OPINION: Vic Fischer and the Orange Door

This is a story about the spirit of old-time Alaska — back, some say, when we used to have a sense of humor.

It stars Vic Fischer, who lived a remarkable life — for which we are very grateful. I have known Vic and his wife Jane Angvik since 1977, when we all worked together for Gov. Jay Hammond.

At the time of this event, I lived on Fifth Avenue in the heart of downtown Anchorage in an ugly mustard-colored building with an orange door in the middle. The orange door led up the stairs to seven seedy apartments. Downstairs were businesses like the Rondy Bingo Palace and Wolf’s Furniture Store.

When my friends and I moved in, we named it “The Orange Door” so our pals could find us.

But the door quickly took on a life of its own. The postman soon delivered mail for all the residents addressed simply, “The Orange Door, Anchorage, Alaska.”

There were a wacky bunch of characters living there. The building manager used to say it was like a scene out of the Old Wild West upon entering that door. Part of the crowd was a charming assortment of journalists of all stripes — radio, television and newspaper.

One day, a new business, the Imaginarium, moved in downstairs and proceeded to renovate and paint the building — gray and green. They installed a giant grizzly bear between our windows and a giant polar bear over the orange door. We were all in favor of science for kids. But tempers were a little frayed upstairs, as they had been hammering on the pipes down below us for months. And then they painted the orange door gray — with big, green letters on it stating “NOT THE IMAGINARIUM.”

Commander John Hale, one of our most colorful residents, was apoplectic.

He roared downstairs, outside to Fifth Avenue, and then in through their doors. You could hear the floorboards shaking. “You’ve just stolen our identity. We’re also not The White House. And we’re not City Hall.”

For weeks, things were pretty grim at THE GRAY DOOR, NOT THE IMAGINARIUM until, late one Saturday night, the door magically turned orange again.

That following Monday, I was at city hall and Mark Begich, who was assistant to the mayor at the time, told me that folks from the Imaginarium had just been in the mayor’s office complaining that someone had repainted the door on their building and ruined their color scheme.

Tony Knowles, then mayor, looked at them and said — in his infinite wisdom — ”Some things just must be.”

After the uproar died down, it took six months before Vic Fischer and Jane Angvik sheepishly spilled the beans that they were the midnight painters. At the time, Vic was a state senator and Jane was running for lieutenant governor. Hurrah for old-time politics! Bless you, Vic and Jane, for giving us back our identity. And, among all the grand things you have done, for helping to take care of the little people.

The original residents are all gone now. But the door is still orange.

Nan Elliot is an “old-time” journalist and author of the book “I’d Swap My Old Skidoo For You: A Portrait of Characters on the Last Frontier.”

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