| XXII The Captain's Kindnesses
Maybe Richard’s occasional rudenesses pop back into memory so quickly
because they were so sudden and unexpected, like a snake striking.
His kindness were more subtle and formed enough of a balance that
I and other friends were willing to endure what Richard called “He
Who Dwells in Darkness” for what I called “Captain Belly-Buster,”
the smart compassionate clown. I guess in this way, he was pretty
much of a coyote figure, an archetypal trickster who was bound to
go off in any direction at any minute.
On the one hand, when I came up for tenure at M.S.U.,
things weren’t looking so good for me because a previous department
head had told me that none of my creative writing would count, partially
because there was no one in the vicinity to evaluate it. So
when I took the huge chance of asking Richard for the favor of writing
me a letter of support, he looked at me sadly and said that in the
past any letters he’d written for friends had proven to be “the kiss
of death,” especially in academia. I didn’t press the matter,
and went away sulking. Later, after I barely got tenure by writing
a few scholarly articles in addition to my poetry, a new department
head, Paul Ferlazzo, encouraged me to write an article for the Dictionary
of Literary Biography on William Saroyan to raise my credibility with
my peers.
I got pretty huffy about the whole idea and was
fuming and ranting as Richard and I had a drink at the Eagles, but
the Captain’s ears perked up and he said,”William Saroyan, what a
wonderful writer. This should be fun!” I looked at him
skeptically since that last time I had said, “Are we having fun yet?”
he had responded with, “Fun? What do you mean by this thing ‘fun’.
It is an odd concept to me, this word, ‘fun’.”
But before I knew it, he was giving me a detailed
lecture on Saroyan’s early years and his relationship with Martha
Foley at Story Magazine--and on his own correspondences with this
hub of modern fiction. He loaned me books, gave me insights
and generally put a lot of time and effort into making sure I did
a good job on the essay, partially, I imagine, because he would want
someone to do a good job on his own entry in the DLB some day.
If you go to the DLB and read my little piece on Saroyan, you might
keep in mind that it was Richard’s project--through me.
Richard also had a soft spot for kids who were
having trouble.
Though, in general, he never showed much interest in my boys, Chris
and Max, when Chris, my step son, came down with juvenile on-set diabetes,
he got busy researching the disease and was always dispensing advice,
frequently helpful, on how Chris might deal with it and what problems
Judy and I might have in getting him to check his blood and take his
shots.
Another time, my colleagues Michael and Lynda Sexson’s
son, Devon, was having trouble adjusting to being an adolescent in
Bozeman’s conservative climate, so Richard suggested he, Michael and
I take Devon fishing. Richard said his own adolescence was living,
breathing hell, so he seemed to tune right into Devon’s state of mind.
As I watched them talking and fishing on a pile of rocks by the Yellowstone,
they looked like they had been cut out of the same cloth, both in
their mannerisms and their looks. Richard had broken his leg
a few months before and was still using a cane (the one on the cover
of this book), so before we dropped Devon off, Richard gave him the
cane. He frequently made such symbolic gestures that had both
an immediate surface effect and, when considered later, a more profound
significance. I’m pretty sure Devon still has that cane.
Sometimes when I’d go out to keep him company at
his house (and try to keep up with his drinking), I would follow him
into the pits of despair where he would talk about the death of his
friends--like Nikki, a Chinese American woman in the Bay area.
He would never cry, but he would start choking on his words, then
catch himself and turn cruel. Not necessarily toward me, but
toward anyone who he would normally trust and consider as a friend.
He would lash out at his agent, his ex-wife Aki, the Japanese in general,
friends in the community, and then sometimes he would turn his sights
on me until I felt I was right there at the end of the world with
him. And just as I would be eying the door, ready for my permanent
exit from this black vacuum, he would turn around and offer a profound
kindness. At the end of one of these evenings when he had focused
his rage on me--probably because I was the only person handy to focus
it on--I was lurching toward my car and he came out and called me
back.
“Wait,” he said.
“Not likely,” I said.
“I have something for you.”
“Not likely,” I said.
“It’s a book.”
“Just what I need,” I said, “another book.”
I got into my car.
“It’s the only one of its kind. I’ve signed
it for you.”
I got out of my car. “Why?” I said.
“Why is it the only one of its kind?” he said.
“No,” I said, “why do you want to give it to me?”
“Because I am drunk and I have just insulted my
friend.”
“Oh,” I said, and I walked back into the house
with him.
The book was his author’s copy of his new novel,
So the Wind Won’t Blow It All Away. It is leather bound with
a hard cover and an old fashioned design of swirling colored ink.
On the title page he has written
Greg
love
Richard
I, of course, still have the book. I just now went
to my book case to look at it and noticed two flaws on the back cover--two
water spots. I’m not sure whether they’re my tears or Richard’s whisky.
Maybe they’re both.
(Click here to see photos of
this book)
Gorgo's Brautigan Stories Index |