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XXVI Funny
Whenever I spoke of something being fun or funny, Richard either
wouldn’t respond or would act as if the words were some kind of hex, maybe
because he sometimes saw language as a way of killing spontaneity or maybe
because his humor was so deeply tied to his depression. That’s not to say
he didn’t appreciate slapstick. Once at the Oaks Bar in Bozeman, (long
since replaced by an art gallery), we were in what I thought was a serious
conversation and he picked up a bowl of pop corn and dumped it on his head
saying, “Look, a North Dakota Blizzard.” Occasionally, I’d try to spring
some locker room humor on him. When he’d fart, I might say something
like, “Lord, let’s get out of here before it consumes us both,” and he’d
ignore me and glumly go on with what he was doing. But when we were
drinking at the Eagles and I seriously suggested that he might consider
eating more vegetables, he’d start shrieking in uncontrolable laughter.
Richard liked to laugh at me a lot, especially when I had no idea I
was being funny. It wasn’t a cruel laughter but more of a spontaneous
reaction to innocence in the face of experience, as if William Blake’s
lamb were trying to act natural in front of his tyger. While we were at
a table eating hamburgers at the Eagles’ burger-nite Friday, the Captain
might come out with something like this:
“You like that there burger, big guy?”
“Uh huh, I guess.”
“That’s some burger-grip you’ve got there.”
“Yes, I hold it that way so I can eat it.”
“Oh, (laughter) so that’s what you’re doing with it. The way you’re
holding it, I thought it might be a religious ritual.” (more laughter)
“No, I’m just eating it.”
“Welp, they’re awfully big. There’s lot’s of chaos in that
burger--loose lettuce, slippery tomatoes, blunt onions.”
“Blunt?”
“Eat up, big guy. Our burger’s getting cold, and we wouldn’t want that
now would we.” (laughter)
“Maybe if we weren’t having to talk we would find it easier to eat.”
“Watch out!” A piece of lettuce falls on my plate and he snatches it
up. (shrieking) “Looks like a lettuce disaster. I’m losing my respect
for your burger grip.”
“Glmmph.”
“Enjoying your burger?”
“Mmmph.”
“I hate to break it to you, but a piece of pickle is slipping. I may
have to stop hanging out with you. It’s too humiliating, what with the
slipping pickle and all.”(shriek)
“Would you please pass the mustard?”
“Please!” (laughter) “Please! I’m glad to hear the big guy’s mother
raised him right.”
“The mustard.”
“But of course, please forgive me. And perhaps you would like some
salt? Some pepper? (shriek) Some ketchup?” He whisks each before me as
he asks the question.
“No.”
“No? Did I just hear the big guy say no? But where’s the thank you?
“Perhaps in Oklahoma, mothers teach their sons to say please, but I’m
afraid they haven’t advanced to the thank you stage yet.” (fading
laughter).
Even in his darker moments (if I could detach enough), Richard himself
was flat out funny: the way he’d wobble around on his cowboy boots when
he walked, the way he’d lurch purposefully with his hands clasped behind
him when he was preoccupied, the way he’d encounter sudden physical pain
with no emotion as if it were some alien sensation.
But most of all, I appreciated how the Captain could make any word funny
just by saying it or writing it with proper timing. Here’s a letter he
wrote me from Tokyo after I had a hernia operation:
Dear Greg,
Tokyo,
April 9, 1984
I hope your guts are OK, but I don't know why [you] got an operation.
What's wrong with standard Oklahoma treatment: an intertube? Can't see no
trout out this window. Always look on the bright side, if your gut
operation backfires, which they often do, you can use yourself as bait.
Thinkin' real hard about the big boy,
Richard
Gorgo's Brautigan Stories Index
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