Charlie Brown

I knew a guy once, he went by the name Charlie Brown.

He was a hood rat, the kind of guy that would tell you his down and out story while chomping on an eight dollar cigar. He preferred Micky's Malt Alcohol to most any kind of drink, but that was probably because it was more punk rock than PBR at the time.

Charlie knew a lot of people. He went to the right shows, made the right kind of friends, knew the right things to say. He had an easy laugh and a sharing smile. Charlie never ratted to the cops. He didn't share secrets. He probably knew more secrets than anyone.

I met Charlie Brown at a local coffee shop back in the nineties, during a time that I was doing a lot of the same stuff; I went to shows and made friends and tried to say the right things. He told me he was on the street, and I kinda took pity on him. At the time I was still living at home with my parents. They trusted the people I trusted, since they knew I knew how to read people pretty well.

I knew Charlie Brown wasn't really down on his luck. I knew he could go home any time he wanted. I knew he could make a phone call and get a few hundred bucks from an uncle or other family member. I knew he wasn't the kind of guy that didn't have nothing to lose. I knew I could probably trust Charlie Brown, but I didn't know how far I could trust him, if that makes sense.

So anyway, I took Charlie home, gave him some good meals, had some good parties. Back then, I knew how to throw a party: invite the right people together and everyone shares a little of what they have, be it smoke, drink, or whatever. And as long as nobody acted like a dick, everyone had a good time. Reflected well on me, and on everyone involved. It was what I did.

Charlie stayed with us about two months. He did dishes. He swept up the floor. He folded his clothes and didn't steal the bait money we would leave on cabinets and tables. He did all the right things.

One day Charlie decided he had fattened up enough. His winter with us was over, so he had me drop him off at a restaurant where a girl worked and said goodbye. I saw him a couple times after that, but it wasn't like seeing an old friend, more like seeing someone you went to school with a decade ago.

Sometimes I think about Charlie Brown, you know, I wonder what he's up to. Maybe he's got a beer belly and three kids and a dog that won't shut the fuck up. Maybe he's got a mortgage and a rich wife and he spends his days waxing their four cars in the garage.

I think he came up with his own street name. I think he did it because of the old saying, "You're a good man, Charlie Brown." But I don't really know if he was a good man. Or is. I think he was a way for us good men to realize we were really the good men. Not that he's a bad man, you know. He never took the twenty from the kitchen table, never stole from us. He knew we were open and honest with him, and I'm pretty sure he was smart enough to know you don't fuck with those kind of people.