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XVIII
The Eagles Bar
During happy hour at the Eagles, you could get two shots of George Dickel
for one dollar. David Schreiber was the bartender there and he always made
sure that there was plenty of Dickel. This in itself mad the Eagles into
nirvana for Richard. But even as cheap as the primo booze was and as
liberal as Schreiber was with the shots, Richard sometimes worked up tabs
over $200 in a night buying drinks for himself and friends. Burger night
on Friday was the extra special time. though Richard was at the Eagles
many other nights too. On burger night, he held court. Brad, Dobro, Scoop
(Karen Datko from the Bozeman Chronicle), Sean Cassity, Georgia, Mary, and
friends and admirers from the town and the university would cluster at
Richard's table and he would entertain the troops by doing things like
hiding a turkey gizzard in a tumbler of tequila and trying to trick Dobro
into drinking it, or having me slobber through my hat, or having Mary
strut across the room so he could leer at her. Even the old established
Eagles Club members and the alcoholic regulars grew to know and like
Richard. Many of them would bring him samples of their writing, and talk
for hours about literature with him, and he would be more kind, patient
and understanding than a paid professor. The Eagles Club members even
offered Richard the honor of joining their organization., He was no
hotshot outsider; he became the insider. As dirty and fruit fly infested
as that bar seemed, there is still something magic about it, though it is
like a giant empty tomb now. When Sean and I heard about Richard's death,
we went down to the Eagles, bought black Eagles hats for mourning and set
up a glass of Dickel for Richard. Ironically, it was the last bottle they
had, left over from when Richard left a year before. We finished it off
but left Richard's glass full on the table. I wasn't so sure it was such a
good idea, but Sean took me around to all of Richard's old haunts to start
making it bearable. By the way, Bozeman Creek runs right under the Eagles
bar, and in the spring when the water is high, during rare silence at
Richard's old table, you will probably be able to hear it.
Here is a poem
about the above referenced story that is published in Greg's book of
poetry titled
American Falls:
Hamburgers (Fall 1984)
Today we are eating
our hamburgers for
Richard. We don't
know what else to do.
...
Today we are holding
our hamburgers like
pools on the Gallatin
hold leaves
....
Today in the Eagles
Bar, Montana has made
winter out of October:
out there, wet snow.
In here, the fruit
fly on the edge
of the whisky glass
we've set up for him
doesn't know where
else to go.
...
As tiny as it is,
we still have no
problem seeing that
its eyes are red.
...
Today our hamburgers
taste like Bozeman
Creek sounds, running
low beneath us, then
under Main Street,
the Bozeman Hotel,
the open sky.
...
Today, at his ranch,
the kitchen clock is still
full of bullet holes.
...
Today we do not
let our hamburgers slip.
We decided that they
should be double-burgers
loaded. When we ordered
we said, "Give us
double-burgers, loaded."
And now, we are almost
finished. There are
two miracles:
1. Nothing has fallen
to our plates.
2. His glass is full. |
Gorgo's Brautigan Stories Index
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