The Hundred

In part three of this five-part series, Dr. J. Russell Felker, MD, shares memories of the summer during his adolescence he and his friend, Tom Chritchlow, walked from Sikeston, Missouri, to Farmington, Missouri. The saga will be continued in subsequent issues of TBY.

DAY 2: PRISON

Despite being less than well-rested, we were elated. We had only a short 8-mile walk from Chaffee, Missouri, to our day two objective — The Frontier Motel in Jackson. That veritable paradise had three things our homes lacked: color TV, air conditioning and a pool! A POOL! We made a brisk pace, arriving with our early start before lunch time. We went to the desk and requested a room. We couldn’t get one. Not because of our age or probable status as runaways, but because the inn was full. There was a Mormon convention in Cape Girardeau, and all the rooms were taken. All the rooms with air conditioning. All the rooms with color TVs. And no, we couldn’t use the pool.

We located a pay phone and called ahead to our next stop: Millersville, Missouri. Could we come a day early? It was another 8 to 10 miles, but there wasn’t another motel in Jackson, and we were scared to go back to Chaffee. Calling our parents was out of the question. We had no camping equipment, and park benching was looking like our only option. I’m sure anyone could come up with a lot of better ideas, but we came up with one.

Prison.

What if, I thought, we asked to stay the night in the county jail, which we had noticed on the town square? So we walked into the jail and asked the police if they would put us up. It appeared we were the first 14-year-old boys from Sikeston to have made that request in memory. Once the police were convinced we weren’t kidding and had finished laughing, they got our parents’ phone numbers and told us to come back in 30 or so minutes.

Although this may not be correct, I believe Jones’ Drug Store was next to the jail, so we decided to while away the minutes there. Moving to the magazine racks, we perused the offerings. My 13-year-old eyes (I still had a couple of months to 14, not yet an old man like Tom) spied a men’s magazine — Stag. I was well aware of the forbidden nature of this to boys of my age. An attempt to purchase one would not only lead to a shaming refusal, but a call to my parents. So I secreted it in my shorts and brazenly strolled out — “Nothing for me, thanks.”

Outside, I transferred it to my backpack, still shaking with fear for having broken a rule. Now a Stag thief.

It was time to return to the jail. During the interlude, the police had contacted our parents to be sure they knew what we were up to and weren’t running away. Bemused but satisfied, they told us we could stay the night. But first they would have to search our backpacks. And yes, that would include the backpack with the pilfered Stag magazine. What was I thinking!?! A Stag? Any adult would know no 13-year-old boy should be in possession of such salacious literature. It would not take a Sherlock to deduce the neighboring drug store had been ripped off of a 25-cent compendium of ribaldry. I was about to be busted for my life’s first transgression (if one discounts the partially-eaten watermelon somewhere around Oran). Tom might just be in for the night and let free to explore his subsequent destiny, but I would be clad in stripes with a ball and chain attached to my ankle and taken out only to work on the chain gang, “Ooh! Ah!,” because that’s the sound of the men working on the chain gang. At least that’s what Sam Cooke had led me to believe.

I now suspect Sam might have been oversimplifying.

As the officer examined the contents of Tom’s pristine backpack, my heart thudded so loudly I was sure I’d be cuffed before he even got to mine. I would accept my punishment like a man, or at least like a 13-year-old man. He opened my backpack. I was resigned, ashamed, most likely beet red. He rifled through the meager contents and pulled up the magazine. The Stag. An almost imperceptible grin fleeted across his face and he put it back in.

We were cleared for imprisonment!

We were taken to a cell that had two metal racks with thin, gray, dirty mattresses, a metal sink and a metal toilet — and locked in! It was stiflingly hot. They gave us dinner through the bars. We tore the Stag in half and passed it back and forth as we read the trashy stories. There were no photos, but never having seen a Playboy Magazine, we felt sophisticated, bad — in a good way — and worldly. We beat on the walls, and real prisoners beat back. We were a little frightened and a lot excited. The next morning, we got a huge sweet roll and a cup of coffee (my first) and were let go.

Freedom had never felt so good.

We had a short walk to Millersville, during which I’m sure we jabbered excitedly about our previous night’s adventure. Before we knew it, we arrived, where a nice man named Truman Statler put us up for the night. He had air conditioning, color TV and his own lake. Luxury.

Dr. J. Russell Felker, a Sikeston native, received his MD in 1973 and practiced urology in Cape Girardeau, retiring in 2016. He and his wife of 50 years, Suellyn, raised four children in Cape.