The old Whitman Hotel, fondly known as “The Whitman,” has been closed for years now, and the building has since been repurposed, its former residents moving on to different places. But back in the day, it was a thriving establishment and a vital part of the downtown Pocatello scene. There was never a shortage of people wanting a room at the Whitman; in those days, many travelers arrived in Pocatello via the nearby train and bus depots. The downtown area was lively and bustling, in stark contrast to its current identity as a quiet, laid-back ‘Old Town.’
Constructed in 1905 as a two-story fraternal lodge, the Whitman Hotel underwent a significant transformation in 1913-14, becoming a four-story hotel and theater. Over the years, it also housed a coffee shop, lounge, radio station, and other businesses. A 1929 remodel of the first floor gave the building its present appearance. Before it became a hotel, the building was home to the Princess Theater, famously mentioned in an old Judy Garland song. The line “I was born in a trunk in the Princess Theater in Pocatello, Idaho” is from the song “Born in a Trunk,” performed by Garland in the 1954 film A Star Is Born.
As a child, I was fascinated by the building and would often pause to take a good look at it, wondering about the lives of the people who lived there. My father would sometimes take me into the Whitman—either to get my hair cut at the barber shop in the basement or to sit with him in the Roundup Room bar, where I would sip 7-Up while he had a beer (they let a father take his son into the bar with him back then, as long as he didn’t drink any alcohol). The Whitman always seemed to be bustling in those days—back in the ’50s and ’60s—with the 24-hour coffee shop drawing customers at all hours.
One of the things that intrigued me most was the Indian who frequently stood in front of the hotel. He occupied a narrow space, about two feet wide, between the restaurant and the hotel door. The Indian never spoke; he simply leaned against the building, wrapped in his blanket. I rarely dared to look directly at him, but one day I glanced up and met his gaze. His hard, black, glittering eyes stared back into mine, seemingly capable of boring holes straight through a person. The Indian stood there as a reminder that the Portneuf Valley had once been theirs and that they were still there. Across from the back of the hotel, facing Union Pacific Avenue, was a park set aside for use by the Indians—a piece of land that somehow had never been included in the documents when the land was taken from the Fort Hall Reservation for use by the railroad. Originally limited to only 40 acres for the railroad’s use, it was quickly expanded onto the reservation by squatters. This park was still technically part of tribal land, adding a unique layer of history to the Pocatello scene.
Although several downtown hotels were larger and more luxurious than the Whitman, it was probably the true center of life in downtown Pocatello. The Whitman Hotel provided a home for many people over the years, including such illustrious personages as Austin (“The Professor”) Royal. It had its bright aspects, to be sure, but it also had its dark side.
Most downtown bars had a backroom for card games and other amusements like pinball and shuffleboard machines. Since gambling was illegal, the poker games were officially just for fun—except when they weren’t, and the players started betting real money. A lookout would be stationed to keep an eye out for the police, giving the all-clear signal when it was safe to resume. I witnessed this firsthand. The bar at the Whitman was no exception—gambling sometimes took place there, and possibly other illicit activities as well. Rumors circulated that if someone won too much money, they might be taken down to the basement and “worked over.”
There were also drug addicts living at the hotel. A friend’s father was found dead in his room after a lethal morphine overdose, the syringe still in his arm as he sat lifeless on the toilet. My father knew a man named Jimmy—a brakeman who lost both legs in a railroad accident and became a heroin addict. The settlement he received from the railroad was enough to finance his habit. While many of the hotel’s residents were decent people, there were definitely some sketchy characters among them.
The Whitman was a lively and intriguing place in those days, and it always captured my interest. I would sometimes stand across the street, admiring its architecture and watching the people who came and went. My Aunt Marjorie shared this fascination and would often pause to take in the building’s unique character. The Whitman had a certain vitality to it that was hard to ignore.
My aunt, born in 1925, grew up during the Depression and by 1939, when she was 14, things were finally starting to improve. Marjorie was an artist who loved to sketch the downtown area and its buildings. One day, she decided she was going to sketch the Whitman. She stood across Main Street, studying the building in preparation for it, looking at the lines of its architecture and the rows of windows, curious about the lives of the people who lived behind them and the kind of guests who stayed at the Whitman. As she worked on her sketch, her attention was caught by someone looking back at her from one of the upper-floor windows. At first, all she could see was a rather large nose hanging over a curtain rod and the upper part of a face—eyes, nose, and forehead—peering down at her.
Then he opened the curtain, exposing himself to her. Marjorie couldn’t believe what she was seeing. She glanced around to see if anyone else had noticed, but she was alone. Then the curtain closed again, leaving her shocked and repulsed, wondering how someone could do that to a 14-year-old girl. I guess it’s like Judy Garland said – “I’ve never looked through a keyhole without finding someone was looking back.” Marjorie felt that something had been taken from her and she felt that she had to do something about it. So, the following day, she went back to do some sketches.
Marjorie stood across the street again, sketching the building until she noticed the same man looking out of the window at her. Catching his attention, she sketched what she saw—a nose and the upper part of a face peering over a curtain rod. The man seemed interested. Then, she drew what she had witnessed the day before, and he recoiled in shock from his window. Unfortunately, the local citizens didn’t view her actions sympathetically, and this incident was held against her. It marked a very unfortunate turning point in her life, leading to ongoing struggles and a decline in her mental health.
Years later, I would occasionally hear people refer to my “nutty aunt” and ask what had happened to her. I never had an explanation that they would accept. Her mental decline was seen as proof that she came from a “bad family,” and by extension, so did I. And so it goes.
It was all part of the tapestry of life at the Whitman, both the good and the bad, and it was all very interesting. I got to know some of the denizens of the hotel, like Austin Royal, of course, and a younger man named Terry, who lived at the Whitman for so long that I saw him age into an old man. Terry was the “last man” at the Whitman. The owner, George Andros, let him stay on as caretaker after the hotel had shut down and all the other residents had gone. I remembered Terry because he was kind to me when I was a kid. He had been a merchant marine and spent his career serving as a lookout on the prow of ships. The constant exposure to saltwater spray had weathered his face, making him truly an “old salt.” Eventually, even Terry moved on, and the old hotel was completely deserted.
One night, a friend who had heard rumors that the place was haunted convinced me to explore the Whitman with them. They had a key to the front door, so we ventured inside and made our way to the third floor, which was supposedly the most haunted. It was eerie in the dark, abandoned hotel on a cold winter night, but we turned off our flashlights and stood quietly, listening and looking to see if we could detect anything. After standing there in the cold, dark silence for a while, we decided that whatever spirits might have been there had been exorcised by our very presence. Calling it a night, we said goodbye to the old building and left. That was the last time I ever set foot in the Whitman.
