Chuck is a native son of the state of Maine, a Portland boy who fell through the cracks at an early age. 56 years old, he announces his birth date with the same line... every time.
"7 /7/54...3 days after the 4th of July. Mahahaha!!"
To say that Chuck is a little odd would be like saying that the waters of Casco Bay were a little chilly. Or that mud season in the cedar swamps of the Great North Woods was a little buggy. Even among the characters that make their living and live their lives on the waterfront, he is unique. He has his own language which few understand, for instance he calls maggots "cousins", wharf rats "little buddies", often acts out what he is attempting to communicate with sounds and actions. "
For the past 30 years he has worked this harsh environment, fishing, clamming, scalloping, working in the cutting houses filleting haddock, scraping the roe from the shells of sea urchins. Brutally hard and monotonous work. But for a man who cannot read or write, who is proud that he can tell the time from his prized wrist watch, who has lived his life trying unsuccessfully to stay out of jail and out of societies sight and mind, there are few other alternatives.
He could, of course, just give up as many in the growing welfare state have done, accepting the food stamps and the housing subsidies, the transportation stipends and the fuel oil assistance. But he is very proud and, if nothing else, intensely stubborn. It is how he has survived.
"Chuckie tales" filter through the waterfront. One disturbing story regards his childhood. As the story goes, his father beat him severely as a child and one day threw him out of the house. It had no running water, no toilet, no shower, but it had a porch. And the boy lived under the porch for several weeks... like a dog. He was asked what he ate during the ordeal and he explained that he was able to reach him fingers up through the cracks in the floor of the porch and eat the dogs food... unspeakable abuse.
Another story took place years later. Years of heavy drinking, drugging, 3 illegitimate children later... He had been dumpster picking, collecting cans and bottles is his second income, and felt the need for a bath, but being homeless, he was without the means. He improvised by buying a bottle of bubble bath from Joe's Smoke Shop and heading down State Street to Deering Oaks, a large public park with a pond which has a fountain in the middle. Before he waded into the pond, he hid his money, all $300, in a plastic bag wrapped in tin foil high in the crotch of a maple tree. When he got to the fountain, he poured the entire content of the bubble bath into the intake and made a huge amount of soap suds, took off his clothes and swam screaming and naked around the middle of the pond disappearing into the mountain of billowing suds.
The police responded and demanded he return to shore to which Chuckie replied "Come and get me!". And two police officers did paddle a canoe out to the fountain. And Chuckie did tip it over, retreating into the suds and laughing hysterically. He tipped over the second canoe as well, but by this time the pond was surrounded by policemen and they eventually got their man. The judge might have given him a lighter sentence if he hadn't flipped him off.The judge said "You can't do that in this court room!" Chuckie growled "I just did, didn't I!" Chuckie's comment was "I got a clean bed, 3 meals a day and even a shower in County. How bout that!... Good deal!" When he got out he went back to the park, climbed his tree and felt like the richest man in town, buying drinks for everyone at Bubba's Sulky Lounge.
In July, they found him. The letter from the IRS informed him that he owed $3500 in unpaid taxes and penalties for tax years 1999, 2000 and 2001 and placed a lien on his paycheck, this on top of the $20,000 attachment for back child support. For weeks he ignored the letter until the bait company pushed him take action... or his weekly paycheck would disappear.
He approached me as the sun was just breaking the horizon over Peaks Island. "Doin anything after work?" he mumbled. "What do you need, Chuckie?" I asked. "Need a ride to the IRS..." he growled. I nodded.
At 1:00 he climbed into the passenger seat of my truck dressed in his best holey jeans, a wife beater tee shirt, a backwards baseball cap and wearing a black elastic back brace. He wears the back brace because his back is shot from 30 years of hard labor and because he thinks it looks cool. He keeps 2 packs of Camels tucked in the waistband at all times. We both smelled like a bait barrel.
He was nervous, distant as we drove across the draw bridge to the IRS office. As we pulled into the parking lot he said, "They're probly gonna put me in jail. You keep this safe for me." He pulled a baggie of marijuana and a pipe from his waistband and shoved it in my glove compartment.
We took the stainless steel elevator to the second floor and he walked into the waiting area right passed the sign that said to push the green button and take a number. I followed the instructions and handed him his number. He wouldn't sit, shifted from foot to foot, looking disinterested, distant. Chuckie had his game face on.
The computer generated voice announced, "Number 116 to window 3." "That's you Chuck," I coached. The young woman behind the counter attempted to appear professional and businesslike though visible startled when Chuckie walked briskly to the window and scaled his ID at her like you would flip cards into a hat. He put one hand on the counter, turned sideways and stared into the distance. He learned long ago that the best defense is a good offense. The IRS agents nose began to crinkle up and several of the customers in line next to us covered their noses. I said, "Sorry for the smell. Just came from work." The woman in the next line stated the obvious. "Smells like fish." I smiled at her. "Yep, that's what we do". She smiled back. But the IRS agent didn't smile.
"What's the nature of your visit today, sir?" she queried warily. Chuckie whipped the document envelope from his back pocket, threw it across the counter and resumed his nonchalant pose, leaning on the counter, gazing at a bug on the wall across the room. She looked at me cautiously. "Am I authorized to discuss this information with this gentleman?" she asked motioning to me. Chuckie nodded without making eye contact.
She reviewed the documents, accessed her computer and spent 10 minutes reviewing screen after screen, occasionally rubbing the offensive stench from her nose. Finally, she spoke. "You must file taxes for years 2006, 2007 and 2008 before any further action can be taken. From our information years 2002 through 2005 need not be filed. Though you were due refunds in those years, because you did not file, your refunds are forfeit. The statute of limitations is 3 years for refunds." "What is the statue of limitations for taxes due?" I asked. "There is none," she responded curtly. I smiled. No surprise. "And then what?" I asked. "Any refund will be applied to the outstanding balance. Penalties will continue to accumulate until payment is made in full," she responded.
I said "OK, let's talk about the 06, 07, 08 filing. Can he claim the children to whom he is currently paying child support?" "Did the children reside with you during those tax years." she asked. Chuckie said, "What?" "Did your kids live with you Chuck?" I asked. "Haven't see them in 18 years." he said. No deductions there.
She continued down her checklist of questions. "Did you pay interest on your home mortgage?" she asked. "He's homeless," I said.
"Did you have any interest or dividends from bank accounts or investments?", she continued. "He's never had a bank account," I answered. "What about credit cards?" she asked. "Never had one of those either," Chuck said with pride.
"Did you pay excise tax on your vehicle?" she asked. "He has a bicycle," I answered. "Yup, a nice one," Chuckie added. "Did you have a second income?" she asked. "He collects bottles and cans," I said. "Does that count?" She was beginning to get flustered. "No, I don't think so. I'll have to check."
She continued down her list. "Did you employ any household employees?" immediately sensing the stupidity of the question. "He's homeless", I said sharply. "He lives in a storage room over a bait shop on the waterfront." Chuckie said, "I've got no place else to go."
Her final question was, "Did you suffer any physical or financial disasters during these tax years that impacted upon your estate?" I spread my hands, looked her in the eyes. "What could be more disastrous than this?" I implored. She shook her head. She had the picture.
A supervisor walked over to review the situation. His name badge said Harold Davis. "Are you a South Portland Davis?" I asked. "No," he huffed and walked away. Chuckie looked at me. "Just wondered if he was a cousin," I said. He grinned devilishly and said "They're ALL cousins!" (read maggots) and laughed loudly.
She provided us with reams of papers, copies of W2s, financial statement forms, tax booklets. Chuckie was impressed with the size of the pile, 2 inches in height. He looked at me and said, "Lotta words..." I winked and reassured him, "Don't worry Chuck. we'll work these up slick as a load of poggies." He grinned a toothless grin.
He strode out of the IRS with long, cocky strides, visibly relieved and breathing deeply. "He looked at his prized gold watch, "It's Beer:30," he crowed "Take me to Bubba's. I'll buy you a cold one!" I grinned. Budweiser cures many woes. We got to the truck and he immediately reached into the glove box, flicked his lighter and took a long hit on the pipe... right in the IRS parking lot. "Chuckie, not now! Let's get out of here!" I implored.
By Friday the tax forms were filed, the financial statement was submitted and the installment agreement was finalized... $6 a week in perpetuity. He will no doubt default on that when the fishing season ends and he becomes unemployed again, but for now he is in compliance. Mailing in monthly tax payments just isn't going to happen.
When I dropped him off at Bubba's on Friday, I declined the beer. He reached across the seat and shook my hand, not with a typical handshake. It was the handshake that bikers and dockworkers use. He placed his 3 fingered hand over our firmly grasped hands and spoke softly, gruffly. "Thank you ,brutha."
No, Charles... Thank you brother, for opening my eyes and for this story.
He approached me as the sun was just breaking the horizon over Peaks Island. "Doin anything after work?" he mumbled. "What do you need, Chuckie?" I asked. "Need a ride to the IRS..." he growled. I nodded.
At 1:00 he climbed into the passenger seat of my truck dressed in his best holey jeans, a wife beater tee shirt, a backwards baseball cap and wearing a black elastic back brace. He wears the back brace because his back is shot from 30 years of hard labor and because he thinks it looks cool. He keeps 2 packs of Camels tucked in the waistband at all times. We both smelled like a bait barrel.
He was nervous, distant as we drove across the draw bridge to the IRS office. As we pulled into the parking lot he said, "They're probly gonna put me in jail. You keep this safe for me." He pulled a baggie of marijuana and a pipe from his waistband and shoved it in my glove compartment.
We took the stainless steel elevator to the second floor and he walked into the waiting area right passed the sign that said to push the green button and take a number. I followed the instructions and handed him his number. He wouldn't sit, shifted from foot to foot, looking disinterested, distant. Chuckie had his game face on.
The computer generated voice announced, "Number 116 to window 3." "That's you Chuck," I coached. The young woman behind the counter attempted to appear professional and businesslike though visible startled when Chuckie walked briskly to the window and scaled his ID at her like you would flip cards into a hat. He put one hand on the counter, turned sideways and stared into the distance. He learned long ago that the best defense is a good offense. The IRS agents nose began to crinkle up and several of the customers in line next to us covered their noses. I said, "Sorry for the smell. Just came from work." The woman in the next line stated the obvious. "Smells like fish." I smiled at her. "Yep, that's what we do". She smiled back. But the IRS agent didn't smile.
"What's the nature of your visit today, sir?" she queried warily. Chuckie whipped the document envelope from his back pocket, threw it across the counter and resumed his nonchalant pose, leaning on the counter, gazing at a bug on the wall across the room. She looked at me cautiously. "Am I authorized to discuss this information with this gentleman?" she asked motioning to me. Chuckie nodded without making eye contact.
She reviewed the documents, accessed her computer and spent 10 minutes reviewing screen after screen, occasionally rubbing the offensive stench from her nose. Finally, she spoke. "You must file taxes for years 2006, 2007 and 2008 before any further action can be taken. From our information years 2002 through 2005 need not be filed. Though you were due refunds in those years, because you did not file, your refunds are forfeit. The statute of limitations is 3 years for refunds." "What is the statue of limitations for taxes due?" I asked. "There is none," she responded curtly. I smiled. No surprise. "And then what?" I asked. "Any refund will be applied to the outstanding balance. Penalties will continue to accumulate until payment is made in full," she responded.
I said "OK, let's talk about the 06, 07, 08 filing. Can he claim the children to whom he is currently paying child support?" "Did the children reside with you during those tax years." she asked. Chuckie said, "What?" "Did your kids live with you Chuck?" I asked. "Haven't see them in 18 years." he said. No deductions there.
She continued down her checklist of questions. "Did you pay interest on your home mortgage?" she asked. "He's homeless," I said.
"Did you have any interest or dividends from bank accounts or investments?", she continued. "He's never had a bank account," I answered. "What about credit cards?" she asked. "Never had one of those either," Chuck said with pride.
"Did you pay excise tax on your vehicle?" she asked. "He has a bicycle," I answered. "Yup, a nice one," Chuckie added. "Did you have a second income?" she asked. "He collects bottles and cans," I said. "Does that count?" She was beginning to get flustered. "No, I don't think so. I'll have to check."
She continued down her list. "Did you employ any household employees?" immediately sensing the stupidity of the question. "He's homeless", I said sharply. "He lives in a storage room over a bait shop on the waterfront." Chuckie said, "I've got no place else to go."
Her final question was, "Did you suffer any physical or financial disasters during these tax years that impacted upon your estate?" I spread my hands, looked her in the eyes. "What could be more disastrous than this?" I implored. She shook her head. She had the picture.
A supervisor walked over to review the situation. His name badge said Harold Davis. "Are you a South Portland Davis?" I asked. "No," he huffed and walked away. Chuckie looked at me. "Just wondered if he was a cousin," I said. He grinned devilishly and said "They're ALL cousins!" (read maggots) and laughed loudly.
She provided us with reams of papers, copies of W2s, financial statement forms, tax booklets. Chuckie was impressed with the size of the pile, 2 inches in height. He looked at me and said, "Lotta words..." I winked and reassured him, "Don't worry Chuck. we'll work these up slick as a load of poggies." He grinned a toothless grin.
He strode out of the IRS with long, cocky strides, visibly relieved and breathing deeply. "He looked at his prized gold watch, "It's Beer:30," he crowed "Take me to Bubba's. I'll buy you a cold one!" I grinned. Budweiser cures many woes. We got to the truck and he immediately reached into the glove box, flicked his lighter and took a long hit on the pipe... right in the IRS parking lot. "Chuckie, not now! Let's get out of here!" I implored.
By Friday the tax forms were filed, the financial statement was submitted and the installment agreement was finalized... $6 a week in perpetuity. He will no doubt default on that when the fishing season ends and he becomes unemployed again, but for now he is in compliance. Mailing in monthly tax payments just isn't going to happen.
When I dropped him off at Bubba's on Friday, I declined the beer. He reached across the seat and shook my hand, not with a typical handshake. It was the handshake that bikers and dockworkers use. He placed his 3 fingered hand over our firmly grasped hands and spoke softly, gruffly. "Thank you ,brutha."
No, Charles... Thank you brother, for opening my eyes and for this story.
