Jubilee Hitchhiker: The Life and Times of Richard Brautigan

by William Hjortsberg

  When his first attempted collaboration bore no fruit, Richard hooked up with Richard Breen, who’d written for television, cajoling him into coming out to Bolinas to work on a script. “Got any ideas?” Brautigan asked.

  “No,” Breen said.

  “Then let’s do one of mine.”

  “Terrific.” Breen suggested Hawkline. Richard told him they couldn’t because Hal Ashby still had an option on the novel, suggesting Confederate General instead.

  “Working with him was pretty much what I expected it to be,” Breen recalled. “I listened to him ramble and he listened to me.”

  They took frequent breaks. When things got repetitive and boring, Brautigan said, “Let’s walk downtown and ruin a couple of lives.” One Saturday morning around ten, they knocked off work in just this spirit and walked to Smiley’s. Breen had dropped a quarter tab of acid just to get him through the day. “Bolinas is a motherfucker to deal with,” he reminisced. “All those dogs sleeping in the street and them welfare bitches and shit. You need some extrasensory perception.”

  Breen had only been in Smiley’s bar twice, the last time ten years earlier, and he didn’t like the place. “Richard, this is a bad vibe joint,” he said.

  “Bullshit!” Brautigan retorted. “It’s American. It’s a great fucking place.” He persuaded Breen everything would be okay. Seated at the bar, Breen started feeling uncomfortable. Even at ten in the morning, the place was fairly crowded. “Richard, I’m getting bad vibes again,” Breen said.

  “Nonsense, nonsense,” Brautigan replied.

  He stood beside Breen, staring at a young woman shooting a solo game of pool. Without a word, she put down her cue stick, walked over to Richard, and slugged him in the mouth. “Stop looking at me!” she barked.

  Brautigan asked the bartender for a napkin. “Who is that chick?” he inquired, patting the blood from his mouth before downing his drink. “You’re right,” Richard said to Breen. “Bad vibes.” And they walked out into the sunshine.

  Another time, when they ran out of steam around midnight, what Breen called “a common stupor,” and had nothing more to say about their project, they took a break and walked to the Bolinas Cemetery, several miles out of town on Horseshoe Hill Road. “This was Richard’s idea of a mission,” Breen recalled. “He loved the cemetery.”

  Brautigan “toughed it out,” taking a long walk on a dark night on pure “cowboy ethic.” Breen took some LSD. Founded in 1853, the Bolinas Cemetery was the oldest in Marin County. Like a frontier Boot Hill, the old graves clustered under the trees in a haphazard fashion. Brautigan quietly perused the tombstones, staring at each one, soaking in the histories of the buried dead. Reading an epitaph, Brautigan mused, “I often wonder why they say what they say.”

  Richard Breen had no answer. “What do you want on your gravestone?” Brautigan asked him.

  Breen thought it over for a while. “1946–1984. Richard Breen. Finally,” he said. Brautigan chuckled. “What do you want on yours?” Breen asked.

  Without hesitation, he answered: “Such and such to such and such. Richard Brautigan. Wish you were here.”

  Breen stayed in Bolinas at an old house owned by his attorney friend Sam McCullough, close to the ocean near Agate Beach. Built of sandstone carried up from the shingle by “some old lady” years before, the place epitomized “all that Bolinas horseshit,” according to Breen. The ceilings and alcove were very low because its builder had been a small person. Anyone close to six feet tall was always ducking to avoid cracking his skull. When Brautigan came to visit, he seemed to duck naturally. Breen assumed it was because of all the time spent in Japan, whose citizens’ small stature made ducking a constant for someone six foot four.

  “What do you think of this place?” Breen asked Brautigan.

  “Terrific,” Richard said. “I think it’s a charmer.”

  McCullough told Brautigan he “was thinking of building up the ceilings a little.”

  This proposed home improvement was lost on Richard, who gave Sam his own remodeling advice. “What I’d do is move that painting to the left.”

  Soon after, tired of inviting concussion, McCullough set to work, cutting through a skylight to raise the ceiling by several feet. When Brautigan returned, the work was done. “Richard, do you notice anything different about the place?” Sam inquired.

  After a twenty-minute survey, Brautigan said, “I don’t see anything.”

  “Don’t you see what’s changed?”

  “Aha, I do,” Richard replied at last. “You moved the painting.”

  One morning Brautigan phoned Breen at McCullough’s from his neighbor’s house to let him know he was postponing the start of their workday. Ianthe had gotten in touch again and arranged to come for a visit. They planned on having lunch together. “My daughter is supposed to be here at eleven,” he said. “I’ll be at Sam’s at two.”

  “Okay.”

  At 11:05, Brautigan called Richard back. “Come pick me up,” he said.

  Breen borrowed McCullough’s car and drove down to 6 Terrace Avenue. Richard stood waiting outside his house. “Where’s Ianthe?” Breen asked.

  “She’s late,” Brautigan said. “I’m not going to wait for her.”

  Breen said nothing, even though he thought it odd that a father wouldn’t wait more than five minutes to see his daughter when she’d driven all the way from Santa Rosa for their reunion. When Breen brought Brautigan back home at midnight, he saw his friend had left a note on the door for Ianthe. It read, “Just because you haven’t seen me in eight months doesn’t mean you can be late. My time is important.” The note was signed “Richard Brautigan.” Breen was flabbergasted. He didn’t regard Brautigan as punctual. “You have never been on time in your fucking life, you asshole,” he snarled, “and you’re pulling this shit.”

  Ianthe never got to see her father alive again.

  After working on Confederate General until the end of July, the two Richards managed to come up with ten pages of “informal script” and an eight-page outline. From time to time, Andy Cole dropped in to see Brautigan during this period. Cole walked with a limp, having broken his left leg three years before. As an indigent, Cole relied on Medi-Cal and Medicare for his medical insurance. He had been taken by ambulance to Marin General Hospital in the middle of the night. The orthopedic surgeon rousted out of bed to treat him had not been very happy, calling Cole an alcoholic, along with other “abusive and threatening comments.” Because of the surgeon’s rage, Cole believed he had maliciously received rough and incorrect treatment, resulting in permanent disability.

  In May 1984, Andrew Cole filed suit against the offending orthopedic surgeon and the Marin General Hospital, asking for one million dollars in damages and another two mil in punitive damages. Knowing Richard was a stickler for detail in contracts, Andy gave him a copy of his negligence suit, stopping by often to discuss his case. Brautigan thought highly of Cole’s intelligence and was very proud that his old friend had graduated from Georgetown University.

  “God, the Jesuits,” Richard exulted in his living room to Breen after one of Andy’s visits.

  Breen exploded. “I had sixteen years of formal education by the Jesuits, so I wasn’t buying that act.” Breen unloaded on Richard while they worked their way through a couple bottles of brandy. He believed Brautigan “kind of had a monastic mentality” that provided the root of his admiration for the Jesuits and all things military. Learning Richard respected Ignatius of Loyola, Breen told him the Jesuits were “just overeducated whoremongers.” Brautigan had “never had an experience with them [Jesuits] other than some horseshit philosophy crap.” Before it was over, Breen was yelling. “Richard finally realized that I knew more about the Jesuits than he did,” Breen recalled, “so he better keep his fucking thoughts to himself on the subject.”

  Righteous brandy-fueled anger never impaired their friendship. Brautigan and Breen remained pals even after the aborted script project sputtered to a premature conclusion. Al
one in his house on July 28, watching the opening ceremonies of the XXIII Olympics in Los Angeles on his “dismal little black and white TV,” Richard was moved to tears by seeing decathlon champion Rafer Johnson run around the L.A. Coliseum carrying a torch ignited in Olympia with fire from the sun.

  Around this time, Greg and Judy Keeler and their two boys arrived in Berkeley to visit Greg’s brother. Starting early in June, Brautigan had teased Keeler with tempting offers of salmon fishing on Bob Junsch’s boat. Richard implied the fishing was great. “Excuse me while I have this delightful young girl place another bite of freshly-caught salmon in my jaws,” he wrote in a letter headed “Dear Loser (formerly known as Greggie),” implying that he had just enjoyed sex with the woman. Neither claim was true. Brautigan had not had sex since Japan, nor had he been fishing. In fact, Junsch’s boat was not “docked a few hundred yards away” but moored in Morro Bay, two hundred miles south from Stinson Beach. Keeler knew none of Richard’s claims was serious and that Brautigan had been “rat fucking” him through the mail.

  The Keelers’ car broke down in San Francisco and was towed to a very expensive shop for repairs. Greg got in touch with Brautigan, saying he was in town. Richard immediately invited him over, suggesting they meet at the phone booth at the bottom of his hill. Brautigan had been making some calls there to take the heat off the Zenos. Keeler borrowed his brother’s car and drove to Bolinas. Not wanting to spend the day trapped in her brother-in-law’s apartment, Judy put aside her distaste for Brautigan and came along with her sons. When Richard greeted them by the phone booth, Greg reported that “his mouth literally dropped open.”

  Richard quickly recovered his composure and became the perfect host, leading his guests up to his old redwood house on the hill. Keeler thought “the interior was as depressing as hell.” Brautigan offered some “California hospitality,” which involved going down to the general store and buying Dutch treat cantaloupe and the makings for tuna fish sandwiches, which they ate out on the deck. After lunch, Richard asked the boys if they were Trekkies and sat them down in front of his miserable TV to watch a Captain Kirk rerun. “What grade are you in?” he asked Max and Chris.

  “Sixth,” Max replied.

  “That’s a shitty grade,” Brautigan said.

  While the kids watched an old episode about “where no man has gone before,” Richard launched into a discourse on the current state of television with their parents. He told the Keelers of his fascination with the Olympics and, “always proud to be an American,” exclaimed “USA, USA” several times for emphasis. Brautigan also lectured them about the quality of current American television. He cited The A-Team, Scarecrow and Mrs. King, and Remington Steele as prime-time examples of the new heights the boob tube had achieved. Never mentioned, “Timber Lawyers” must have rattled around the outer reaches of Richard’s mind.

  After the show, Judy and the boys went for a walk, leaving Richard and Greg alone to drink and chat. Brautigan talked about his youth, usually a forbidden topic, telling Keeler of his delinquent teenage years. He said he’d just figured out from Japanese friends that he was probably dyslexic as a kid, and he pondered how different life might have been had he learned this sooner. Greg thought there might be some truth in this, remembering Richard’s “cramped and wiggly” handwriting. “But maybe if you had been cured, we wouldn’t have gotten all your books,” he said.

  “Or maybe they would have been better,” Brautigan replied.

  Richard told Greg he planned on staying in Bolinas and almost in the same breath asked him “to start the wheels rolling on another teaching stint at Montana State.” Keeler thought the odds were good. Paul Ferlazzo, the English Department head, liked Richard. Greg suggested he write Ferlazzo and ask for a full-time job.

  Brautigan went into his house, returning with simple gifts for his friends in Bozeman. There was a single corncob holder for Brad Donovan, a request for Sean Cassaday to give him a call, and photo booth portraits of Richard for Schrieber and Scoop. In retrospect, Keeler thought Richard was maybe saying goodbye. When Judy and the kids came back, Brautigan took everyone on a guided tour of Bolinas, leading them down the steep stone steps to the beach, seagulls gliding in the pellucid air overhead. “Look how beautiful it is,” he exulted. The Keelers agreed. The coastline, surrounding eucalyptus groves, and a view of the Marin headlands across the bay provided only part of the beauty of Bolinas on a sunny day. “I’m so happy,” Richard said.

  Later that evening they bought a couple pizzas (Dutch treat again) from a place downtown. “What kind to you want?” Brautigan asked Max and Chris.

  “Anything but anchovies.”

  Richard ordered two anchovy pizzas to go. Without calling first, they took the pies over to the Junsches’ place in Stinson Beach. Greg drove them around the lagoon, where Brautigan promptly got lost in the little beachfront town. It took an hour to find the Junsches’ house. Bob and Shallen were preoccupied with their baby and watching the Olympics. Around 10:30, it was time to go. The Junsches were anxious for everyone to leave. Greg offered to take Richard home to Bolinas, as he had to drive back to Berkeley by way of Olema and Samuel Taylor Park.

  “Don’t worry,” Brautigan told them, oblivious and glassy eyed. “You know me. I’ll always find my way home.” The Keelers left him at the Junsches and never saw their friend again.

  The day the Olympics ended, Richard typed a letter to Masako. She had told him she was coming to Arizona in September. A postcard arrived from her the next day, saying her plans had changed. Brautigan scrawled a quick PS at the post office before mailing his letter, telling her he planned on returning to Japan in the fall. After walking back up the hill, Richard sat down and wrote a lengthy poem about his emotional response to the Olympic opening ceremony. “The Full-Moon LA Olympics” spanned seven typewritten pages in its final draft. Unlike the ironic, off-kilter humor of Brautigan’s early poetry, his longest effort throbbed with ardent patriotism and near-mawkish emotion.

  A couple days later, Richard phoned Don Carpenter in Mill Valley and arranged to meet him for lunch at the Sweet Water. Brautigan arrived in the middle of the afternoon and proceeded to drink five martinis “in like twenty minutes.” Don was newly sober, having given up booze a few months before. “Let’s go,” Brautigan said before they’d ordered any food.

  Richard and Don headed to the Mill Valley Market, where Brautigan bought a banana and ate it. He’d brought along his long poem about the Los Angeles Olympics and wanted to get some duplicates made. Richard told Don he thought Newsweek was going to publish it. After a search, they couldn’t find a Xerox place in Mill Valley that could get the work done fast enough. Brautigan decided to go into San Francisco to have his copies made.

  Don walked him to the depot and sat with him on the bench outside while Richard waited for his city-bound bus. “I’m seeing our friendship dissolve right before my eyes,” Carpenter remembered, “because I don’t drink no more, and he’s stoned drunk in the middle of the afternoon. Yammering and babbling. When you first quit drinking, you go through a period where you don’t like drinkers. They piss you off. So we were kind of cool.” When the San Francisco bus arrived, Don watched Richard weave on board. The doors hissed shut. It was the last Carpenter ever saw of Brautigan.

  A day or so later, Richard mailed a copy of “The Full-Moon LA Olympics” to Jonathan Dolger in New York. “If it is very good,” he wrote his agent, “I would like to place it where it can be read. If it is a piece of shit, then that’s the way it goes.” The poem has never been published.

  Sometime in the middle of August, Richard decided at last to close down his office above Vesuvio. He asked David Fechheimer to assist with the move. The private detective arrived in North Beach and gave Brautigan a hand packing it all up in cartons. When the last lid was sealed, Brautigan surveyed the stacked boxes and announced, “This is the total career of an American writer.”

  Richard and David loaded all the stuff into Fechheimer’s car. David drove th
em to Army Street Mini-Storage, where they packed everything temporarily into unit A-32. Brautigan had also decided to terminate his connection with the warehousing facility as well. The many cartons stored there and those formerly in his office had to go somewhere else. The logical solution would have been to truck it all out to Bolinas. Brautigan had a different idea. He wanted his archive shipped someplace with no rent, where he knew it would be forever safe. Running into Keith Abbott at Enrico’s in the middle of his moving project, Richard said, “This stuff is going into storage and it won’t be found for years.”

  Brautigan went to his favorite bar to enlist Ward Dunham’s help. Ward had an old pal, a six-foot-three, 250-pound professional wrestler named Mike York, who fought under the sobriquet “The Alaskan.” Friends for thirty years, Ward and Mike had worked together as bounty hunters and occasionally still moonlighted in the debt collection racket. “The Alaskan” always dressed in black. When there was money to collect, they had a method that never failed. Ward arranged to meet their “client” at a bar. If he didn’t pay up on the spot, Ward steered him back to the men’s room, where a stall door swung slowly open to reveal Mike York hulking inside, pulling on a pair of black leather gloves. “The Alaskan” enjoyed amusing himself in other bizarre ways as well. When Enrico’s was packed with customers, really hopping and the waiters distracted, York would saunter back into the busy kitchen and piss in the ice-making machine

  Mike owned a tangerine-colored hot rod, a car customized into a truck. He loaded all Richard’s boxes, stuffed with manuscripts, letters, contracts, Digger handouts, galley proofs, old receipts, canceled checks, passports, batches of photographs—his “total career,” into the back and drove it to Colorado. Where “The Alaskan” deposited Richard’s archive remained a mystery.

  It lay undiscovered for years until 1996, when Ted Latty, a prominent L.A. attorney and avid Brautigan collector, saw the trove advertised for sale on the Internet. Latty was in Colorado Springs on business. In mid-March, he drove his rental car several hundred miles to the old uranium mining town of Nucla, northwest of Telluride near the Utah border. The place sat a mile above sea level, boasting a population of about five hundred.