimes, however, the Vigilantes were asked to provide backup for real officers. Flaim recalls the time a ``gang'' was reported to be muscling in on a Lake City summer carnival back in the the '60s.

``We had live ammunition in our guns,'' he says. ``We walked on foot with a policeman and patrolled the carnival. We were wearing our Vigilante vests and black hats. Whether we had anything to do with it, I don't know, but the gang did not move in.''

Flaim is the second man named Life Deputy. The first man so honored was Harry ``Tiny'' Edwards, a charter Vigilante who died of a heart attack in 1962.

``It means a hell of a lot to me,'' Flaim says of the honor. ``It means I have the respect of the group.''