Following Richard Brautigan

Following Richard Brautigan Corey Mesler LIVINGSTON PRESS THE UNIVERSITY OF WEST ALABAMA *A Barmy Ghost I first began following Richard Brautigan in 1986. By this time, he had been dead for 2 years. So, haunted, I was following a ghost, a barmy ghost first ensorcelled by the incandescence of a haunted decade called The Sixties, in an enchanted fiefdom called America, a place of libraries and trout streams, watermelon sugar and loco weed. This is not fancy on my part. This ghost, the ghost of the writer Richard Brautigan, was as real as man’s wonder, as solid as, as Mark Twain said, a gob of mud. And I followed, at first, out of fear and astonishment, and then, reader, out of love. So, this, like many a tragedy before it, is a love story. * My Name Is Jack One normally comes to Richard Brautigan the same way one comes to the Beats. In early adulthood, when the world seems maladjusted and slightly off its axis. When the establishment, that you’ve been longing to deride, seems ready-made for ridicule, dadaism, revolt. These writers speak to young minds like spirits to mediums. 2 Corey Mesler *My Name Thus it was for me. I read The Abortion when I was 21. It became a very personal book for me, a totem, a talisman. I carried my little orange mass market paperback around with me as if in so doing I could transform myself from the moony, wispy, inconsequential struggling college student into a force for art and lunacy and holy hipsters and change. In a way that little paperback created a new me. I quit college and got a job in a bookstore. I wanted to be a bohemian in the worst way. Forget that I came from the shitbox suburbs of a minor Mid- American city. Oklahoma City did not have a golden gate. It had an industrial decuman. I was on the bus. I was headed Further On. My name is Jack. *One’s Need for the Quest, or Sir Galahad, Are You Really Taking Your Olivetti? Next, I read The Revenge of the Lawn, a collection of short stories. But, were these short stories? They were certainly unlike anything I had come across in school. They had Hemingway’s reticence and brevity but seemed to peter out before reaching a Hemingwayesque conclusion. They were witty and weird and made out of ticky-tack. In short, I loved them. And, in a way, I was thumbing my nose at my college professors, the ones who hadn’t read a book published since 1945. The ones who made me read musty old dead men who told tales dripping with sense of place and Following Richard Brautigan 3 character development. I admit: I was a nose thumber. But that doesn’t diminish Brautigan’s appeal. His charm. He is one of the most charming, beguiling authors ever to put Olivet to foolscap. Bless his blond head, I thought. And, of course, at this time Richard Brautigan was alive and, I thought, living in San Francisco, the birthplace of hippiedom, the home of City Lights Bookstore, a halidom, Mecca for radical readers. The truth was that he was all over the place: Montana, Japan, Nirvana. But I had him placed in San Francisco, and it was to San Francisco that I was to make my first adult journey, on a holy quest, with the zeal of a would-be poet and street-fighter. *The Straight Line Was Called Interstate 40 By this time I had devoured all of Brautigan’s books. The year was 1975. The year before I had taken another step on that shimmering stairway to adulthood: I had bought my first hardback book, The Hawkline Monster. It stamped my ticket. I had to travel. I had to find the roots of these works of wonder. I was dewy-eyed. I was goony. And, worst of all, I was not a traveler. I scrounged a map off my father—it was old enough that it said “Esso” on it, and this magic word: “Free.” But it showed me something else, something that I took as a sign, at a time when I took many things as signs. There was a straight line between Oklahoma City and The West Coast. That straight line was called Interstate 40. It was new. It was virginal. It demanded that I climb aboard. My parents took the news of my imminent departure with 4 Corey Mesler their customary incongruous hysteria. “You can’t just take off,” my mother said, with the kind of finality one expected of life-changing pronouncements. “Where will you stay?” my more practical father added. “I’ll find places,” I said, unsure of myself, but sensing that this step—the denouncing of the pull of one’s genitors—was an important one. “You’ll find places,” my mother spat. “What about your job?” my father asked. “I’ve already asked Mrs. Tweedy. She said I could take a vacation, though I wouldn’t qualify for a paid one for another six months.” “That’s another thing. Money.” They had me there. I had very little money. I was drunk on the 60s. Money was evil, something gas companies created by raping the Mid-east, something bankers stacked up in their bedrooms to tantalize starlets. Filthy lucre. Blood money. Or, as Freud, who I hadn’t read at that time, would have it: shit. “I was kind of hoping,” I said, my emboldened Sweet Sir Galahad stance going limp, “that you would lend it to me.” Reader, they reluctantly agreed that I was old enough to make my own disasters. And my father pulled me aside—oh, sweet secret colloquy—and asked me how much I thought I needed. *The Steering Wheel Felt Like a Dali Watch The Steering wheel felt like a Dali watch. It seemed to melt Following Richard Brautigan 5 in my hands. It would not stay upright, round, functional. I was dreaming. It was the night before I was to leave. I abandoned that rack of torture, the insomniac’s bed, and took to the chair under the lamp in the den. There I re-read passages from In Watermelon Sugar and The Pill Versus the Springhill Mining Disaster. I studied the photographs on the covers. Brautigan. Kind- spirit. The white night stretched out in front of me like a magic carpet. I was already traveling. And though I worried that the lack of sleep might hinder my performance behind the wheel of a car, I was kissed by angels, the angels of whimsy, the angels of surrealism. Bookish angels! And when dawn broke—an egg on a radiator—I was ready. I can do this, I said to myself, and myself answered, that’s a pretty poor pep talk, but, hell, let’s give it a shot. *Charon, Steer Me Past L.A. Oklahoma City, Las Vegas, Los Angeles, San Francisco. The straight line that my imagination had created took me first to Los Angeles—I had to take a Bugs Bunny left to get to my ultimate destination. The City of Angels they call it. A great big freeway they call it. I was happy to head toward Hippie Central. Los Angeles seemed Stygian to me. And when I first drove into SF I felt like a mariner touching land. But I was not a mariner—a buccaneer—but a footpad, a cross-country adventurer, a naïf. The city that opened 6 Corey Mesler before me like a book, a euchologion, was beautiful in its ramshackle, hilly recklessness. My heart gulped air like my carburetor. If a carburetor gulps air. I say it does. I found a seedy hotel near Portrero Hill. I was sure Brautigan had mentioned Portrero Hill. It seemed a good augury. My first Brautigan-flash, an ur-epiphany. The gateway to later epiphanic synchronicity. This is the way my mind worked. Stay with me. And when I threw my tired body down on that plywood bed I knew the exhilaration of the fortunate, the blessed. I was in San Francisco, in my own hotel room. I immediately let my mind go a-roaming, looking at the Maine-shaped water stain on the ceiling and in it seeing the face of every woman I had ever wanted. It was a rite of passage. My propylaeum to adulthood. The saintly ostiary waved me by. *The Map of Me My name is Jack. My name is Jack and I am in San Francisco, the same city where Richard Brautigan resides. Or so I believe. Do I expect to run into him on the street? Do I expect to stop him and say, “Richard Brautigan, you are more than the sum of your parts; you are a special piece of my personal geography, the map of me? Why am I here? Why is anyone? Why is anyone? Following Richard Brautigan 7 *Some Reference Material Enters the Story ‘There are reasons why writers who write a lot, as Rudyard (Kipling) did, have big appetites. They are dancing bundles of desire. Writers who write crave sex, peanuts, and Nobel Prizes. They crave; they itch; they lust; they are alive. Whether they manage this mélange of desires well is a separate matter. But without this dancing, pressing desire they would sit quietly like old folks lined up in the corridor of a nursing home. Honor your goal to create a world by burning with desire. Be incandescent - or nothing will happen” —Eric Maisel, from A Writer’s San Francisco *Antigone’s Jockstrap So, on my first day in San Francisco I go where any literary hobo would go, to The Promised Land.

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