Telluride: A Century of Lumpen
J. Quinn Brisben
Early 1900s
Looking out her south window squinting
Into the sun, she hung wet diapers on a line
Above the sink, for they would surely freeze
Outside on this cloudless day, and saw him,
A hobo with a bindle, cold despite his layers
Of raggedy cloth, doubtless needing a meal,
And thought:
“I could use some kindling; he looks as if
He would do some chopping for bread
And molasses, which we can spare.
The bindlestiffs have chalked our gate,
For this family shares what it has
With those who deserve a share, not
With the tramps covered with sawdust
From sleeping on saloon floors until
The liquor bosses vote them, not
The blackleg scabs and goons
The mine bosses use to rob us.
This one, though, is just a boy,
Most likely from that pinched-out vein
Across the ridge, shyness in his walk
As he comes to the door, most likely union,
At least I hope so, for this family
Would break a scab’s bones or worse
To hold itself together. My good man
Stands one payday round for friends,
Then brings the envelope home to me,
Keeping only enough for smokes.
We are different from the hobos. At least
We are a family. At least we have
A roof until the vein runs out or
Until the next cave-in or strike. My man
Will come home tired and be glad
Of all the kindling chopped. Maybe
Someday the union will be something, and
Everyone can have a roof. Until then
This family can defend itself, maybe.”
Late 1940s
After mid-morning coffee with the mayor
And some of the other leading merchants,
He strolled back to his new Studebaker,
Proudly admiring its modern lines,
Glanced at a store window with dusty canned goods
And a faded woman with her baby behind it
And thought:
“She is there every day for sixteen hours
And sometimes longer. No wonder she sickens
And keeps her oldest from school to mind
Her shabby little dump. She owes everyone.
The wholesalers are squeezing her hard.
She must know the place is finished. Everyone
Has cars again, even those who walked pre-war.
Her husband knocked her up one more time,
Then died in a veteran’s hospital.
She wants to be her own boss but cannot
Match the chain’s prices, cannot work longer
Hours than she does, would be better off
Clerking at the chain at decent hours
For certain pay. Whoever closes her down
Will be doing her a favor. Someone
Will change the zoning, call the health board,
Drop a hint at Rotary or over coffee. She will
Have to, like the rest of us, face
The facts of these new times.”
Mid 1990s
Behind her Ray-Ban shades she sat at the counter
Facing the window, ignoring her coffee and repeating
The police koan about doing everything while
Seeming to do nothing, watched the whispering
Group in the doorway across the street, nodded
Discreetly to her back-up, patted not her gun
But the search warrant in her pocket, eyed
The blonde youth’s alligator labels coldly,
Watched for the deal to go down,
And thought:
“His togs would cost me a whole week’s pay.
This will be a good, clean bust.
It will stick even if his family hires the very
Best lawyer. This fancy kid with his
Ivy League degree and his manners smooth
As the powder he deals will be everyone’s
Canon City sweetheart from four to seven years.
I have followed the chief’s advice and watched
My ass, for Columbo on television reruns
Is the only cop who can habitually bust
His social superiors, but this one is off base
Far enough so connections cannot save him.
I really love tagging out one of them. Someday
I want to bust a whole ski lodge full
Of bankers and congressmen and movie stars.
But this cutie pie carrying enough to keep
The whole damned town high all season
Will do nicely, thank you, get me a
Sergeant’s pay and fewer station house jokes
About the dick without a dick.
This fancy player got careless after his
Big rich woman left town without him.
His folks must have stopped his allowance
Because his plastic is no good. But,
All of a sudden, he has piles of cash
And the attitude he was born with: too
Arrogant to look behind him and see me.
So he goes down, and I go up
In this land of opportunity.”
