THE MOST UNFORGETTABLE CHARACTER I EVER MET
“The Most Unforgettable Character I Ever Met” was
a popular, long-running series of personal essays published in Reader’s Digest magazine, featuring stories about people who left a lasting impression on the storytellers. These characters enriched lives through humor, wisdom, adventure, and affection, each possessing a unique regard for humanity, each a gem reflecting its own light. Includes: “A Life to Tell” by Lowell Thomas, “The Brain & I” by Jackie Robinson, “Lady Chimney Sweep” by Rumer Godden, “Rare Benchley” by Marc Connelly, “To the Gates of Troy” by Andromache Schliemann Melas, “Cole Porter” by George Eells, and “Old-Timer” by Alex Haley.
Decades ago, I was a big fan of this particular feature. Each month I sought out the latest character and enjoyed meeting a new, impressive individual. Sometimes funny. Sometimes sad. But, always entertaining.
A previous post, Bury My Heart At Wounded Knee, broached the subject of an Unforgettable Character when I mentioned the young Indian man who introduced me to Dee Brown’s gut twisting, heart rendered, tear filled, haunting chronicle of Native American resistance and betrayal.
I have three who fit this category, and all were customers of the beer bar I owned – MINGO 31. Located at 31st & Mingo at Tulsa, Oklahoma.
Memory loss, which I attribute mostly to age and alcohol, prevent my remembering their name, nonetheless, I do vividly recall their exploits.
The first gentleman was a pro football player for the Houston Oilers. At that time none of the regular patrons believed him. We researched and found out he was, indeed, telling us the truth. Corner Back for Houston.
This man could drink!
Description: With a body that still hints at the athlete he once was—lean, agile, with shoulders that remember the weight of pads and the thrill of the sprint. But time and whiskey have softened the edges. His face is gaunt, with sunken cheeks and a jaw that juts out. His eyes, once sharp, now carry a glassy haze. His skin is pale. A faded tattoo of his jersey number on his right shoulder. A ghost of years gone by.
A beer only bar did not prevent him from becoming outrageously drunk on every occasion of his appearance . He often stayed after closing time and we drank more beer, and I listened to his stories about his playing days. I was a huge fan of the Oilers and hung on every word of his retelling his football quotidian.
The police, on occasion, would come in and take a look-see in hopes of finding a fugitive and/or checking to see if any customer was drunk. They never found any, but I had to be always on alert should they appear unannounced.
One night, he, the ex-football player and I, were the only ones in the bar. My buddy was totally wiped out as was the case every time he came in. We are swapping tales, the entrance door opens and in walks a cop. He sees the unstable, word slurring, condition of my friend and orders me not to serve him. Cut him off. No more tonight. Yes, sir.
After the officer leaves, my friend immediately demands another mug of Coors Light, and I comply. He swills down about half the contents of the mug, when the door opens and, yep, the same cop enters. This time, however, he is not too congenial. He threatens to close down the bar if I serve another beer. Finally, his position of authority, reproof, and condemnation of my actions penetrate my thick, inebriated brain.
I closed the bar and go home.
Next up.
A New York irishman. Who will remain nameless because I am unable to remember it. He was the odd-man out type. Not one of the regular customers took a shine to this fellow. In fact, they avoided him altogether.
Description: He has a face carved by wind and whiskey. His jaw is square and stubborn, framed by a beard that’s flecked with gray. High cheekbones sit beneath eyes the color blue with a hint of green, always watching, always judging. His nose is slightly crooked from a long-forgotten brawl, and his brow is heavy. Freckles dot his ruddy skin. A large man, thick boned. Not young, but the body was filled by muscle mass. An imposing figure, without doubt.
I never saw him drunk, though he drank heavily. We had many strange conversations after a “getting to know you” period that lasted, maybe a month.
He posited several ideas.
A plumber who worked for my dad. Pop was the honcho who ran a construction plumbing crew. John, lets call him John. John was at all times very serious when, some would say, our bizarre conversations took place.
John wanted, or needed large sums of money. He confided to me that the idea of running guns to rebels in Mexico would produce huge profits, notwithstanding the dangers involved in such an undertaking. We would combine our monetary resources to purchase the weapons.
Thusly, he could garner the monies to sustain the lifestyle to which he desired. Me? I would become a porn star – produce my own movies.
Akin to an aging cowboy, after several months, he faded into the sunset and was never heard from again. Whether he became a gun runner, I will never know.
I never became a porn star.
NUMBER THREE
Clifford. I remember Cliff. Why? Because he eventually bought the bar from me. 1983, the end to a five year run as owner of the most frequented beer bar in Tulsa.
Description: Clifford stands tall, even in old age—his frame rawboned and angular. His shoulders slope gently beneath a worn tweed jacket. His hair is a soft silver, combed back with care, and his face is a map of creases. Cliff was one of the first professional basketball players. A Phillips 66 employee he was a player on their team.
Phillips 66 pro basketball team.
The Phillips 66ers was a professional basketball team, not in the NBA, but a powerhouse in the Amateur Athletic Union (AAU) from the 1920s until its dissolution in 1968 known for winning multiple national championships and producing Olympic athletes like Bob Kurland. Phillips 66 also currently sponsors the Big 12 Men’s Basketball Championship, but the team itself is a historical entity.
In 83, I was 41 years old. Cliff was older. Much older. Moldy.
Always took the same bar stool, if available, and drank three 12 ounce glasses of beer, Bud Light, at a very leisurely pace that would consume nearly two hours before his wife called the bar. Sometimes, a man drinking beer does not want to leave at the time of the disruptive phone call from home. When wives call, the bartender merely calls out loudly the name and waits for the person to signal that he will or will not take the call. Absolution for the bartender.
Sometimes, the wife knows her husband is indeed in the bar and insists she wants to talk to the old soak with whom she indulges conjugality. Again, call out the name. Same routing. She wins some, loses most.
After five years, I had enough piss smelling bathrooms, banging willing females, sleeping on the pool table, under the shuffle board, in the stock room, cocaine, beer, drunks, soak, sots, and alcoholics to last me for awhile.
Time to sell.
It becomes clear after announcing my desire to be shed of the bar, Cliff has been observing, calculating, deciding how he would run this establishment if he were the owner.
I sell. He buys.
It didn’t take long for him to lose all the patrons. He was a hawk capturing doves, a fox in the henhouse, a bear in the honeypot. His personality was not a fit with that required of a bar owner. Mingo 31 was soon an empty shell of its former self.
Cliff killed her.
Because the bartender is more than just a drink-slinger—they’re the unofficial therapist, the midnight confessor, the keeper of secrets and silence. They listen without judgment. In a world that often rejects or misunderstands them, the bartender offers a rare kind of neutrality. No forms to fill, no diagnoses—just a nod, a pour, and maybe a story in return. They don’t flinch at pain. Bartenders have heard it all: heartbreak, failure, rage, regret. Misfits sense that and feel safe revealing their own scars. They’re storytellers and survivors. Many bartenders are misfits themselves—people who’ve lived hard, loved recklessly, and learned to carry on. That authenticity is magnetic.
That’s all folks.