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But at about 5 a.m. a couple of ex-convicts released from the county jail came in to play chess at one of Jim's many boards. Again, that was no big deal; Jim's disreputable acquaintances were always dropping by the place. But when the "proprietor" never showed, the nervous ex-cons called the cops; they were worried about him.
The cops, surprised by the stash of guns, drew their own pistols and stealthily climbed the stairs to find Jim asleep amid rows and rows of women's shoes. When one of the cops fell into a stack of old
guitar cases, Jim awoke to the barrel of a gun and questions about the ratty furniture that overflowed from his building onto the sidewalk.
"Is it illegal to have furniture out on Main Street?" Jim asked with his hands in the air.
"No," the cop answered. "But it's weird."
Jim Pirtle has been weirding people out for years. His performance art? Throwing up mayonnaise as lounge singer Stu Mulligan. His visual art? Psychedelic paintings on polyester shirts. His coffee shop? No tsu oH.
It was at just the right moment in the recent history of Houston that the owner of Jim's favorite coffee shop told him to pack up his chess board and make room for more lucrative customers. Jim went looking for a new place to play chess, his own place to play chess.
He went looking downtown, when it was still a "dead dinosaur of a place." In 1996 there was no Rice Hotel redevelopment and no stadium construction. In fact, there was nothing on Main Street but pawn shops, bus stops and the scraggly people who frequented both. But to Pirtle it was perfect: "It was the absolute center of town, but it was the most isolated." So he took money out of his retirement fund (he'd been a kindergarten teacher), borrowed money from his family and started trying to sell his house in the Sixth Ward.
Other people were buying dirt-cheap bits of downtown then, too. But these were players with inside information on the upcoming real estate boom, not guys who'd gotten kicked out of their favorite coffee houses. Jim's first attempt to buy among the big boys failed, even though he claims his offer was higher than the final sale price. But, as a wise pawn shop owner that Jim befriended said, there were other fish in the sea. Jim set his sights on the long-dead Home of Easy Credit at 314 Main.
Jim wanted to see the old pawn shop, but he didn't want to go through the official channels of the Historic District, which he blamed for the first downtown deal gone bad. "They didn't want me here," he says. So he broke in, with the help of his pawn man, a curious locksmith and a pair of bolt cutters.
What they found was a time capsule. The building, the tallest in Houston when it was built in 1893, had been closed since 1983 and not remodeled since the 1940s. It was crammed full of antique furniture pieces, telescopes, board games, reel-to-reels, record players, watches, porn magazines, turn-of-the-century wooden mannequins, ledger books, odds and ends like a baseball ticket from 1927 and, Jim estimates, 10,000 pairs of women's shoes.
Jim had struck his version of gold and would throw none of it away. He'd just blow a little of the dust off and arrange the historical artifacts into his piece de resistance. Most downtown developers are just "rejuvenating façades," he says. "It's all made-up history with Sheetrock boxes inside old buildings." No tsu oH, on the other hand, is "first and foremost an art piece" with a sense that "someone was here doing business all these years."
It turned out that Jim's grandmother had worked in the building during one of its retail incarnations as Sakowitz. No tsu oH was meant to be his place, Jim figured, and he didn't wait to buy it to come back. In fact, he invited all of his chess-playing buddies down for regular Thursday-night games. He brought in the coffeemaker he got as a wedding present, hired the homeless to help him clean up and sent the chess players next door to pee at what was then the only bar on Main, the Latin cantina El Mundo.
In May 1996 Jim finally bought the building and all its inventory for $20,000 -- and about $100,000 in back taxes. It was a great deal. If downtown didn't develop, no one would foreclose on the building even if he didn't pay the taxes (just as the previous owner hadn't for the last ten years). If downtown did develop, property values would go up and Jim would be able to get a bank loan to cover the taxes.
To offset the costs of cleaning and coffee, Jim started calling his setup a "private chess club" and charging his weird friends $10 for a membership card and a name from the building's old ledger books. Membership had its privileges: a charge account for coffee and such, challenging chess games, avant-garde art happenings, the cachet of underground cool and, best of all, all-night access to the fascinating nooks and crannies of Jim Pirtle's playhouse.