by problembear
it’s been real everyone…… but it is time to close out the blogging and commit myself to writing on real paper again. thanks for the virtual adventures.
different strokes…….montana style
Montana poverty report card june 2010
by problembear
“after 45 years of working i want something for it. is that so bad? i want a nice truck that can pull a fifth wheel wherever i wanna go. i want a couple of lazy boys for the old lady and me to look out the back window of the fifth wheel and watch some birds on a shore somewhere. is that too much?” – overheard -customer at an RV place in Kalispell
“i just wish we could get enough food to make it until the next paycheck.” – overheard -one of the pay clerks in a casino in Ronan
“we’ll have to cut back this year on entertaining at the lake. we’re looking at a new property in hawaii.” – overheard in a mercedes showroom in missoula
can poetry have dialogue?
i hope so.
everybody at the big cheese called him ironhead. but steve mead didn’t mind. just another crazy salmon fisherman reading a book at the end of the bar. ironhead waved sadly to willie when we dripped in smelling like cedar smoke from the trask. no fish at the stump hole and it looks like they’ll keg up until the water clears. arnie spoke first.
“heard the nestucca might clear by tuesday.” but nobody turned their head to listen. arnie was always too hopeful when the november rains started and he always thought wishing would work when floods were likelier.
“doubt it” ironhead answered. and went back to reading. the waitress brought willie his mexican omelette with jalapenos and we all grabbed another booth. somebody’s dog started howling in his box out in the parking lot and a surly ex-con named dink went out to his rusted ford pickup to shut his hound up. he pulled out an electric cattle prod and zapped it once. a sharp whine and then silence. dink drove off without paying again so the waitress wrote the ticket and tucked it into the iou box under the counter.
“don’t tell me i don’t take care of my kids.” a lady a booth over yelled into her cell phone.
arnie went back to his hopeful yammering and we all drank our beers and looked out the window at the clouds impenetrable and pregnant as lies. they squirmed between the peaks of the coast range and laid their endless skein of eggs while willie ran to the bathroom just in time.
(C)
deep in the woods
deep in the woods there is chaos
and beneath your feet
a magma river is melting what is left
of solid ground.
radio waves from outer space
are scrambled into future languages
you can sense but not define.
bicycle tires hit a pumpkin shard
buried in leaves and your brains are scrambled.
a canadian flag at the border stands limp
while answering the border guard’s questions.
do you have anything to declare?
today you are called for jury duty.
what questions will they ask that enables them
to pass judgment whether you,
who are unsure just what in the hell anything means,
are fit to survey another’s life and render a verdict.
(C) W.C. Fleischman
one last job
“Most of us outlive our usefulness.”
Dean Talbot was talking to no one. He stopped to blow his nose, looked back at the gravesite and spat on the pile of dirt mounded in front of his machine. The idling John Deere backhoe obeyed as Dean worked the well-worn knobs of his machine. He swung the claw around to scoop dirt onto the gloss black box. In a few minutes the first job was done. Dean’s arm hairs told him that rain would come soon to this little graveyard far out in the Montana prairie where the grass seeds Dean sprinkled would get a quick start. Dean raked the seeds in lightly and tamped the dirt with his boots around the edge carefully.
The mourners had long since dispersed, the tent removed, flowers discarded. Dean and his machine were all alone. Even the small gravel road was deserted. A gopher barked a warning as the shadow of a red tailed hawk touched his mound. White puffy clouds swept the vast pale sky and their lazy late morning shadows prowled the graveyard and crept slowly east toward the rolling terrain of the river valley below. The Marias river ribboned through the bony canyon toward the brownish blue waters of the Tiber reservoir which reflected a glint of sun in the midmorning glare and reminded Dean of record size walleye. Dean smiled. He fingered the keys to the boat and trailer in his worn jeans jacket. One more hole to dig at the graveyard in Cut Bank, then finally retirement.
Dean crawled the backhoe up the landing pile onto the flatbed trailer, chained it tight and lit a cigarette while he waited for the diesel engine in his old ford dump truck to warm up. The broken radio would only pick up a BBC station in Calgary Canada instead of his favorite country channel from Havre. Dean listened for a few seconds to the stuffy nasal voice of a narrator introducing a new author who had written a book about global warming then flicked the button to the country channel and its hiss of empty signal for a few seconds more before switching it off.
Dean pulled out of Chester and turned onto highway 2, pointed west toward the mountains. Fresh Canadian pacific rain clouds from British Columbia scuttled their way across the eastern face of the Montana Rocky Mountain front and began to blanket The Sweet Grass Hills off to the North. The small island of hills was barely visible in a gauzy ghostlike blanket which seemed to spread across the entire horizon. Dean worried about the upcoming auction of his equipment with the low prices Bud had quoted him. He might have to find someone who isn’t too ambitious to work the contracts for wages and make payments on the backhoe for a few more years until things stabilize. The recession was spreading its cloud of doom over rural America and Montana. Eastern Montana’s hi-line was no exception. Dean reached for his cigarette in the ashtray when he felt the buzz of the cell-phone in the pocket of his wrangler roper shirt and flipped the cover open.
“Dean here.”
“Dad? Where are you?”
“I Just left Chester. One more hole to go in Cut Bank.”
“I should warn you. there’s a party planned at Chet’s tonight. Do you have your good shirt?”
Dean looked briefly at his favorite tattered shirt with the hydraulic stains and the rips in the sleeves, “yeah.”
“You do not. It’s hanging here in the closet. I’ll bring it. “
“Your mom going to come?”
“I don’t think so.”
“How is she?”
“Let’s not go into it. Ok.”
“How are the kids?”
“You’ll see them at Chet’s tonight. I gotta go now OK?”
The entire eastern face of Glacier National Park was enveloped in a mass of North Pacific thunderheads by the time Dean pulled into the cemetery on the outskirts of Cut bank. It would be dangerous to dig with a backhoe until the lightening passed, so he pulled an old western novel and a small ziplock bag of oreos out of his lunch box and made himself comfortable while raindrops as big as silver dollars splattered his windshield. He rolled the driver side window down a few inches to catch the sweet smell of ozone before the wind started and he breathed deeply, sucking in the moisture mixing with the prairie grass and alfalfa fields nearby. Dean eyed his cigarettes but opened the oreos instead. He enjoyed the first bite as he bent back the page he had used to mark his spot and resumed reading ….
”there’s no use goin’ on with this ranch business. The railroad’s comin’ in and settlers will swarm all over this land” Jake said to his younger sister. “Dad left us enough land and cattle to keep one family goin’ and I guess that I can make my own way somewhere else.”
“That’s mighty noble of ya, Jake. But where will you go?” Emma asked.
“West.” Jake said. “Just somewhere West.” At that Jake tugged the reins and guided his stallion out of the small graveyard. He glanced back at the small family gathered there at the grave of his newly buried father, and waved goodbye to the only home he had ever known near the Platte River. Jake could hear Emma’s cries fade off as he rode toward the setting sun.”
A face appeared in the side window as the storm clouds darkened. It was Sam Thompson, the groundskeeper. He had to hold onto his wide brim Stetson hat as he yelled over the wind. “Big John’s passed out in his truck again.”
“Where?” Dean asked.
“The Circle K.”
“How long?” Dean put his book back in the lunch box.
“Pulled in last night, Bob told me.” Sam started to walk back to his truck. He turned and looked at Dean hard through the whipping dust and squinted through the wind lash.
“I can’t keep him on anymore if you don’t talk to him.” Sam shouted over the gale.
Sam was caretaker of the CutBank cemetery but he also owned half the town along with a big grain outfit that shipped high quality wheat to Budweiser; another wealthy guy in Montana that you don’t cross if you want to keep on working. Dean was no longer interested in working, but he couldn’t help but respect Sam Thompson. Sam wore greasy coveralls and went to every High School Basketball game even after his kids had graduated. When he sat on the stool at Chet’s bar, nobody who wasn’t local could tell they were talking to a millionaire who hunted with the governor.
“I’ll try.” Dean said. He rolled up his window and started the engine.
The parking lot of the circle K was empty except for John’s idling kenworth. Dean could see the gauges on the dash glowing in John’s eyeglasses, head thrown back, snoring loudly. Dean rapped on the driver’s side window. No reaction.
Dean shouted. “Haysacker. John. Wake up.” No reaction.
Dean tried the door handle, locked tight.
“Godamnit. John. I don’t have time for this,” Dean muttered.
Dean walked back to his own idling truck. He grabbed a bent piece of rebar out of the back of the tool box hanging off the passenger step. Dean rapped the side of the sleeper directly in back of John’s seat hard. Dean was careful to hit the rusty spot where a small dent would hardly be noticed.
“What the Fuck.” Big John growled. John grabbed for something in the cab and bleary eyed, he opened the door a crack. A wavering unfocused face protruded through the gloom of the truck’s interior and smashed its fevered visage against the glass of the driver’s door trying to make out the source of the noise. Cheeto bags and coke bottles spilled from the floor of the old Kenworth into the gravel and mud in the parking lot, along with a half devoured convenience store ham sandwich and an empty bottle of Jim Beam that hit the ground last. The ghoulish specter in the glass produced a hand with a pistol undulating crazily in the air like a dangerous metallic blind cobra.
“goddamnit Haysacker, put the gun away it’s me. Dean.”
The hand sucked back into the cab and the door slammed shut. Some muffled swearing and crashing and banging could be heard in the sleeper as John rifled through scattered belongings to find his shoes. The door opened again. The truck’s engine died as john switched off the ignition and pocketed the keys.
“ya but, goddamnit Dean you hit my truck ferrkrissakes.” He searched the side of the cab for damage.
“I just hit the rusty part.” Dean showed John the rebar’s dent and displayed the weapon in case John was feeling feisty. John was like a son to Dean but with retirement moments away he wasn’t taking any chances.
“You ok?” Dean asked.
“Oh sure.” John answered. “Sounded like a gun shot. Nice way to wake up.”
“Let’s get coffee.” Dean walked back to his truck and shut it off. He slid the rebar back into the tool box. “My treat.”
“Some treat.” John grumbled.
Together they walked to the back door of the circle K. the café in back of the bar was empty of customers. The lunch crowd had dispersed. Pool balls cracking from a hard break and a general din of NASCAR races and small town gossip and laughter filtered through the swinging door from the bar. A tired waitress reading a newspaper at the near end of the counter looked at her watch testily, grabbed the coffee pot and served them as they settled into the booth near the kitchen. The cook could be heard through the order window talking on his cell phone. Some Mel Tillis whined from a duct taped radio shack tape player back in the kitchen. Its twang somehow made all the more annoying by the magnification of the already terrible sound waves bouncing loudly off the greasy fryer hood. The French fryer protested loudly with volcanic explosions as the cook tossed some freezer burned jalapenos into the hot oil. Dean knew that would be his nuts if he missed the retirement party his daughter was planning tonight. He needed to make this quick and to the point.
“Sam says this is it, John. He’s tired of it and so am I. I don’t care if you lose the truck anymore, but if you do, you better get your shit squared away real fast. Cause unless you get it together Sam’s gonna make sure the bank never helps you again.”
John looked down at the coffee. He took his glasses off, breathed hard at both lenses and wiped them off with a napkin. He stirred sugar into the cup and looked down at Dean. John was huge; 6’8” and around 300 lbs when he was starving himself. His wrist was double the size of Dean’s who at 6 foot was no small man himself. Dean had seen John lift two bikers up by the collar ten years ago and throw them both out of the Red Dog Saloon when he was a bouncer working for beer. Big John rubbed his unruly knot of curly blonde hair that tufted his huge bear head. He shrugged his shoulders.
“What do you want me to do?” John said flatly. “I try to keep up with stuff, but I just get behind.”
“You won’t know what behind is John. If you lose your truck…”
“I know.” John said. “I’m an idiot.”
“Sam fronted the down and even cosigned at the bank.” Dean said. “Every man has his limit. You gotta respect that john.”
“What should I do?” john asked. He put his round wire framed John Lennon glasses back on. John peered out at Dean with the moist eyes of a lost drunk. John’s question told Dean everything he needed to know. John had no gumption left. No plans except getting another bottle. He’d seen it too many times in his life living out here where the wind can drive a man crazy. Sometimes when a man says he doesn’t know what to do, it means he doesn’t want to do anything right anymore, and there is nothing Dean can do about that. Dean looked at his watch. He thought about inviting John but then remembered the last party they had together and decided to keep the retirement party to himself.
“Show up when you’re supposed to. And talk to Sam before he lowers the boom.”
“ok.” John says. “I’ll try.”
“Hey look, I gotta go.” Dean said. He felt a pang of abandonment guilt as he saw John sit there looking so helpless and lost. He regretted saying it as soon as he said it:
“Look- I got a hole to dig today for some marine who lost it in Afghanistan. I’m retiring after today. You can take over the payments on the backhoe and cover it up next Monday if you want to quit the road…just Talk to Sam first about getting the Kenworth back to the bank though OK?. Take care of yourself?”
John just sat there sipping coffee, too hung over or maybe too stunned to answer. It was hard to tell which. He could get no read in John’s eyes. The glare from the fluorescent light in John’s glasses was all Dean could see. He left Big John to his decision, a huge lumbering man who had a scary high IQ and almost 85% retention of all those history books he devoured in every library in Montana; no college degree and without a clue how to survive in this world and growing more and more dangerous to be around by the day. But, like most drunks that Dean had worked with, John was hard working when he showed up; high-functioning with heavy equipment and good with tools when something goes down. They just never have a clue how to fix their own life.
When Dean pulled the door shut, he could hear the cook yelling into his phone. “goddamn it you bitch…” then the screen door slammed and all Dean could hear was the wind blowing in from Canada. A spring freshet from the arctic carried small flakes of snow and the alley behind the bar seemed to crawl with graupel as it skittered past him in the wind. The wind whipped madness of white motion made Dean slightly dizzy as he walked toward his truck for one last job.
(c) W.C. Fleischman (excerpt from work in progress)
scene 14 act 2 excerpt from Mercy
by problembear (C)
Gordon lifts his welder’s hood. Extinguishes his cutting torch. Stares hard at Isaac.
Gordon
I thought you said his name was Darrel.
Isaac
Howard don’t hear so good on the phone.
Gordon takes his welder’s apron and gloves off. He turns the tanks off and walks out of the shop. Howard is on the porch scoping gophers with his varmint rifle ready.
Gordon
turns out the guy’s name is Terrell.
Howard lowers the spotting scope and stares at Gordon. He unslings the rifle and rolls his wheelchair down the ramp toward the Harleys.
Howard
them ignorant hillbilly’s ‘ll dice him up fer breakfast.
Gordon
what I’m thinkin’ too.
what this country needs is a good strong beer party
by problembear
as most of you know, i am fairly progressive in my views but i was visiting with my right wing conservative gopher shooting brother last night and we have decided (over a few cold ones in the backyard) that what this country needs is something stronger than tea to send a message to our politicians who are too corrupt to be trusted anymore.
the montana beer party’s main tenets:
- the people can go to church on their own time and in their own way. this is a political revolution. not a phony excuse to impose religious beliefs on others. no religious tenets, teachings or prejudices of any kind are allowed in the beer party.
- the people hold first title to the mortgage of this country. any claims made on any debt transacted by the rich and powerful in order to further enrich the same rich and powerful and their friends are hereby cancelled. we are repossessing the country for non payment of promises made to the people who own this country.
- the beer party is an independent political party which believes that proper government should make every effort to institute and maintain peace so that the people may live freely in the united states of america-not wage war in other countries or stick our noses into their internal affairs. we believe in a strong defense which causes no offense to other countries.
- we believe in protecting our interests by manufacturing and growing what we need in this country so that we can have a market-place which supports americans instead of wealthy multi-national corporations.
- we believe that all americans have personal control over their own homes, firearms, lives, marriages, uteruses, and any other personal decisions. government has no business intruding on personal decisions regarding our bedrooms, lives or lifestyles.
- we don’t necessarily condone alcohol. remember there is root beer for those prospective beer partiers who don’t indulge.
- fun is allowed and encouraged. but corrupt politicians must go.
- proselytizing hypocritical political leaders who espouse racism, homophobic violence, and hatred toward others while helping themselves to lobbyist dollars and enriching their friends are expressly denied membership. same goes for hypocritical political leaders who profess to be for the people’s interest but are corrupt enough to take corporate lobby money and support legislation written by their corporate bribers.
- workers of america who have seen their world diminish while the wealthy help themselves to our tax debt are encouraged to join.
- we profess peace toward all and welcome differences rather than condemning those who do not believe as we do. (although we do believe that the recent behavior of the montana tea party does qualify for us to declare it lame and irrelevant to normal working montanans.
wherever you are; there you are.
excerpt from a work in progress
by W.C. Fleischman
Bud Robert abandons the pile of medical bills lying on the kitchen table. He stands near the sink and stares at the sodium vapor yard light burning away in his farm yard through the pre-dawn darkness. His Big Bud tractor stands near the shop door, it’s 16 valve Detroit diesel 900 hp engine idling and ready to pull an 80 foot plow accross sixteen hundred acres of winter wheat stubble. Bud Robert is used to its size. At fourteen feet tall and nearly 30 feet long, it dwarfs the small farm house and is easily the biggest tractor still in use in Montana today, perhaps even in the world.
Bud Robert once dreamt big until the doctors could not save his wife of 35 years. He once thought his dreams a reality. But now, dimming the lamp which burns in the cold darkness above his shop, and surrounded by the stars of a limitless universe, the pale morning sky lightens the roll of Bud’s eastern fields and he is not so sure anymore. The bills from the hospital will surely bankrupt him. The mortgage on the place held by the farm credit bureaucracy will not allow for any more borrowing against this year’s crop. Today Bud Robert must hand over the keys to the place at the bank. He will eat a good breakfast at The Mint in Chester, and drive the world’s biggest tractor out into the middle of Highway 2, also known locally as the Hi-line, and park it where no-one and no vehicle can go around. He has staked out this place carefully beforehand. There is the Marias river on one side and a high bluff on the other. Bud’s Big Bud tractor will block a major national highway for a time anyway and it will inconvenience people. Bud knows this.
There will be anger and cursing. Sometimes when you set into motion something that creates a problem there is no telling what can happen. All Bud Robert knows is that Bud Robert and his tractor will be on the news today and as much as he misses her, he is glad that Doris will be spared the humiliation of her husband making an ass of himself on the nightly news.
When the newspeople ask Bud Robert why he is doing this, Bud Robert is prepared. He will say that he is fed up and enough is enough. This country rewards bad behavior and punishes good behavior and he is sick of it. Then he is going to fold his arms and wait for the state police.
crippled inside…..
a working class hero is something to be…..
vanishing middle class
overheard while waiting in line at Orange Street Food Farm today after my shift at work:
“today I had to get a third job to pay for the gas to get to my other 2 jobs.”
a note of humility
blogging is to real writing
as foam is to beer.
(C)
trying to keep all the balls in the air…
“Just Looking For Loopholes.”
-Quote from W.C. Fields
caught reading the bible on his deathbed
Look, I believe you get married to someone you love and you stick to her ‘til death do you part no matter what. I believe you work hard to make a living and I believe you don’t hurt others intentionally just to get ahead. If these beliefs make me seem a little gullible or quaint so be it. It’s what I believe. I also believe you help others less fortunate than you are no matter how they act or what they did to get themselves in their predicament. I believe that if we give people half a chance to show us their good side, most of them will eventually. But I also believe that some people are just plain old diabolical and you need to avoid them if you can. But if you can’t avoid them you face them front on and don’t show fear. Fortunately, there aren’t many of them.
It’s ok to be flexible and adaptable to survive but deep down you have to stick to certain principles. There’s a lot of hype and hysteria about things that don’t matter a hell of a lot. I call it the age of hysteria. Politics, pop culture and celebrities don’t interest me much. But, music has been my anchor to cut through all the false noise. I guess if I had to pick a song that defines my philosophy it would be “You Better Get It While You Can” by Steve Goodman. One of the best lines in music; “…from the cradle to the grave is a mighty short trip so you better get it while you can…” reminds me of what my grandfather Charlie always told me….”it’s only once around the track kid so make yourself proud.”
(C)
some people wonder…
if i feel a little disillusioned about all the effort i put into supporting Obama now after one year of disappointments….
the real state of the union….
has anything changed yet ? i hadn’t noticed.
pure hell adventures #311
by problembear:
chapter 1
First time I met Walt, he was beating a pack mule to its knees with a two by four. The trail was dangerous, a switchback near indigo creek in the Hells Canyon Wilderness and that antsy mule threatened to topple the entire string two thousand feet into the rapids of the Snake River. His tour group of fourteen; all Sierra clubbers and Audubon Society members, watched in horror as Walt cursed and beat the animal into a passably safe form of submission. One of the braver women named Amy, petite blonde wife of a district attorney wilderness nut from Roseburg Oregon, raised her voice in protest.
“Sir, is that necessary?”
Walt put the two by four back in his bedroll. He pulled his beaten Bailey hat off revealing an enormous bald sunburned head, which he proceeded to patiently wipe dry with a red handkerchief before clapping the hat back on. He displayed his biggest possible smile under the circumstances. It was a professional outfitter’s smile that showed everyone he was in charge and to not worry about a thing. A smile that also showed all of his massive white teeth which featured prominent incisors in all their primitive glory beneath a bushy drooping mustache that dripped with sweat and chew stain.
“Yes, maam”, Walt answered with a polite tip of his hat. His eyes and teeth seemed to glint with crazy in the sunlight as he remounted his horse.
No one disputed the claim.
A group of out of shape and grumbling geology students I was leading on a hot afternoon death march stepped off the trail gratefully into the shade of a ponderosa and allowed Walt’s string to reform after the mule melee and ride through. Walt and I exchanged worried commiserating glances as he spurred his lead appaloosa gently down the steepest hairpin turn past my line of backpack burdened tenderfoot college kids. With a silent wave of his hat, Walt led his chastised and now pliant mule with his mutinously murmuring group of obediently traumatized environmentalists. The ultimate outfitter dilemma: trying to lead a pack of spoiled elevator riders who probably never faced real danger in their lives by somebody who has probably faced it too much already.
Every outfitter has their own methods.
Sometimes I wonder how some guides and outfitters stay in business behaving like Captain Ahab but it was none of my business that day so I stayed out of it. After all, it is a thankless job- this guide business, and Keeping them all alive sometimes takes extreme measures that the survivors seldom appreciate. Myself, I like to have return and referral business so I tend to be more responsive to the urban sensibilities of my clients than some outfitters. But I know that there are many ways to survive in this business. I have known outfitters who are so good at finding elk for hunting parties that they can literally abuse their clients to the point of cursing and fist fights one year and still count on their loyal checks arriving before each new hunting season. In fact, many of the sociopathic guides are the most successful financially. a certain curious fact is that subgroups of wealthy clientele actually enjoy being abused. Years later, when I came to know Walt better, I found that he certainly magnetized himself to that particular clientele, but I also found that Walt certainly succeeded at finding money but it always came with trouble.
The second time I met Walt was at the Prairie City High School football field in Central Oregon. I was working with an engineering detail on the Whitney-Tipton road out of the Malheur National Forest doing timber surveys to make a little extra money between hunting camps and one of the kids who held a rod for the lead surveyor asked me to come to the homecoming football game. He wanted everyone in the crew to watch his kid brother play. I had nothing better to do, so I went and sat in the stands and sipped a decoy coke with considerable fortification while i watched the teams warm up in what looked like a rodeo arena converted very hastily into a football field.the assistant coach driving the lime cart swigged the foamy dregs out of a quart of beer in a brown paper bag as he ambled past me casually applying some very crooked yardage markers and sidelines.
Walt was fuming mad at some tall lanky kid in a lineman’s jersey that looked a lot like him. They were arguing about something but I couldn’t hear what they were saying with all the crowd noise. After the kickoff, Walt picked out a seat right in front of me. We nodded and locked eyes that mutually said “where the hell do I remember you from” while we both silently hoped it wasn’t from some drunken forgotten sinister activity. I spoke first.
“Get that jenny to calm down any better?”
He pushed his hat back and looked back at me and smiled.
“Sure did. And she’s real trail gentle now. That’s been a few years back hasn’t it? How ya doin’”, He said. We shook hands and introduced ourselves. Walt looked at my coke like he wished it were a cold beer, But Prairie City Oregon is a dry town.
“If you’re thirsty here’s a coke.” I handed him a can of coke out of my lunch cooler. “ I’ve got some additive.” I said.
I briefly flapped my cruiser vest open to give Walt a glimpse of a couple of flasks in the inside pockets. He took the bait and we commenced to jawing over some old trail days. I could see he and his boy were having some friction and I didn’t want to pry but after the proper amount of inter-guide boasting and outdoors shop-talk, Walt came right out with it. Since his divorce a few years back, Walt and his boy named Garret were at each other like billy goats on a steep cliff. It frustrated Walt that the kid wouldn’t listen to him anymore. I don’t remember too much from the conversation; a lot of familiar stuff like a new stepfather getting in the way and Walt’s ex-wife spoiling the kid. It was the kind of soap-opera stuff that bores me but I did pay attention when he said something that reminded me of the many tests of will between myself and my own daughter Ginny as she was growing up.
“Warren”, Walt said as he sucked down his third velvet soaked coke, “I thought I would be pretty trail tested and heat forged by this time in life. I can usually handle any amount of discomfort and aggravation and come out on top, but there’s nothing quite so trying as competing against your own genetic material.”
The third time I met Walt was when I served on the jury that put him away for life. In between those last two meetings, things got steep and dicey enough to hold the average person’s attention. But then, certain acquaintances will tell you that I have been given to hyperbole on occasion so I guess I should let you judge for yourself.
The Blackfoot Bar
Wayne veers right just missing the snowplow as he aims his cruiser into the whiteout.
The dispatcher reports something about loud noises in an old bar on the Blackfoot River Highway. Through the snow the entrance to the parking lot is barely discernable. Once a rollicking non stop party, the bar that once thrived here was sold by the owners in 1990 to finance their retirement. Strict DUI laws enacted since have incarcerated or reformed most of the clientele who once patronized it. Twenty miles out of Missoula- too far for drunks to drive with no license and no bar can survive long without drunks- not in Montana.
Wayne pulls off the highway and parks close to the front door. He checks in with dispatch and switches off the headlights. He allows his eyes to adjust to the dark. He unholsters his service weapon, chambers a round and snaps the safety on. He eases out of the vehicle and crouches near the fender listening for noise. First nothing – then faintly at first but getting louder scratching and clawing then banging and scuffling – then scratching and clawing again. Wayne yells out. “Who’s in there?” Not a sound now,
just the wind in the Ponderosas and the gentle whisking of snow blowing past his feet.
“Whoever is in there” Wayne hollers “this is the sheriff. Come out with your hands in the air.” This time there is a barely audible growl. Then silence again.
Wayne takes his flashlight out of his holster and with his weapon pointed he peaks through the soot stained cobwebbed front window of the old Bar. Seeing nothing, he flicks on the 6 battery flashlight. The room illuminates and explodes as Furniture scatters everywhere. An old wood stove rolls across the floor as a huge furry object shoots past and flips a pool table upside down. Two smaller furry objects scoot to the safety of the bigger object. Its Red eyes glare at Wayne through the window. Cursing, Wayne slowly retreats to the cruiser, flicks on the radio and Alerts Dispatch. He is told that a game officer needs to be sent to the scene. Wayne backs the car away from the building and waits.
An old silver pickup with Montana Fish Wildlife and Parks decals pulls into the parking lot behind Wayne. The sides of the truck are scarred with scrapes and dents. The truck pulls an even older flatbed trailer with a culvert trap in the back. The game warden is slightly overweight and still in his slippers as he gets out talking to Wayne. Snow lands on his red balding head and melts dripping on his checkered service jacket.
“Two bears inside” Wayne tells him “one huge sow with two cubs.”
“Can she get out?” the warden asks him.
“Not without help” Wayne answers “looks like she pushed the door in and the wind shoved it shut. She’s trying to bash it open but it’s pretty strong- what do you suggest?”
“Well” the stocky warden considers while he wipes at his head. “normally, I would have to call my partner and we would dart it with a tranquilizer but if all she wants is to get out I have a big pole. We could push the door open and hope she comes out.”
“It better be a really big pole” Wayne says. “And who said anything about we.”
“We could let her winter there” the warden says with a grin.
“It’s your call.” Wayne says with a shrug.
“Cover me?” The game warden says with a sheepish grin, offering a large freckled hand through the open window. “Name’s Jim.”
“OK Jim. Lead the way.”
Jim unhooks the snare pole from its cradle on the culvert trap. He tries not to think about the fact that bears can cover 100 yards in 3 seconds and that the snare pole is only twenty feet long. Jim laces up his work boots in the warm cab of Wayne’s cruiser and eyes the shotgun mounted between their seats.
“You might want to use that 12 gauge in case it’s a grizzly.” Jim says.
“Oh, come on” Wayne says with a grin that gets weaker when he sees that Jim is not joking.
“OK Jim, whatever you think- you’re the boss.”
Wayne grabs the shotgun and chambers a round while Jim shoulders the pole.
They can hear a scuffling inside, probably the cubs just teasing each other. Then there is the lowest rumble Wayne has ever heard or maybe he only feels it? Then silence again. Jim approaches the door with the snare pole. He’s only used this pole once before to pluck a body from the Blackfoot river. Jim taps at the door to test it first and then with all his weight he shoves the door open. There is a crash in the back of the bar but nothing comes out. Jim props the door open with the pole and steps away.
“Can you see anything?” Wayne whispers.
Montana Half Light
Chapter 1.
The door to the bar opens and reveals a tall, slim figure of a man, slightly stooped, of seventy years age or so. Brilliant sunlight floods the room and blinds the lone occupant –a short stocky young man with a shaved head who stands drinking at the bar. The man at the bar attempts to shield his eyes from the early rising sun and squints into the glare of the open door in mid swallow. Recognizing the silhouette of the old man, the man drops his glass and tries to run as the shot-gun flashes twice, hitting him in the side under one arm and once in the middle of his back. The door swings shut and semi-darkness swallows the room again. There is no light except the small halo of half-light which frames the face of the old man as he stares through the small greasy round pane of glass in the door. He watches the body writhe across the floor in a series of involuntary nerve twitches, spilling blood in great pools until there is no more movement. When the old man’s face turns away, the full circle of early morning sunlight arcs across the room and illuminates a prone body.
The bar is the only standing structure in Twain Montana, Population 12, situated between a great reef of rocks jutting from the west and the vast rolling prairie which plunges eastward away from the town. . It is just after dawn on Sunday morning; no cars or trucks in sight on the highway. Except for the lone occupant of the bar the town itself is deserted. The old man casually opens the door of his pickup, slides his still hot double barrel savage shot gun into the gun cover behind his seat, gets in and drives off.
“all I know is Stosh asked Lee if he wanted a job helping him with the horses but Lee told Stosh he hated horses so Lee picked up his stuff and left town for parts unknown. Somebody said they might’ve seen a guy that looked like Lee logging for an outfit in Seeley Lake. Only this guy that looked like Lee had a beard and long hair so I don’t think it was Lee. Lee hated hippies.”
Gene looked across the bar and into the mirror. He understood that Lee would be trying to pass as someone else now. Lee might be wearing a wig or even shaved his head and beard by now. Gene thought about the trouble that Lee was in and how he needed to find a way out of this town. He seethed inside while looking back at himself- disgusted and tired of the struggle already. Gene listened to Pauline tell him again for the umpteenth time that she didn’t know where Lee was. Every time she told him there was a new twist where somebody said something and Gene just couldn’t listen to it anymore.
“Somebody, who?” Gene asked
“I don’t know. Just some guy who rolled into town all drunk and high.”
“what did he look like?”
“Like an asshole.” Pauline said. “He looked like an asshole- just like you and every other creep who comes in here. You all look like assholes to me. You want to know what he looks like? Look in the mirror. That’s what he looks like.”
Gene took another drink and glanced at the mirror. Pauline was right. He did look like an asshole.
Gene walked outside the Bonner Bar and lit a smoke. He wanted somebody to tell him it was going to be alright and that Lee was coming back to town with the money from Canada and he wanted to hear Lee tell everyone that logging was on the rise again but logging was finally dead and Gene knew it. The mill was closing down and Marvin Purvis at the bar last week said there might be work in Juneau but Gene checked that out and there was no truth to it. Gene sat down on the curb with his beer and his cigarette and watched the sunset across the dirt and gravel parking lot. A cut over hillside glowered across the gash of canyon that led into the valley of the Clark Fork River. With its torn down dam and the dirty brown cliffs still pocked with the old blast scars from the original dam builders, and with the river below in full spring flood creating a froth of brownish white it looked like someone had hit the flush handle on this place as wood debris eddied out into a swirl of backwash and sluiced through the gap toward Missoula.
A train rolled through Bonner every afternoon about now loaded with coal from the coalfields of Wyoming. Gene could feel the rails begin to vibrate as he stood astride the tracks looking east. He unzipped his greasy Carhartt overalls and took a leak right there in front of the train. He stepped off just as it flew past headed to the power plant at Chehalis Washington. The engineer flipped Gene off and Gene returned the favor almost as an afterthought as he staggered toward the neon lights of Finky’s Foods where Bud Light was still on sale 11.99 for 12 can cases. Gene checked his wallet for the last twenty from pawning his rifle. Only fifteen was left as he remembered the five he’d stuck in the keno machine while waiting to talk to that little sweetheart of a barmaid, Pauline.
Gene walked past the kid behind the counter and noticed a young couple yammering happily over the trophy trout that hung above the coffee machine.
“where can we find fish like that?” they asked the bored kid behind the cash register. The kid just shrugged and adjusted his i-pod.
All these summer visitors love to ask locals to help them look for fishing tips as if we were just stupid or something; as if Montana was just one big vacation spot filled with gullible people happy to give up hard won secrets. Gene hated tourists more than Lee hated hippies. He curled his lip in a sneer at the smiling couple, ignored their friendly question and strode past them toward the beer.
unnecessary
Louise threw her keys on the desk and scanned the empty office for a place to hang her coat. Everything was moved from its customary location. Little circles appeared in the carpet where furniture once compressed the yarns under missing desks and file cabinets. She settled for draping her coat over the lone office chair. Her eyes moved across the walls empty now of photos from almost 35 years of being in business. Louise missed all the comforts of familiarity almost as much as she missed her now unemployed co-workers. One item packed away with all the other things extraneous to operating a skeleton crew for the mill shutdown and final closure was Louise’s favorite typewriter.
Louise realized suddenly with a start just how difficult the final two months would be. She sat in the chair and dabbed at tears with a small white monogrammed handkerchief. She wondered if perhaps the typewriter already lay in some dingy warehouse gathering dust and waiting for the auction assessors to appraise it for bankruptcy. Louise used that old machine to process the duplicate trip tickets for impatient log-truck drivers and caffeine-jilted over-the-roaders who idled their diesels outside- offering bad jokes along with their logs and their semi-loads of wood pulp. There were no more trucks. No more loads of trees fresh from logging shows high in the mountains surrounding Missoula. Louise missed the smell of fresh cut wood and piles of snow on the bark of the logs and the pungent pine flakes of wood chips that swirled in the backwash of the big semi trailers as they jake-braked off the interstate.
So many were unnecessary now as the loading docks gaped empty and silent. She thought about the dazed and stunned truckers just laid off and their favorite trucks parked permanently, their keys hanging on the lot board with all the driver’s rabbit feet and personal key rings removed. Every key was numbered now- waiting for the auction. Louise cleared her throat, blew her nose and picked up the phone on the third ring.
Fool Hen (excerpt)
Eventually, the pain subsided. Bud propped the quarter of elk against a tree and tried to pry his boot off. The swollen ankle throbbed against the tightening leather. He pulled out his hunting knife and cut the laces. Sitting cross-legged on a fallen birch, he winced from the effort as the boot came loose and laughed with the pain. Bud often laughed when he was afflicted with tremendous pain. It scared his wife but it helped to ease the pain somewhat. Sometimes tears appeared, but not usually. Bud shook his head at his stupidity. He took stock. Nice warm October evening. At least three miles from the truck, one hour of good light left and a headlamp in his pack. No reason to hurry.
Bud pulled an ace bandage from his pack and wrapped the ankle. The throbbing became more intense. When he tried a little weight on it he almost passed out. He didn’t laugh this time. He became dizzy and felt the ground rushing under him. Bud sat back down and put his head between his knees for a few minutes. When the queasiness passed he sat up straight on the birch log. He looked around for a couple of thick branches he could cut for crutches. The ankle was obviously broken. It might be better to gather some firewood and wait it out until some hunters arrived in the morning. Bud knelt down to see if he could crawl on his knees to gather wood, but it was difficult to raise his broken foot enough so it would not drag on the ground. He began to think about the triangle of disaster. Bud remembered from his training that you can easily survive one thing going wrong if you keep your head. Two things going wrong was survivable but demanded extreme concentration. Three things going wrong usually sends you to the bottom of the funnel. Bud tried to relax and think about how to not let two more things go wrong.
Bud took stock. He had six granola bars, two full canteens of water, a thermos half filled with coffee. If the weather held relatively warm he could wait it out until morning with just his foil wrap survival blanket in the fanny pack. Careful not to disturb the broken ankle, Bud unhooked the fanny pack and unzipped the emergency pouch. He spotted the little plastic orange whistle. As far as he knew, he was the only hunter within at least 3 miles of this narrow slice of a canyon above the Blackfoot river. Three SOS shots from his rifle would work better. He readied nine shells and counted the remainder— five more. Bud regretted not carrying the extra box of shells. He loaded the first three shells into the magazine of the Browning .270 and fired off three shots, waiting three seconds between each shot. He sat back against the birch tree and listened for an answer. Something large, perhaps a deer, scuttled in the brush behind Bud. Two ravens graveled and croaked at each other across the surrounding ridge tops. A white eyed pine squirrel began to chatter in a large fir tree above Bud, but no shots answered him.
can you clean a deer?
( excerpt)
Howard could see the car’s dust trail kicking up as it careened down his powder dry ranch road. The vehicle- a foreign job with fancy wheels, stopped at the gate and the driver, a fuzzy mopped kid from the city climbed out and unlatched the gate near a fence that warned NO TRESPASSERS and NO HUNTING. The kid drove through the gate without relatching it and boldly drove up to Howard’s front porch steps. The tinted driver window powered down quietly.
“Do you know how to clean a deer?” the kid asked.
Howard pulled a pipe slowly from his mouth and leaned back in his rocking chair.
“Yes.” Howard answered with a long pause.
He eyed the kid and then looked back at the unfastened gate swinging in the wind. His eyes narrowed as he rose from his chair and knocked the ashes from his now dead pipe into his ash tray. Howard then walked slowly toward the gate and fastened it. The kid watched him nervously and then he opened his car door and walked toward Howard.
“sorry about the gate.” He said.
Howard looked down at the kid. He smiled.
“well, now that you are here. Why do you ask?” Howard said.
“my girlfriend lives next door and her parents are gone and we are staying there and well, she said you might know how.”
“I see. was that the shot I heard this morning around 9?”
“yeah, probably.” The kid said.
Howard looked at his watch.
“It’s almost 3 now.” Howard said. He frowned at the kid.
“I know.” The kid said.
“And it’s about 90 degrees in the shade.” Howard said, still frowning.
“Is that bad?” asked the kid.
“Depends on where the deer is.” Howard said.
“it’s in the trunk.” The kid said, moving with his key to open it up. “wanna see it?”
“no. not particularly.” Said Howard with a sigh.
“should I clean it?” the kid asked.
“that’s up to you.”
“you can’t help me can you?”
“too late to clean that animal son.”
Howard moved toward the gate and opened it again. The kid got back in to his car and drove away. Howard locked the gate and watched the dust cloud from the car whirl away in a dust devil as the afternoon wind from the Centennials began to blow across the Beaverhead Valley. He worried that perhaps that bottom 40 might need to be baled before the thunder clouds above Red Circle peak arrived. He shook his head and laughed to himself as he sat back in his rocker and surveyed the sky, hoping for rain.
(C)
Missoula Police and Ambulance Report
Missoula Police And Ambulance Report
Man found drunk in yard.
Wallet burned in fire.
Driveaway at gas station reported.
Customer returns to pay for gas.
Gas stolen from man’s pickup at marina.
Golfer knocked unconscious with own club.
Heart attack victim receives CPR.
Domestic disturbance reported.
Dog attacks homeowner.
Counterfeit money found inside stolen jacket.
Man arrested outside bar for assault.
Woman kidnaps child from day care.
Homeless man murdered.
Traffic accident. head on. two killed. one injured.
Man found passed out in gas station bathroom.
Woman assaulted. Husband arrested.
Shoplifting reported at drugstore.
Traffic accident. minor injuries. failure to yield citation issued.
Homeless man injured. Refused assistance.
Disturbance at movie theatre. Drunken man removed.
Children playing with dead dog.
Cat found hung on porch.
Car stolen at lakeside casino.
Teenage runaway found. Returned to family.
Woman found dead.
Man found drunk in yard again.
Problem Bear destroyed by authorities.
I still don’t know
I still don’t know
I can remember the day I stopped taking anything seriously.
Reagan was just elected President
and I didn’t know what to do with myself.
So, I just drifted around in a haze.
I ran into Otis at a horse race in Phoenix Arizona.
I think I can remember that much.
He staggered up to me in a stained white suit and beat up straw hat.
We shook hands.
He introduced himself.
Otis?
Do I know an Otis?
.
I had frequent occasion to bump into drunks, being one myself,
but the vague familiarity of his face triggered no immediate recognition.
Do you remember Mayfield? He asked.
On television? I asked
Exactly he answered.
Then Otis the town drunk staggered away
chuckling and talking to himself.
I wondered if he still talked to Floyd, or Andy or Barney or Aunt Bee.
But I didn’t ask him.
I went back to studying the racing form.
It was a dark comedy, perfect for America.
I haven’t really seen the sun since that day.
Have you?
MAKE ME ONE WITH EVERYTHING
Q. what did the dalai lama say to the hot dog vendor?
(excerpt)
Maybe there is forgiveness after all. Maybe what we watch on the news is understandable if we try to really see it. But he doesn’t want to see anything. He doesn’t want to understand any more. Rod wants a drink. He shakes his glass at the bartender and looks at the TV. An ample dose of Wild Turkey appears in a tumbler with good cracked ice. Rod sips the 101 proof liquor as he slides into his stool at the end of the bar. He relaxes instantly as much as Rod can ever relax.
He is irritated.
The local evening news assaults with surround sound intensity from the flat screen television mounted behind the bar and, just in case he isn’t paying enough attention, Each local story is preceded by an annoying cannon blast to accentuate the local news anchor woman’s stumbling delivery. She recites a few details about a mundane sad Montana death;
“The body of a local ranch hand recently estranged from his wife and kids is found dragged out into the woods and… “
She stops mid sentence as she loses her place.
“ Local authorities have no details um, as yet.”
The pretty face stammers. She is obviously flustered as footage with Trout swimming upstream appears inexplicably on the TV screen. She reads tentatively on;
“The um. body was found by a hunter um, This afternoon…. Seems we have the wrong visual so I apologize and we will get back to that story after a brief station break.”
Rod’s new drink mollifies a fleeting compulsion to hurl a bar-stool at the blaring box. This would be dangerous if he were young but at 59 years old, Rod just sits and watches while the urge passes with a long tired sigh.
After over 44 years in the news business, Rod’s recent retirement from the Missoula Standard newspaper causes him to fester resentment toward any twenty something with a press pass. The bulk of Rod’s career was spent covering Politics- everything from back-door small town smugness all the way to corrupt US senators. Rod can barely read a newspaper or look at the news anymore without at least 2 ounces of Wild Turkey as a restraint.
“incompetent” He mutters.
access denied!
The S.O. and I risked our lives making a left hand turn on hwy 93 and thought we would pay a visit to the homeless dogs being housed at the Missoula Humane Society shelter today. in the past, we used to visit and play with the dogs that are waiting for new homes. our third rescue dog died last year and we are now ready to adopt another dog for our family. when we entered the building a very sour person standing behind the reception desk told us that we could not go into the shelter and see the dogs. she said we needed to select a dog from their online site first and then someone would allow us to visit with the poor animal one at a time. we didn’t have all day. the S.O. works on saturday afternoon and i work weekdays so this is the only tiny window we have to check the dogs out.
she said that visitors and potential owners can no longer walk in and see the dogs first so that we can select potential companions. what kind of craziness is this?
first of all, i cannot tell how a dog behaves by viewing them online. i do not pick out dogs based on their looks. i pick out a dog who acts the way i want them to act: alert, playful, not too barky. friendly without too much aggression. how do you ascertain which dog is right for you or your family if you can’t see how they act when you walk in to the room where they are caged?
what is wrong with this outfit. not only is the policy hurtful to visitors and potential owners/rescuers of these animals, i doubt if the dogs like it either. in years past i have always walked back in the kennels to visit with dogs and walk them just to give them some momentary companionship. even if the right dog is not there that day, at least i felt good about giving some animals a little time outside their little cages.
i have yet to see a dog that does not like to see me. what is wrong with the missoula humane society? have they lost their minds. putting up impediments to those of us who want to give abandoned dogs a good home is assinine. the woman behind the counter was rude, condescending and did not even attempt to smile as she gave us her dictates. needless to say, we left and will not return until the people running this shelter get some common sense and allow people to visit with the dogs so that we can choose a companion for our families in person rather than picking one out online.
i would strongly suggest that the board of directors of this shelter take a good look at this policy and discuss how the public feels when presented with it at the door.
failing that, the board or the executive director should at least get someone up front who smiles and acts polite and friendly while attempting to explain this ridiculous policy to incredulous potential rescuers instead of alienating us.
frankly i do not understand how anyone makes the argument that picking out dogs online is a sane policy when we are already there. how the hell are we supposed to pick out a dog without seeing it in person. it is basic animal chemistry to touch and see and hear other animals. i can’t do that online.
Pay Day Lenders Beware…
by problembear
these guys are evil personified on earth!
let’s just make it a date for around may 2010, shall we?
i want to be sure and let you know that we want to get close to your business with our signs and talk to a few folks….hope you won’t mind….i will try and stay upwind….so you get the full effect.
he’s stinky, he’s wide, he’s a problem….and he’s coming to a sidewalk near you….also a great big problembear shout out to all those montana legislators who voted in this legislative session to allow predatory payday and vehicle title loan businesses to continue to charge montana’s working poor up to 650% interest. we won’t forget you either. i promise…..we will visit your legislative districts to give a great big bear hug to all who join montana’s citizens; republicans, democrats, progressives and independents who demand regulation of this industry, and to stump for your more fair-minded opponents.
this report proves that payday lenders are predators who make their money luring poor workers into endless traps…
*as of the date of this posting Mt initiative petition #25 which seeks to regulate payday lenders to reasonable interest rates is in limbo as it awaits the state attorney general’s review for legal language sufficiency. i will update here and on twitter as more news is available.
meanwhile there is still hope that obama will be able to get us some help in regulating payday lenders in the current federal bank regulation bill, but heavy lobbying by wealthy payday lenders is being applied. we need to apply some pressure directly on the lenders themselves by direct action in exposing them for their greed and the damage they do to working families in montana.
one senator in washington in particular has pretty dirty hands on this one…
dates will be posted soon.*if you want to help me gather signatures for the Montana payday lending initiative please leave a comment here and i will be in touch. thanks
by the way- if anyone knows where i can rent or borrow a bear suit size XXXXlarge or at least a bear head for saturdays in may please let me know here. thanks.
legacy
legacy
Most of our grandparents were like this;
lilac bushes pungent at the front porch,
near the garage
an old wooden row boat rests
upside down on sawhorses
Rusty pruning sheers beneath climbing yellow roses,
an old dog’s grave marker beneath a dead elm.
we’ve moved on from the shadows of their lives
to forge a legacy of our own;
fiber glass hot tub shell filled with algae,
gold’s gym weight set beset by weeds
and festooned with cobwebs,
an old jet ski carcass on a trailer
with flat tires.
In the backyard
an old dog crippled now with arthritis
Sniffs unhappily and stiff-tailed at his options
-w.c. fleischman
found it
thanks to the unending patience of the S.O. i now have the boat of my tiny bear dreams….it’s perfect for the older bear who likes to wormfish with bobbers and take a nap while the waves rock him to sleep!
she’s a beauty! 1969 larson runabout. hull in excellent condition. nice old motor that works great. needs battery, license and my fishing equipment stowed away. bought it for excellent price from a nice retired gentleman who took care of it.
seeley lake and georgetown reservoir here we come!
YEE HAWWW!
can’t wait to get this baby in the water…..
it is in really great shape for a ’69 larson runabout. the owner took really good care of it. the upholstery is original and in good shape!
the motor is an evinrude 18 horse in vintage smooth running condition!
an important gathering…..
bears love our homeland
Jodi Rave has some important news for those who love their homeland ….
loan sharking cash….at 650% interest rates!
unbelievable that montana still allows these guys to charge 650% interest for payday loans. if you borrow 200.00 from these leeches they will want 250.00 in two weeks! if you keep doing this over the course of a year, you will end up paying 1300.00 for the same 200.00 loan. that my friends is 650%
it is time to regulate these loan sharks. the Montana Women Vote is sponsoring a voter initiative to do just that. i will be helping them gather signatures in the next few weeks to put I-164 on the ballot so that montana’s fair-minded voters can finally rein in the greedheads who prey on our working poor.
if you would like to help us gather signatures please contact Erin at Montana Women Vote www.montanawomenvote.org
“…just too evil to work for.”
had an interesting conversation with a gentleman today while i was gathering signatures for Montana’s Initiative petition for Pay Day lending regulation I-164. the guy signed my petition and then told me he really needed a job but when a payday lender called him back on an application and offered him a job, he turned it down. this guy told me he needed to be able to sleep at night. he told me that “those loan sharks are just too evil to work for. no matter how broke i am, i couldn’t do that to people.”
this cycle of payday loan sharking traps people into debt they can never get out of. almost 80% of the customers of pay day lenders are repeated loans which are churned over and over again for massive profits and they further impoverish the already stressed out working poor in montana. read more about this industry here and help us pass I-164 to cap the interest rates for these type of loans to 36%.
