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XXI
Perma-Park
Richard seemed to know when he was pressing his luck and getting on his
friends’ nerves, so when he knew I couldn’t take much more, at least for a
while, he’d find friends to keep him company. Among these were Marion
Hjortsberg, Becky Fonda, Sean Cassidy, Karen “Scoop” Datko, Tandy Riddle,
and perhaps, most of all Brad and Georgia Donovan. In the summer of 1982,
he spent much of his Bozeman time out at their trailer in a place called
Perma-Park on the Gallatin River. I liked to visit the three of them out
there because the trailer was right next to the river and I could set a
baited rod and keep tabs on it through the window while we bullshitted
inside.
Richard found this practice particularly delightful because it was
such a typical tawdry example of my Oklahoma background. Also it seemed
to fit right in with the fictions that fluttered around in the back of his
mind. So the Wind Won’t Blow It All Away had just come out in its trade
edition, and on the cover was a couch placed next to a pond, an
illustration of one of the episodes inside.
On one occasion, I was still smarting a little from some recent
rudeness, so I was a little standoffish. He enjoyed teasing me when I was
in these moods, so he swatted a mosquito on my back. Hard.
“What the hell was that for,” I said.
“Just swatting a mosquito. Just takin’ care of the big guy. Am I
making you nervous?”
“Yes.”
“Good, nothing like a case of nerves to keep a big, slow Oklahoman on
his toes.”
I looked over at him. When he was out at Perma-Park, he tended to
let himself go. He had a couple days worth of whiskers and smelled pretty
funky, so I said, “You look just like a bowry bum.”
Richard seemed genuinely hurt, though usually he seemed to enjoy
friends ribbing him. Sometimes I’d tell him he should eat more vegetables
when he was on a drinking binge, or I would loan him a jean jacket and say
it looked like a girdle on him (because, what with his pot belly, it did).
“I’m on vacation,” said Richard, stroking his stubble.
“No your not,” said Brad. “You’re working. We’re working.”
“Yes, I can tell,” I said. “The whole trailer is atremble with the
bustle of industry.”
“Tell him about the screenplay,” said Georgia.
So Brad and Richard proceeded to tell me about their project, a
screenplay, a possible pilot for a television series called, “Trailer.”
It involved a tank of mechanical goldfish, a dwarf, an old couple who
wrapped themselves in tin foil and waited for aliens, a borrower who was
constantly borrowing things--a whole plethora of wild and crazy residents
of a trailer park similar to the one where we were sitting.
For the next couple of weeks, the two of them worked frantically on
the screenplay. I think Richard had imagined some sort of deadline, or
maybe he was just planning to return to Bolinas. Whatever the case was,
the project seemed to have a life and death urgency about it, so that
toward the end they were both getting a little testy. To calm their
nerves, I took them out to a small pond next to the Bozeman shopping mall,
sat them down and made them watch me catch worn out hatchery trout the
size of small dogs. I even started writing them a ditty for the project
called “A Song to Go.” It was basically a description Perma Park
ambience, but I didn’t get it finished before they finished “Trailer” and
Richard left. In fact, he never heard it, but to me and Brad it became
sort of a requiem for the Captain. Here it is.
A Song To Go
(for Richard Brautigan)
Dreamin' of bikinis and eatin' beany weenies
And tunin' into "Fantasy Island."
Collectin' unemployment's afternoon enjoyment's
Only way to keep you smilin'.
You heard the presidente´say there'll be peace and plenty
Waitin' if he's re-elected.
But you can only understand if there's a whisky in your hand,
And the telephone is disconnected.
Chorus:
Good morning, sailor, did you dream that you woke up,
Or was that a song that you heard on the radio?
Good morning, sailor, here' some coffee for your cup
And a song to go.
Look into the mirror to see if you're still here.
Suck your gut in and pull back your shoulders.
Put a Roll-Aids on your tongue and pretend that you're still young,
Though the mirror says you're getting older.
Cook a T.V. dinner and forget that you're a sinner,
And the end could come most any day now.
Yes, forget about religion, take a beer out of the fridge an',
Let that song inside your head start to play now.
Chorus
Findin' bargains on bologna and payin' alimony
And stoppin' in to check the mail box.
There's a bill from Roto Rooter and a leaflet on computer
Training if you're willing to pay lots.
And when the bars all close up you ask 'em for a go-cup
And nurse it till you see the morning.
Then you call yourself a dreamer and stir non-dairy creamer
In another cup of coffee while you sing.
Chorus
A Xerox of “Trailer” is still in a box out in my garage somewhere. I
just saw Brad, who lives in Michigan, he said he lost his own original
copy. I guess I’ll have to make him one.
Gorgo's Brautigan Stories Index
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