"We're an American Band"

In 1874, the Owosso Argus-Press printed the headline:

WHERE ARE THE TEETH OF JOE FOURNIER?

The newspaper had a daily circulation of 1,000 copies, but it printed 1,000 more that morning, asking, “Where are the teeth of Joe Fournier?” and sold out by noon. Joe Fournier bought one copy on his way to Flint, Michigan. His fame had reached a fever pitch, and three months earlier, he had been charging $5 to see the rows of teeth in his mouth. The loggers had gotten a glimpse of his hyperdontia for just a quarter when Joe Fournier was a lumberjack. Recognized for his size and strength, he sometimes chopped down an area of forest in a day that would take a team of five the same amount of time. They’d hold a lamp to his face under the red pine of the Hartwick forest and ask, “Who are you?” and when he smiled, they saw the rows of crooked teeth and gasped. They asked where he was from, but he lied and said he was from the circus. Their candle-lit faces spread like fire, and by the next morning, despite finishing a barrel of whiskey, every logger in the company knew of Joe Fournier.

Despite the dangers of logging, spectators from town and elsewhere, ranging from church congregations to government officials, increased his output and pleased his boss, Donald Brewer. They spoke at night and hatched a scheme. They sold 10-cent tickets to the curious, the average, and the skeptic. Joe cut down swaths of trees and showed his teeth to “Anyone with the guts to confront the mouth of razor marble,” as the hand-painted signs said past the ticket booth, “Caution... He has no control over his bite.”

The other loggers did not envy the attention he received, but they did find it distracting and, a week later, confronted their boss, saying it was them or Joe. Donald asked for a day to think it over, and that night he spoke with his prized position.

“I’ll get you your own train car, and instead of splitting everything down the middle, I’ll pay you a monthly wage of 300 dollars.”

A staggering price, and Joe was honored, but he said, “At the end of the day, I’m a logger, and I cannot do this forever.”

“Exactly!” said Donald. “You won’t have to work so hard scaring little children who dare one another to look into your mouth. Cash in now. 300 is double what I pay a bull-puncher.”

“Yes, yes, this is right, but I enjoy logging and would like to continue to do so while I still can, and if I happen to make an extra hundred, then that is nice.”

The truth of the matter is, Joe knew his worth and did not want a partner. It would only be a matter of time before the trees in Michigan would be gone, and so would any interest in his teeth, which he rarely saw. It was only at the river he could see the reflection others paid to stare at.

He traveled to the Upper Peninsula, and like the Hartwick woods, he struck like a match in Copper Harbor. He never paid for a drink or meal, and the ferry captains loved him. Their boats had never been so full, and were constantly crossing the lake. They absolutely adored him and even advertised his freakish mouth and chopping abilities on the side of their ferries. Still, Joe overheard one of the ferry drivers, a short, stocky man, red as a herring, and just as slimy, named Amos Bunyan, talk about the killing they were making at a table of the Sunken Anchor. So Joe asked for a cut to a group of ferry captains.

“You cut the trees,” They said. “You have no business with what we do out on the water. Plus, we advertise you for free, and bring you business you might not otherwise have had.”

“Without me,” said Joe. “Your boats would be empty, and your schedules would be cut in half. The copper is almost gone, and this will be a town people might pay to leave.”

The captains looked at one another, removed their corn-cob pipes, and said, “No!” to his proposal for a percentage of their earnings. So Joe headed south, into Wisconsin, lining his pockets with cash along the way. So much so, he had to hire a Chippewa named Ox to be his bodyguard. Ox was covered in clay and berries and was two inches taller than Joe. He was intimidating to look at, but he and Joe got on over a fire and salmon. Ox respected Joe, and though he was bigger, he never entertained the idea that he could chop a tree like Joe could. Ox believed Joe was special, and so did Joe, who did everything he could to not look like a logger. He rid himself of his flannel and work boots and took to wearing bow ties, vests, and dinner jackets. He never had a beard, kept his hair short, and crowds believed the signs that said he had never logged in his life.

By 1870, Amos had been fired, as had most people with non-essential jobs. Copper Harbor was officially without copper, as Joe predicted, and many packed up and headed for greener pastures, but Amos, whom the ferry captains blamed for scaring away a great draw, sent him to retrieve Joe and handed him a stamped offer Amos was told not to open. He found Joe Fournier outside Appleton, Wisconsin, and paid a dollar to watch him do what Amos had seen him do so many times before, but when he walked over to Joe’s tent, he was confronted by a blue Indian who terrified him and sent him back to the Upper Peninsula. Joe might have taken the generous offer if Amos had only spoken to Ox, who let most people see Joe, unless he was resting or playing cards with women. Then they would have to wait on a fresh stump. As Ox said, “Without others there is no self,” and Joe Fournier was generous with others, but thought about the time that had gone by and wasn’t sure who he saw when he looked at his reflection in any body of water. He certainly didn’t look like himself in his fancy clothes, and couldn’t remember what he used to be. There was no moment when he wasn’t alone, and over time, no matter how much money he and Ox made, he noticed his melancholy when they passed a logging company, wishing to return to work, even if it was just for a week. He tried this, but his fellow loggers wanted to see his mouth, and the work slowed to a point that the owners, unable to look him in the eye, would let him go. He was an attraction, yes, but that was also a distraction. The logging companies were moving further and further west, and if you fell behind, nothing would be left when you arrived a month after Donald Brewer.

Amos Bunyan was chastised, and when they saw the offer was still sealed with wax, the destitute ferry operators ran him out of town. Long after they had returned to Copper Harbor, Amos could hear them laughing at him to the point that he was accusing rocks of questioning his merit.

It seemed like everywhere Amos went, Joe and Ox just left. The people had only delightful stories to tell of Joe’s capacity to clear yards of forest with a stroke, and their children could not stop talking about his teeth, which angered Amos until he decided to kill them.

He followed them around the lake, through Illinois, Indiana, and then back into Michigan, where Joe refused to cut down the few trees left. He saw no purpose or monetary value in it, but did see the disappointment on the boys and girls who were too young to remember the last time he was around. Some even didn’t think it was him, but when they asked him to open his mouth, they saw the rows of teeth and screamed for free. Joe felt like a monster. He started looking back on his decisions and regretted not staying with Donald Brewer until he heard that Donald had retired, given the company to his son, now in Montana, and had moved to Flint. It was hard for Joe and Ox to travel. He was recognized everywhere, even in his fancy dress, for that was what newspaper men drew when they wrote about this man who was never a logger. So they camped instead of staying in town, despite the amount of money they carried and hardly spent. They preferred hunting to restaurants and inns, and one night, over a fire, Ox thought he smelled a skunk, but it was Amos Bunyan, running toward them with a rock that was meant to crack open Joe’s head, but he tripped on a branch and landed in the fire instead. They didn’t kill him, but they also didn’t move him as he was burnt alive, down to the bone by the following morning. Ox had an idea that could spare Joe the time and trouble of being Joe Fournier. They scattered Joe’s clothes, axe, and a decent chunk of money around Amos’s skeleton.

“They’ll think you’re dead,” said Ox.

“But what about my teeth?” asked Joe.

Ox thought for a moment and then smashed Amos’s skull with the very rock he intended for Joe. They waited in a cave along Lake Michigan, and Joe grew a beard for the first time and looked like your average logger in stained long underwear, work pants, and flannel. Ox passed the time with shells and Amos’s skull fragments that eventually became two horns. They left and realized they had not seen anyone in a long time, and were shocked to see the headline of the Owosso Argus-Press:

WHERE ARE THE TEETH OF JOE FOURNIER?

Joe was startled, and when he bought a copy, an elderly man who sold him the paper asked him if they had met before.

“No,” said Joe.

“What’s your name?”

Joe just read the first name he saw behind the old man, amongst the few books for sale in his shack.

“Paul.”

“You look awfully familiar, Paul. What’s your last name?”

“Bunyan.”

The man gasped.

“I hope there isn’t any relation to Amos Bunyan, is there?”

“Who’s that?”

“Where have you been, a cave? The man who killed Joe Fournier.”

“Oh, no relation.”

The old man grabbed Joe’s shoulder as he tried to walk away.

“But of course, there are skeptics. For one, the head is gone, cept’ for a few pieces, and thus unidentifiable, which would have been easy since Joe had rows and rows of teeth. Plus, parts of his legs and arms were missing too! But it’s his things, and quite a bit of money for someone to just leave like that, unless you were that murdering Amos Bunyan, and that Injun who helped him out.”

Joe had not been careful, wondered why the man had not seen his teeth, and chalked it up to the beard, but Ox was right behind him.

“Who’s that?”

“Ox.”

“I don’t have my spectacles with me, traded them in for a pint of the sweet, but I don’t think I ever saw a blue ox before, what’s his name?”

“Babe.”

“Babe?”

“Yep. Ok, we got to get going, nice talking to you, mister.”

“So long, Paul Bunyan! Give Babe a sugar cube the next time you can for me, will ya?”

“Without a doubt,” said Joe.

It took two days on foot to get to Flint, and by the time they got there, word had spread of a blue ox named Babe that took everyone’s mind off the Joe Fournier murder case, and had children scouring fields and acres of stumps for a blue ox. The old man even drew a picture that ended up in every newspaper in the state.

An aged Donald Brewer answered the door and squinted his eyes. “Why, you must be Paul Bunyan, and this must be your famous blue ox, Babe.”

“It’s me, Donald, Joe, Joe Fouriner.”

“But Joe is dead.”

Joe opened his mouth, and Donald nearly had a heart attack.

“My god! Joe! What happened?”

“Nothing, just a change of pace is all.”

“Come in, come in. Not the ox, though.”

“This is Ox; he’s a Chippewa.”

“God, I need to get my glasses. Come in both of ya.”

And like before, Joe and Donald spoke that night and hatched a scheme. Paul and Babe were to join his son and their logging company, once again igniting the public’s imagination, except Paul would be able to chop wood and hide his teeth with his beard, and Donald Brewer’s family would get 10 percent of their gross. The Brewers never stopped enriching their lives, and nearly a century later, the Brewer family’s legacy and financial situation were secure enough to bankroll his great-great-great-grandson’s band, Grand Funk Railroad, and their drummer, Don Brewer, wrote “We’re an American Band,” produced by Todd Rundgren. When Todd asked Don how they got off the ground, he said Paul Bunyan and his blue ox, Babe.