Oggie Bendoggie

This post is for Oggie, wherever he is, and for the person who wanted to hear about letters.

I met Martin, also known as Oggie Bendoggie, the summer that I thought it would be a good idea to work in Alaska. Took a week to drive the stretch of highway known as the Alaskan. In April, at times, the highway so desolate that folks carry spare gas in their cars. Camped in places beautiful and ugly, ugly as in guns firing right outside of our tent. Beautiful as in complete and total loneliness, with sunlight lasting longer than we are used to.

Martin, Tad and I and a bunch of other people worked for the devil, also known as ARA. Tad has a hat from those days that used to say Denali Park Resort. He changed it while under influence of the devil to Denali Park Rot as we often found ourselves wishing that one of the most beautiful places on earth would rot in hell.

Martin worked as a breakfast busser and I worked as a breakfast waitress. If anyone ever tries to convince you that waiting breakfast shifts might be better than waiting dinner shifts, don't believe them. But you're probably not that stupid.

Martin was one of the worst bussers I have ever met. He took pride in being "worst" busser and this I admired. I also admired the children's artwork that he collected from the few tables that he bussed. He plastered these charming creations across the walls of the Jewel Box, a bussing station with a lovely overlook of Denali, the mountain (not going to call it McKinley for someone who never even visited Alaska), and far, far away from management's busting of his ass for not doing his job.

One of the things that I remember most about Martin is his obsession with Robert Creeley. After winetasting one night, required by our employer, we went to his Denali Park Rot suite to discuss literature. Started talking about Creeley. And then reading aloud. Poem after poem. Until the buzz wore off and it was time for me to go home, not to worry about walking in the dark when it doesn't get dark.

I'd like to say that it was a mutual interest in Creeley that sealed the friendship, but it was really a mutual love of Boggle. And a lot of spare time. Martin, Tad and I played a ridiculous number of Boggle games that summer, Martin so sneaky and clever with short words that we'd never heard of. He was a Boggle master or genius or something like that.

Over the course of the summer Martin became interested in a woman, I've conveniently forgotten her name though I did like her. The thing that I remember most about this relationship is the letters. Daily, and before email as we know it, Martin would compose a letter to his love. Things silly. Things honest. Things erotic. To the Denali Park Post Office, with stamp. In day or two or three she would respond. To the Denali Park Post Office, stamp. Mailed to Martin's Post Office Box, same building as her post office box. This went on for nearly a summer until it became clear that the two should move in together. Towards the end of summer they found a lovely, secluded spot to live for winter. It seemed that naturally the letters would stop as Martin got to know his love in a new way. And they did. And the two were happy. For awhile. But one day when I asked Martin how he was doing it came out that he missed the letters. He missed the ritual of writing them. He missed sending them. He missed choosing the stamp to place on the letter. He missed checking his mailbox, waiting, anticipating a reply. He missed opening the letter. Reading things silly, things funny, things honest, things erotic. And he missed thinking about what he would say in reply.

So the letters began again.

Martin and I kept in touch for about a year after working in Alaska together. Letters, of course. I don't know where he is now. I wonder sometimes and when I read or hear a Creeley poem, I always think of him.