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 Author: Gerald BosackerBosacker@aol.com 3004 Lakefront LaneParagould AR 72450CHRISTMAS AT DEER LODGE (2650 words)
Wisps of powder snow filtered through the imperfectly sealedfront window to form a scarlet haze surrounding the
A
WELCOME TOCHIEF
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S BAR
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sign. It was Christmas eve and I was the onlycustomer brought in by the sign
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s coaxing.The streets of downtown Deer Lodge, Montana were deserted. Icould find no other place to wait for the tardy Limo driver whowould haul me sixty the miles to catch my return flight from theAirport at Helena, Montana
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s Capitol. I was forced to charm theeager-to-close proprietor with four bit tips and desperateconversation to keep him open until my ride arrived.Had I stayed in teaching, I
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d be luxuriously enjoying theChristmas hearth of some seriously unmarried girl
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s hopefulparents. I
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m sure some parents of young spinsters, still considera poorly paid English teacher adequately equipped to take overtheir daughter
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s support.Hardin County
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s Sheriff Goodman had petulantly abandoned meat Chief
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s Bar,probably because I committed the flagrant sin ofexpressing my own opinions, while interviewing him for a story onthe New Republic Revolt festering among some local ranchers. Mymistake was assuming he was a supporter of law enforcement andgovernment taxation. I was mistaken. The targeted malcontents
 
were all his relatives or on his Christmas card list.More experienced reporters would have recognized SheriffElmo Goodman
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s anti-government sympathies and slanted theirreportage favorably toward his viewpoint. Had I done so, Goodmanmight have assigned a deputy on his
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shit-list
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to spend hisholiday doing penance driving me to the airport, instead of justgiving me the phone number of a limo service. Goodman gloatinglysaid it was the same service he used to send stiffs to Helena forpostmortems. Their drivers, I feared, were not obsequiouslycampaigning for tips nor greatly concerned for passenger comfort.Me, spouting Law and Order rhetoric had backfired with theSheriff but was what I thought he wanted to hear. Pandering toboth opposing points of view was my usual tactic which allowed mewrite stories twice. Sometimes I could milk the same situationfor three totally different stories, all from one set ofinterviews, and one expenses investment. A story on the opposingview just required using a pseudonym.My concern for suitable euphemisms and pen names wasprobably the reason I asked the bartender why the bar was calledChief
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s. My need for a warm place to wait for my ride hadelicited no sympathy, but m question provoked a narrative I hopedwas long enough to stall his turning off the WELCOME sign, untilmy designated limo driver finally arrived.The Bartender began;
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Chief Joseph Little Hogan was a middleaged Indian, just released from Montana Penitentiary here at Deer
 
Lodge Montana, three days early, and the day before Thanks-giving, forty-two years ago. Chief suspected those three dayswere more to reduce the number of inmates partaking of theexpensive turkey and trimmings, than for compassion. Chief hadserved every day of the nine years, eight months and twenty-ninedays of his twenty year sentence for burglary, except for thosethree days.Without sponsor and as a destitute Indian, Joe was neverseriously considered for parole. His non-violent and nevercompleted burglary would have won him a bench parole, had he beenmore endowed with work record or a less dedicated drunk.Waiting at the Bus Station, resplendent in new suit andtopcoat from the prison tailor shop, he was the best dressed ofthe several people late starting home for the Holiday Weekend.He was richer than he had ever been holding four hundred dollarsaccumulated from his quarter an hour job in the license plateshop. His willingness to work hard without complaint had produceda job offer from a non-union metal fabrication plant inFlagstaff, Arizona. Joe was recommended by the prison
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s Warden, areliable source of low cost exploitable laborers for cost cuttingemployers, and immediately hired.Feeling the Bus Depot was too institutional, Chief Josephchose to spend the four hours of waiting for the Flagstaff bus,across the street in The Silver Dollar Saloon. Hesitating at thedoor, fearful oft facing the honest citizens inside, Chief Joseph
of 00

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Gerald Bosacker

Christmas story. Different noel. Indian lore.

reply01 / 02 / 2010
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