Trickster of Literacy Steve Hawley When James Welch died, the matter of his passing was discussed in an inadvertently comic mode in Missoula at the gym where I used to work out in the mornings. A small coffee and juice bar served as an informal gathering spot to glance at the day’s headlines. Someone would read a few lines aloud from a front-page story or, more commonly, raise a comment on the dismal turn of events portrayed on CNN, and the rest of the men—this was an exclusively male ritual—would offer an opinion if so moved. These were generally decent, conservative, no-nonsense, middle-aged men who did not waste a lot of time reading books, with one exception. One-legged Simms, a shrewd businessman with a liberal streak and a tricksterlike penchant for suckering others into his discussions, usually played host, hogging the newspaper, murmuring a few words from the front page, and adding his own editorial comments, often irreverently baiting the clientele at the bar with an acerbic remark about the absurdity of the Iraq war or the hypocrisy of Rush’s drug addiction. Though the arguments Simms incited sometimes escalated into shouts in the parking lot, he spoke with impunity, for the simple reason that no one wanted to get into a brawl with a one-legged guy, certainly an unwinnable proposition from any opponent’s standpoint. “Lotta big names in town for the memorial of James Welch,” Simms reported nonchalantly that February morning. “Givin’ up protesting the war, huh Simms?” said Todd, a born-again urban cowboy who worked out in a tank top, factory-faded jeans, and horseman’s boots. [End Page 46] “Your back hurts again, doesn’t it, Todd?” observed Simms. “You want to know why? It’s because you’re fat. You insist on wearing those fruity boots, then you come in here, work your biceps and your jaws, and then you go home and eat all the fatty food your wife cooks. When are you going to get an aerobic workout? If you’re not going to use the legs, then at least give me one of them.” “Welch, I think I got his book from someone at church,” said Slick, a tight-lipped CPA. “Welch’s?” Simms asked, surprised. “Yeah, I got that too, called Inside My Gut or something like that,” chimed in Todd, his face a shade more crimson than usual, pretending to ignore the verbal lashing from Simms. “Didn’t know he died,” said the electrician, sipping his coffee. “Didn’t know he’s from Montana,” someone else said. “Probably he’s not,” said the sporting goods store manager. “Every one of these rich CEOs makes a bundle and then buys themselves a spread on the Front or on the Madison. Then they pretend they’ve lived here their whole lives.” Simms’s eyes lit up; he kicked me under the bar with his prosthetic foot. “Says here Tom Brokaw was there.” “No surprise there,” said Slick. “GE owns NBC, so he came to pay his respects to the boss.” “Knighted by the French,” smiled Simms. “Figures,” said the barista with disdain, rolling his eyes. “Says here he’s Blackfeet Indian too.” A few furtive glances came Simms’s way, then passed. “Who woulda guessed,” said the electrician, rising as he spoke, glancing at his watch, slugging his coffee, prompting the procession out toward the day. * * * Of course, former General Electric executive Jack Welch has proven to be neither honest (a development that belies the title of his 2001 best seller, Straight from the Gut) nor Indian. By contrast, James Welch owns both a full measure of brutal honesty and Blackfeet Indian identity and would not have needed a kick from Simms’s fake leg to get a laugh out of the misdirection at the gym that morning. [End Page 47] Bill Kittredge eulogized his friend Jim Welch as a trickster figure. Of course, tricksters come in every shape and size, with a myriad of modus operandi. While Simms’s antics always involved an initial deception, baiting a trap laid in a subsistence hunt for nourishment in the cruel banalities of the business...
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