Gringos

Imagine Indiana Jones down on his luck, living in a hotel room in the Yucatan peninsula.  No longer dealing in stolen Mayan artifacts, he's scratching out a living as a scavenger and bounty hunter.

That's Jimmy Burns, a generous easy-going guy with many eccentric and largely ungrateful friends.

There's Doc Landin, a maverick archeologist who wants to make one last trip into the jungle so he can be buried with an Olmec figurine in his mouth.

There's Rudy Kurle, a follower of von Daniken, who believes that "space dwarfs" civilized the Mayans.

There's Refugio Bautista Osorio, who runs a trading post and salvage yard, and counts "his wealth in fifty-five gallon drums."

Burns makes a delivery to a dysfunctional archeological dig, travels into the jungle when Rudy goes missing, and encounters a band of hippies who are awaiting the end of the world at the "Inaccessible City of Dawn."

The book is peppered throughout with archeological lore, Spanish words and phrases, and convincing details of life in Mexico. It has more of an edge than his other books, which makes a fine counterpoint to the wryly comic observations.

There is one misstep, though, and that's in a sudden burst of violence near the end. It's totally unnecessary. My only other complaint is that Gringos is Portis's fifth and last novel.

The others are Norwood, True Grit, Dog of the South, and Masters of Atlantis.

Unofficial Charles Portis Website
Charles Portis Appreciation Society

True Grit

The novels of Charles Portis are alike in their southern voice and setting, their humorous dialogue and eccentric characters.

Where True Grit differs from the others is that it takes place in the past -- during the 1870s after the American Civil War.

It's an anti-western.

Mattie Ross is a 14-year-old girl whose father has been shot down by a hired hand named Tom Chaney.

She sets out after him with a Texas Ranger named LaBeouf (pronounced "LaBeef"), and a one-eyed federal marshall named Rooster Cogburn, who eats corn dodgers and drinks "double-rectified busthead."

On one level the book reads like a YA novel, particularly at its climax, which involves a cave inhabited by bats, snakes and a skeleton.

But it is rescued from this one misstep by great dialogue, Mattie's pungent observations, and an ending that is far from treacly.

A sample:

I sat at one corner of the table between her and a tall, long-backed man with a doorknob head and a mouthful of prominent teeth. He and Mrs. Floyd did most of the talking. He traveled about selling pocket calculators. He was the only man there wearing a suit of clothes and a necktie. He told some interesting stories about his experiences but the others paid little attention to him, being occupied with their food like hogs rooting in a bucket. "Watch out for those chicken and dumplings," he told me. Some of the men stopped eating. "They will hurt your eyes," he said. A dirty man across the table in a smelly deerskin coat said, "How is that?" With a mischievous twinkle the drummer replied. "They will hurt your eyes looking for the chicken." I thought it a clever joke but the dirty man said angrily, "You squirrelheaded son of a bitch," and went back to eating.

The book contains laudatory quotes from Esquire, The New York Times, The Saturday Review and from Jonathem Lethem, Roald Dahl, and Walker Percy (the man who saved A Confederacy of Dunces from oblivion).

The Dog of the South

When Ray Midge’s wife, Norma, runs off with her former husband, Guy Dupree, Ray sets out after them -- not so much to reclaim Norma but to get back his Ford Torino and his credit cards.

The chase, if it can be called that, is a rather desultory affair that leads eventually to Mexico and Belize.

Along the way Ray encounters Dr. Reo Symes, a rogue of the same ilk as Dupree, and a bail bondsman named Jack Wilkie. All are typical Portis characters, eccentric, self-absorbed, and ineffectual.

Ray is a sweet oddball, while Dupree and Symes are pathetic con men. Here’s Symes reflecting on an earlier incident in his medical career:

"A patient named J.D. Brimlett developed osteomyelitis,” said the doctor. “That was the claim anyway. I’m convinced he already had it. He had everything else. Emphysema, glaucoma, no adrenal function, you name it. Two little hard dark lungs like a pair of dessicated prunes. "He belonged in a carnival instead of an arthritis clinic. The world’s sickest living man. No blood pressure to speak of and you couldn’t find a vein to save your ass. Renal failure on top of everything else. The Mayo brothers couldn’t have pulled that chump through, but no, it was my zinc that killed him. A class B irritant poison, they said. "I should have screened him out. I should have closed my eyes and ears to his suffering and sent him on his way. I didn’t do it and I’ve been paying for that mistake ever since. There’s always a son of a bitch like Brimlett hanging around, doing anything to get attention, dying even and just ruining things for everybody else. Do you want it in a nutshell? I was weak. I was soft."

Symes has a broken-down schoolbus named "The Dog of the South," which makes a brief appearance early in the book. Using it as the novel's title suggests that other journeys in the book will end up in a similar state, for the characters themselves are leading broken-down lives.

Charles Portis is a former marine and newspaperman (New York Herald Tribune). He’s written five unusual comic novels: Norwood, True Grit, The Dog of the South, Masters of Atlantis, and Gringos. His gentle portrayal of eccentrics, typified by self-serving monologues and folksy expressions (“in a nutshell”), have made him something of a cult figure.

Unofficial Website

Masters of Atlantis

This is a comic novel about some loopy characters who create a secret society based upon a document obtained from a con man. In a typical passage, a chap named Golescu (his name supposedly means "not many camels") demonstrates his skills:

See, not only is Golescu writing with both hands but he is also looking at you and conversing with you at the same time in a most natural way. Hello, good morning, how are you? Good morning, Captain, how are you today, very fine, thank you. And here is Golescu still writing and at the same time having his joke on the telephone. Hello, yes, good morning, this is the Naval Observatory but no, I am very sorry, I do not know the time. Nine-thirty, ten, who knows? Good morning, that is a beautiful dog, sir, can I know his name, please?

My only reservation is that the characters are so completely batty that after a while they seem no more real than a Saturday morning cartoon. More moments like the one in which a member of the Gnomon Society is grilled by a Senate Committee, and appears more level-headed than his questioners, could have lifted the book to the level of greatness.

Another snippet:

"Tell me, how is Mr. Bates?" "He's in a nursing home." "You're not serious." "His back was hurting and so they pulled all his teeth." "Doing fairly well now?" "His back still hurts. He can't eat anything." "But coming around nicely? Getting proper care?" "They don't turn him over often enough." "He's bedfast?" "Not exactly." "Gets up every day and puts on his clothes?" "Not altogether, no. Not every day." "Off his feed, you say." "No, he stays hungry. He just can't chew anything." "But his color's good?" "Not real good." "But otherwise fit? Has all his faculties? Takes an interest in community affairs?" "Not much, no."

Will I read more Charles Portis? Absolutely.