Charlie White: 1986-2026

(One of the White brothers from St. Louis. A Coastie's recollections.)

There was a minor in the back seat with the 12 pack. His brother was underway and thought we should show him around - he was just out of Boot and transferred to the area. The 12 pack was for frisbee golf. The drive would take 20 minutes on the freeway, 30 with traffic. There was traffic.

“Pull over,” is what he said from the back seat. It was a muffled “pull over,” the sound of a man struggling to speak. But the words came out clear enough, compact with meaning. At a snail’s pace, ¼ mile from the off ramp, there was no where to pull over. “I can’t pull over.” The back door opened. I twisted in the passenger seat and looked back. There he was, in all his glory, leaning out the door, moving at 5 miles per hour, traffic on every side of us, Charlie White, as a minor, puking on the freeway.

Charlie had finished the 12 pack. Charlie had finished the 12 pack by himself. Charlie had finished the 12 pack by himself, in less than 30 minutes.

I wasn’t his 12 pack…

He always had a way about sharing, Charlie White. He would take you in, and though you were stray, he’d have a way about making you feel as if you weren’t. As if his, was yours – home, couch, bed, car, boat, beer, liquor, money, cigarettes. They were yours, so Charlie would make you feel. I once made his Red Wing hunting boots mine. He cared. He cared and then he made a tactical belt of mine his. There was no discussion. He made me feel like not a stray. Not a mutt. Not a bad dog. I wore the soles out of those boots. Another time I took a hoodie, a XXL hoodie that still says Bissell Lounge. He hung my photos and art on his fridge. Others throw away my art.

He could open his throat to allow fluid to pour directly into his stomach. He won every drinking contest.

I stayed with him for a while on the river. We visited his uncle. He had so much love towards that man. His uncle died some time later, and I gave my condolences. Charlie didn’t want what I had to give. He shrugged as if death is just a part of it. There’s work. There’s play. There’s life. There’s death. What else is there to say?  Why not do the work you want to do. Play hard. And death will come no matter what – so what other option is there.

He talked me into joining the Army Corps of Engineers. The job kept him at sea, where he could kick his feet up on the aft rail and watch the river. He could watch the Gulf. The blood stream of his life – home. He had another DUI and was looking at trouble with work, never mind the other troubles. He might get fired and lose access to the River, to the Gulf, to the Sea. He asked if I could send a custom chart t-shirt to his boss – he wanted to brown nose his boss. I had to get him back for those boots I had worn through. So, yeah. I sent his boss a shirt…

He disappeared to the PNW. Lived by the sound. Lived in the forest. I imagine in a PWT trailer. But I don’t know. Don’t much know what he was doing up there. Had a woman. They had a kid. There was some trouble.

Charlie talked about smoking crack. I could relate.

I landed in St. Louis and called him. He said to meet at the bar. I couldn’t, I was on probation with a DUI. He was too. I said I’d Uber. He came and picked me up. My girlfriend was in the back seat, Charlie was drinking a beer in the front seat and laughing like a big ass bear of a man laughs. I could see my girlfriend shaking her head via the mirror. I wanted to stop and boot her from the car. I wanted to get wasted with Charlie….

He took me and my son fishing. He had shit to do. A doctor’s appointment at the VA. He didn’t do it. He took me and my son fishing up the river instead. A workday. A beautiful morning on the river. Me. My son. Charlie White. John boat. Gar everywhere. It was 8am and Charlie was drinking a white claw. Sitting on a cooler full of beer. He’s 22 years from being a minor…

Charlie died in a corn field at the age of 40. His Harley by his side. Something like that. Middle of the night.

I see the tragedy.

I also see the life.

Good god it’s all so much. What an epic chance, a one time fucking chance we have. Not everyday you get lucky enough to be motivated like a minor like Charlie. By a man like Charlie. By a legacy like Charlie’s.