Characters

Who and where are they?

Awhile ago I was telling a story about some old character I knew, and the guy I was talking to, asked, “Where are ‘the characters’ today?” I told him he’d have to ask the young people. Seems to me that all the “characters” that I’ve known were older than me. They were folks with distinctive personalities, or they had characteristics that stood out from the average conformist and earned them the “character” designation. But I knew what my friend meant by wondering what happened to all those “kinds” of folks that we called characters, the eccentrics, the outspoken, the entertainers, and the assholes. Those “story worthy individuals” whose stories have outlived them. So who are “the characters” to the younger generations? Us? I can’t imagine we could be half as interesting as the old-timers I knew growing up. They were “earthy” to say the least. Recently I shared a story I’d heard from a friend about an old Alberton character we knew growing up. I put that tale in a prose poem and turned it loose. I remember at times in the past when I’d tell that story, some people would say, “I don’t want to read that in a poem,” and others would howl, “You’ve got to write that down!” Either statement is a testament to the power of character. Character dictates story. If your characters are particularly vivid and surprising, like Seinfeld (a story about nothing) your story will be a hit! Here’s the poem, a portrait scene told in another character’s voice.

Cookie

“He was the dirtiest old son-of-a-bitch I've ever been around. I shit you not, Gib, the foulest mouthed old bastard I've ever known. One time I was in town on my Kawasaki dirt bike, and I hear this hollerin up the street: Hey, Bob, you little cocksucker! Git yer fuckin ass over here, I need a ride home! He called me by my dad's name, so I figured I'd better give him a ride. And goddamn it, Gib, that greasy, smelly old fucker mauled me tryin to crawl on behind. Ya know he had those polio legs that went the wrong way. He could hardly get up stairs, but he finally got on. Ten miles he clung to me. After I dropped him off, I went straight home and got out of those clothes and took a shower. It was terrible, Gib. Were you ever inside that cabin of his? You might not believe me on this, but I remember once when I was in high school, I'd been out huntin with Roger all day and on the way home, he tells me he needs to stop by and check on Cookie. It was late in the season, November, and we had some good snow that week. Not that it helped us huntin that day. Anyway, we drove up the lane to Cookie's, saw smoke comin out of the stove pipe, so we kill the engine and got out. Roger knocked and hollered, 'Cookie! You in there?' We heard: Whadda ya fuckin want? 'It's Roger!' The door opened. It was one of them old short doors so we had to duck goin in, and I can still smell that wall of hot air that hit me. I tried not to breathe through my nose. It was a sweet-n-sour-harsh-BO kind of smell that the wood smoke couldn't cut. I saw a stick of lodgepole comin through a window, the end of it was in his barrel stove. I looked at Roger and he laughed and pointed at the window, 'Cookie, did your goddamn chain saw breakdown?' No, I just ain't gotten around to buckin wood yet. That's the easiest way to burn those fuckin pecker poles, just jam em in. Then he grabbed that long stick a wood, rattle-banged it around in the stove and rammed it in further. The cabin was the same as it was when his old man built it damn near a hundred years before. Still had the dirt floor. Dark as the inside of a cow in there, but I could see he had on a pair of bib overalls. He bitched about the dead battery in his old Willy's Jeep and needin to get into town to pick up some grub, so Roger told him he'd come back the next day and pull the battery, help him out. It was already almost dark outside and gettin colder. But you wouldn't know it standin in that shithole. Between the heat and the smell, I thought I was gonna puke before I got outta there. As Roger was layin out his plan for the next day, I saw Cookie run his hand down inside his bibs and sorta squat-grunt some. Then he walked to the door and opened it, pulled a handful of shit outta his pants and flung it out the door into the snow. Then he stepped out and stuck his hand into the snowbank, rubbed it around some, brushed off the snow and wiped his hands on his overalls. Well, I couldn't hardly believe my eyes. We said our goodbyes and stepped outside, somehow managed not to laugh or puke till we'd heard the door slam behind us. Now you may call me a liar, but I swear to god, Gib, that's the honest truth. He was the filthiest, grossest old fucker I've ever known. And I've known a lot of disgustin old bastards, but inside and out, none of em could top fuckin Cookie!

	for Chester Keith

---

And since I’m in the greater Alberton area, here’s another character telling a story in their voice, a dramatic monologue. This character’s name was Brownie. I didn’t include that great name anywhere in the poem because he was still alive when I wrote the poem. He didn’t need any of the wrong attention over the whole wolf story. But what a rich character. Brownie’s life is a series of great novels. You have to settle for a poem today.

Reintroduction

How ya doin’? How ya doin? Good to see ya.
Good to see ya. Pull up a chair. Me? Well,
I’m still here, and I shouldn’t complain,
But I been better. Seems like everything is goin’
To Hell—had to bury my old dog here the other day.
So I’m all alone now. You know
My cook passed away a couple years ago,
And then my old dog got tore up by a pack 
Of goddamn wolves. So I had to put him down.
Buried him right over there.
He was an old dog, but it was just him and me
Out here. He was a good old dog, somebody 
To talk to. I had him for 14 years.

And I never figured them wolves would come back,
But I sat out here the next night, had my .22
Pistol just in case they’d show, 
Didn’t think so, not in a million years.
It was just gettin’ dusky when sure enough
I seen that white son of a bitch come slinkin’ up
To that spot where he got my old dog.
There was blood scent there, and he was a-sniffin’
The ground, so real-slow-like I grabbed my gun,
Laid it across my arm, and squeezed one off
Into the dirt. That old wolf jumped back and ran
Off about four or five yards, stopped and looked at me.
The next one I pulled off found its mark, 
And he went down, so I walked over to finish him off. 
He was dead: one little hole above his right eye 
And the back of his head blown off—.22  long, 
Hollow point. Big son of a bitch, one of them Canadian
Transplants, must’ve weighed 150 pounds.
His molars was ground down pretty good, and that old 
Yellowed fang was a good inch and a half long.  
He’d been around, weren’t no spring chicken.

By then it was dark, and I was still pretty upset
About losin’ my old dog and all, so I just went on in
To bed. And the longer I laid there the more I thought 
About what I should do with the carcass. I decided 
With all the politics and bullshit about the wolves 
And such, the best thing would be just to get rid of the son
Of a bitch, so I got up and got dressed. I backed 
My little pick up over to it and horsed him onto the tailgate.
It took me awhile to get that rat bastard into the bed
Of the truck. I bet he weighed more than me.
Then I drove down to the old bridge over the river,
Backed up to the railing, and rolled him over the side. 

‘Course nobody ever asked me or anyone who lives 
Around here what we thought about relocatin’ wolves here
Or grizzlies for that matter, but I think they should’ve.
We got to live with them.  And I’ll tell ya
It ain’t no picnic watchin’ a pack of those bastards 
Kill your dog. That old dog was my best friend. 
‘Course none of them care what I think. They’d like to see
All us old-times out of here and livin’ in a city, 
Then they could do what they want. And I don’t know
What they want, but you can bet your ass it has to do with
Money. They don’t give a good goddamn about the land
Or the animals or the folks who want to live out here.

I’m 86 years old and I never lived in a town. Hell, 
I worked sawin’ logs till I was 68, and I’d a-kept goin’ 
But they couldn’t pay me under the table anymore. 
So now I just do odd jobs for folks who bring me things
Like meat or groceries or beer . . . I got loaves 
Of banana bread in the freezer. You wanna beer?
I got a whole bedroom full of beer. I might drink one or two 
A week, but I don’t drink much anymore. Yeah, 
I believe in “live and let live”, but when you kill my dog,
You cross the line. He was a good old dog. Hell, he ran
Right up to ‘em, bein’ friendly . . . never had a chance.
I think I’ll go get me a cat in a week or two 
Just to have someone to talk to. I figure a cat 
Would be good company, and he’d at least have a fightin’ chance. 
He could run up a tree. A dog don’t stand a chance.

Well, I know you can’t shut me up and I know you gotta go.
I’m sure glad you stopped by and listened to me run off
At the mouth. It gets a little lonely up here talkin’ to yourself.
It’s been kinda quiet since the cook died. And now 
That my old dog’s gone . . . , I’m fixin’to get me a cat. 
So next time yer up this way I’ll buy you a beer
And introduce you to my new cat. Well, drive careful. 
There ain’t no log trucks to speak of anymore, but ya gotta
Watch out for them Volvos. And there ain’t no hurry. 
We’re all gonna get there before we know it anyway,
Some just sooner than others.  I’ll leave ya with this one: 
I eat when I’m hungry, and I drink when I’m dry, 
I lay down if I’m sleepy and find salvation when I die.

---

Then there are those characters our own age which happens even when we are kids but gets easier as time goes by and they steep in their characters. Here’s a poem about one such person, a friend and poet of exceptional talent and an animal intensity. This poem doesn’t do her justice. She’s a poet mustang, and former Montana Poet Laureate.

LOST HORSE RETURNS

Like a Rolling Stone 
she strode to the podium,
her ponytail swishing,
black eyes snapping,
she reared and nipped, flashed
teeth, her tongue-tip licked
her lips before she spit
out the poem that ignited
the dry grass in the dead field,
turned the corral fence
to charcoal poles 
and sent the stallions stampeding
for the timber, lathered
and ecstatic, penises
batting against their thighs.
She nickered and stomped,
would not be denied.
Her nostrils flared.
She felt the wind in her hair,
and the audience wept, shattered,
found their feet and hands—
wild horses couldn't drag her away.
She could not be bridled,
and the only saddle she'd wear
she carried in her bones every day.

      for Sheryl Noethe

---

And sometimes a place will be full of characters. I’ve always loved bars in the afternoon because that’s when you’d run into characters to talk to, eaves drop on conversations, observe the action, peoples’ behaviors. This one stars “the old poet” who is code named for Ed Lahey, the bard of Butte, great friend and author who passed away in 2011. And the poem is dedicated to our friend, fellow poet, and grandson of Chief Charlo who led his people from the Bitterroot to the Mission Valley and the Flathead Reservation. All characters for our entertainment! Peace.

Mark Gibbons, Vic Charlo, Roger Dunsmore, Ed Lahey, and Dave Thomas.

---

The Old Poet Sees the White Man

Two stools down, two white guys 
rebuild – sheet rock and tape – the house 
they’d worked on all day, tossing 
back pints of Miller beer. Beyond them
an elderly couple sit chewing
on burgers, still collared up warm 
in their polyester coats – two cigarettes 
burning in the ash tray between them.
Not a regular, but not a stranger,
the old poet orders a burger and glass
of Guinness, props his cane between his knees,
cracks open a peanut and nibbles 
on the fruit, lets the shells fall 
among the husks piling on the floor.

The door opens and an Indian woman enters.
All heads turn, pause, and return.
She walks past them, the length of the bar, 
her gait smooth and sure as a cat’s,
disappears in the direction of the rest rooms
or the alley exit. One bartender washing 
glasses nods knowingly at the other guy
flipping burgers. On TV, Dallas, America’s
Team, battles the Redskins for bragging 
rights – top dog of the NFL cellar. 

The old poet recalls a sweat he took years ago
up Spring Creek, catches himself humming 
a song – Charlo’s Walking Bear. 
The polyester smoker points out to his woman 
an all-Irish Butte baseball team in the gallery 
on the back wall, laughs, coughs and rasps, 
“Down in Finn Town we hammered those Micks.”
The dishwashing bartender grins, pours 
the Finn couple free beers on the house.
One of the carpenters kills his pint, raps
the empty hard on the counter, and stands up
to stretch his legs, “No shit,” he says, 
“every fuckin’ board – twisted as a cork screw!” 
The bartender laughs, grabs a fresh glass, 
tilts it under the tap, and draws another brew. 

The Indian woman comes back, appears 
headed out the door, but pulls up
next to the poet – who gives her a smile
she doesn’t return. She digs in her pockets, 
drops coins on the bar, and unwads two
crumpled bills. The bartender keeps rinsing glasses.
His ears, then his eyes acknowledge the money. 

He wipes his hands, asks flatly, “Whatta ya need?” 
The old poet sees smoke, bleached bones, 
black wings cross her face, framed 
in the back bar mirror. “Ya got cigarettes?” 
she asks quietly, “Marlboro menthols?” 
He pulls a box of regular filters from the case. 
“Menthols,” she says. Slowly, he grabs another
brand, shows her, says, “Four and a quarter.” 
Her hands close on the mound of cash. 
“Four and a fucking quarter?” she asks. 
Holding the pack up, halfway over the bar, 
he warns, “Hey! Watch your mouth.” 
Grabbing her change and mumbling, “Goddamn 
robbers,” she turns and lunges out the door.

The bartender returns the pack of smokes 
to the case, blank faced – his one eye twitches.
Nobody’s talking. Then the Cowboys score.
Happy Hour begins, and the bartender 
pours. The poet’s burger is up. The old couple
moves over to the keno machines. America’s 
Team pulls out an overtime squeaker.
As the carpenters get back to nailing it down,
the old poet chews slowly, nurses his beer,
and glances at the white man 
eating crow in the mirror.

	for Vic Charlo