Dear Friends of Bruce Christianson (and who isn't?),
I am sad to say that my old Gambell roommate has fallen on hard times . . .
and he can't get up. It's too late for an intervention. He needs our prayers
. . . and your money.
During Christmas vacation, I ran into Kersten at the Anchorage Airport (soon
to be renamed Murkowski International Airport under the recent law requiring
all governors, senators, congressmen, and public buildings to be renamed Murkowski).
Brave, brave Kert. I heard her crying into the payphone just outside the airport
restroom, a loud, nasal, Southeastern Sitka wail that spoke volumes of her pain.
I gave her a hug. I would have kissed her, but my wife was watching from our
nearby terminal gate. Our daughter Ceili was sleeping peacefully on top of our
parkas, her $600 babysitter-sewn atkut causing me to mutter the word "rip-off"
every time I looked at her beautiful, angelic face.
My Cup'ik son Kieran asked me plaintively in his native language, "Por
que es la hermana de llorar mucha?"
"Yo no se," I answered, showing off my Cup'ik proudly, but my heart
guessed what my mind only surmised.
"It's Bruce, isn't it?" I asked Kert.
"Yes."
"Alcohol poisoning?"
Her reverberating sobs confirmed my suspicions. She spoke of the flu, the chicken
pox, spoiled Norwegian food, all the same old euphemisms she'd had to use over
and over again during her many years with Bruce. But I knew. Kert led me quietly
to an isolated corner of the terminal, and there he lay or laid or lied . .
. I can never remember which one of those is correct. Anyway, Bruce was flat
on his back.
Now, we've all seen Bruce in that position many times, but this time it was
different. He seemed paler, older, fatter, balder, as though the alcohol had
robbed him of his youth, of his will to live. It was hard to believe that this
was the same baby-faced young man who had driven older women at Sheldon Jackson
College wild with desire just a few years before.
Bruce groaned unintelligibly, something we've all heard him do before, but this
time it was different. He looked up at me from his horizontal resting place,
and his good eye flashed briefly with vague recognition. He knew me! No, he
couldn't remember my name, but I knew that he knew that I knew that he knew
me. He mumbled incoherently, the drool running out of both corners of his mouth
(Bruce always knew how to lie comatose with both equilibrium and dignity), and
I knew he was trying to tell me something. Something important.
I knelt close to his chest, Bruce's high-octane breath searing my lungs, and
put my good ear (for who among us has not suffered the scourge of aging?) close
to his puffy, Elvis-on-pills blue lips. "The stone," he whispered
hoarsely. "Take the stone." I'd been hoping he'd offer me the $200
bucks that he'd once been paid for a bluegrass magazine article I'd written
about myself using Bruce's byline, but there you go.
It was in his beer-stained letterman jacket pocket. I took the rock out of his
pocket and rolled it around in my palm. I stood up. The memories came flooding
back, like a tidal wave regurgitating all the beer Bruce had consumed over the
past 10 years. Damn that damp village! What had Barrow done to my friend? Unadulterated
tears rolled down my pure, sober Chevak cheeks at the same moment 150 proof
tears welled-up in Bruce's evenly-balanced eye sockets, tundra lakes that had
no outlet to the sea due to his sunken, hollow features. He was a shadow, nay,
a whiff of his former self. Just a whiff.
"Good-bye, old friend," I said simply. "I'll cherish this gift,
the rock your student Virgie threw and hit you with so accurately outside the
school door in Gambell. I'll tell my two young Cup'ik children your story, and
they will tell their children, and their children will tell their children,
and their children will tell other people in the deserts of Iraq as they wait
for the big war to begin that will remove Saddam Hussein from power once and
for all . . ."
I gave Kert a quick squeeze and a long French kiss (what a great kisser!), looked
fondly once more at the bloated body, but not the true cosmic soul, of my old
friend, then I turned away, took my son's hand, and we headed for our gate.
Brave, brave Kert.
"Que es es al muerso?", Kieran asked in his native tongue.
"Son las albondigas", I said softly, thinking of Bruce. Thinking of
what might have been. Thinking of what had been. Thinking . . . of Bruce.
IF THIS STORY HAS MOVED YOU, PLEASE GIVE TO THE "BRUCE CHRISTIANSON IN
CRISIS" FUND. WE'RE TRYING TO RAISE $200 TO HELP US HELP BRUCE TO HELP
HIMSELF PAY OFF OLD DEBTS. WE ACCEPT PAYPAL!
Hey Ken,
It is always good to hear from you friend. Every time I hear from you the word
irony leaps to the front of my mind. Irony on the scale that Alfred Nobel has
an award named after him when he is responsible for more deaths in the world
than your feeble attempts at bluegrass music. Irony in the sense that Alfred
Nobel is responsible for inventing TNT and yet has a peace prize named for him.
Comparative irony in that you once were an English teacher, one distance delivered
Devry Institute lesson ahead of your students.
You are indeed a study in the very fiber of Alaska. Some Alaskans are here by
default, not able to fit into any obscure subgroup in America. Others are here
to attempt to immerse themselves in the culture of Bush Alaska. Few, like yourself,
have failed so miserably at both. It is obvious that your lack of opposable
thumbs would limit your abilities with any type of music other than bluegrass
and kept you from finding a niche in America. But your failure to become an
Alaskan has faltered equally in scope. You have learned some tough life lessons.
Oosuks make poor fiddle bows. "Where's your parky", is a reference
to your coat and not a query into what section of the Kmart lot that you left
your two tone olive green minivan seven hours ago to join the chase of the Blue
Light. The Permanent Fund is not a mason jar full of couch cushion coins set
aside for the weekly purchase of Just For Men, the total body package. Village
time is not a community herb and mukluks will not accessorize well with any
of your Garanimal or Underoos outfits.
I should pause here for a moment. It is not my intention to slam Ken Brown.
After all, if I took that on as a task it would leave his mother with only Bingo
to add meaning, pride, and fulfillment to her life.
It is a fact; I did see Ken Brown over Christmas Break in the Anchorage Airport.
It is also a fact that he saw me as evidenced by the need for this rebuttal.
Had he not seen me, we would have not talked. I ran into him on the C concourse
at the Anchorage Airport. Now immediately, those of you familiar with the airport
will be quick to point out that there is not a C concourse. Only an A and B
concourse. Those of us lucky enough to have traveled with Ken Brown through
the Anchorage Airport can't, even with good therapy, forget that Ken refers
to the CinnaBon counter at the airport as the C concourse. All flights arrive
and depart from that six-foot counter for Ken. He routinely takes Alaska Air's
advice and checks in at that counter at least an hour before any flight.
There are those travelers that gather and gawk at the huge stuffed polar bear
on A concourse and there are those less fortunate travelers that gather and
gawk at the huge stuffed oaf prowling C concourse. Few have seen the captured
power of a great white bear on concours A. And fewer still can bear the sight
of Ken Brown licking the print and wax finish off his seventh CinnaBon box at
concourse CinnaBon.
I have made a living working with individuals with disabilities. The Feds have
yet to recognize Ken and his cronies for their shortcomings. How can white glaze
and brown maple glaze cause an adult human male to inhale air through his dough
packed mouth and exhale through his nose in an eerie humming sound? "Ughhhh......mnnnn.....ughhhh....mnnnn....ughhhh......mnnnn".
Being a frequent traveler of C concourse is not without its benefits for Ken
though. It has caused him to push his linguistic envelope. He can now grunt
and utter CinnaBon slang in variations of three distinct Asian languages. This
has allowed him to be more efficient over his one hour with the C concourse
server/'agents'. It has also kept those embarrassing situations of the past
from happening again when he would have to point with his glaze covered fingers
and steam up the sneeze guard with his anaphaltic shock breath. Progress me
thinks.
I want to take a moment
here and thank the childcare personnel of C concourse for Ken. More accurately,
I want to thank all the blue haired old ladies that passed through the region
and wiped snot from the unattended youth's running nose, asked the kid where
his daddy was, and tastefully ignored the 3 year old's premature paunch, oversized
suspenders, and abnormal amounts of back and shoulder hair.
This picture I paint is not meant to be a negative one. Ken has introduced the
people of Bush Alaska to many new things. Viagra will keep a 73-year-old overweight
man from rolling out of his bed at night. Just For Men can indeed alternate
anyone's vain appearance between Mr. French and Santa Clause within the span
of two weeks. Offered an explanation and proof of why suspenders on an overweight
body tend to migrate to and chafe the armpit regions. How to make an abundance
of nose hair look like a party favor when he sneezes. And perhaps more importantly
than all, solidifies the importance of finding a good woman willing to shave
your back, shoulders, and neck at least once a month.
It was good to see you Ken Brown my friend. The zipper on your straining white
painter pants was down during our entire 20-minute conversation.
Peace,
Bruce
P.S. Please never use, "down my pure, sober Chevak cheeks", when you
describe any part of your body again. Some of us, before we had running water
in the village, had to shower with you and remember those.....those...cheeks.
Shit,...more therapy.