Jubilee Hitchhiker (107 page)

Brautigan went over to the famed surfing area under the Golden Gate Bridge to observe the cleanup, watching volunteers with pitchforks toss what he took to be hay onto the water to soak up the petroleum tide. He scribbled notes, filling all fifty-five pages with rapidly scrawled random observations (“black, gooy [
sic
] [. . .] the smell of the fucking oil [. . .] oil on the bow of the ferry going to S.F.”). Composing the story, Richard made almost no use of his notes, relying instead on memory and metaphor. “The air is overwhelmed with the stench of oil like rotting dinosaurs covered with chocolate syrup.” He wrote many drafts of a piece he eventually called “Hay on the Water.”

Esquire
wanted a full-page photographic illustration. After Erik Weber spent all day taking pictures on different beaches, Richard sent him out into the countryside to photograph fields of grass ripening into hay, farmers cutting hay, cows eating hay, chickens laying eggs in nests of hay, an ironic contrast to the oil-sodden bales floating in the Bay. When someone pointed out to Brautigan that it was not hay but straw, he attempted to rescue his efforts, retitling one of the later drafts “Straw.” It was no use. None of Erik Weber's photos fit the bill. Richard abandoned the project. “Forget it. It's over,” Brautigan told Weber when he called. “Hay and straw are different things, so that ruins the story.”

Brautigan collaborated with the Webers on another project based on Loie's pregnancy. Erik took a series of photographs showing her belly growing ever larger “like the waxing moon.” He shot pictures until the birth of their daughter, Selina. Richard wrote a brief page-long text to go with the photos. The Webers called it “The Coming of Moonrose.” Richard had Andrew Hoyem design the layout and sent it off to Helen Brann. She received the proposed little book without enthusiasm. Nothing ever came of it. “It wasn't her cup of tea,” Loie said. “It wasn't enough Richard. It was a little too esoteric.”

In the last week in August, six months after publication, Brautigan received his advance for
Rommel Drives on Deep into Egypt
. Minus a 10 percent commission for the Sterling Lord agency, it totaled $31,500, a considerable sum for a slim book of poetry, more than most poets earn over an entire career. In November, Harvest Records (a division of Capitol) released
Listening to Richard Brautigan
. Mad River's recording
Paradise Bar and Grill
, also on Capitol, came out about the same time. Richard received $5,000 for his spoken word album, considerably more than Apple's initial offer. Brautigan printed his telephone number on the record's front cover, and his fans barraged him with calls. He wasted no time changing the number.

One old friend never heard Richard on vinyl. Janis Joplin died of a heroin overdose in L.A. on October 4, 1970, at the Tropicana Motel on Santa Monica Boulevard. Pearl was only twenty-seven years old. As Joplin's meteoric career faded to black, Richard Brautigan's rising star blazed ever more brightly. Four months after Dell published its first three Brautigan books, 100,000 copies of each title were in print. By the end of 1970, they sold between 7,000 to 10,000 copies per month. Six months later, the sales figures for
Trout Fishing in America
had grown to 265,000 copies.

As part of the festivities celebrating the opening of the new University Art Museum at Berkeley, Richard was invited to share the bill with Gary Snyder and Robert Duncan at a poetry reading on an afternoon early in November. Snyder, Duncan, and Brautigan read outside in the sculpture garden. The minimalist composer Steve Reich performed indoors in the galleries later that evening. A surviving photograph from the event showed Brautigan keeping alive the old bohemian esprit. Seated beside the two older poets, Richard swilled whiskey from a bottle concealed in a brown paper bag.

All through the fall of 1970, Brautigan kept on top of the design process for the two books about to be published by Simon & Schuster. He arranged with Edmund Shea to take the cover photograph and consulted with Andrew Hoyem about the book's layout and typography. By coincidence, the designer in charge of production at S&S was Helen Barrow, sister of Roz Barrow, who held the same position at Dell. At the end of December, Brautigan received $25,000, his first advance payment from Simon & Schuster. A second installment of $75,000 followed in January. The same day, he received an additional $5,000 from Delacorte, the annual contracted amount for his three-book omnibus edition deal. As icing on the cake, a production company paid Brautigan $1,500 to use his poem “Horse Child Breakfast” in a film.

In early February 1971, Richard traveled to the Universities of Texas and Colorado, flying first to Austin and then on to Boulder on the same trip. He received $750 (plus expenses) for each one-day stint. Roxy and Judy Gordon arranged for Brautigan's gig at UTA. Judy recalled, “That was the largest, biggest reading ever, up until that point.” After the reading, Bill and Sally Wittliff hosted a big party for Richard at their home in Austin.

The four-day literary festival at the University of Colorado proved a more sedate affair. The event also featured Ishmael Reed, Charles Wright, Peter Beagle, and Joanna Featherstone. Richard
had never been to Colorado before and stayed only for a single day, even though he'd been told it was “beautiful in winter.” These were his only college readings in 1971.

The Abortion
was published by Simon & Schuster in March 1971, released simultaneously in a cloth edition and as a Touchstone Paperback. The beauty of Richard's photographic covers was that they became ads unto themselves and instantly translated into various other forms of print promotion. Edmund Shea had been paid handsomely by S&S, yet had not received anything from Dell after all this time. Shea found it “incomprehensible,” sending a third bill to Rosalie Barrow. Altogether, the tab for all his photographic services totaled $1,500.

Dell offered Shea $750, “in full settlement of all his claims.” Edmund rejected this. He moved to England for a year, using his
Abortion
S&S cover proceeds to bankroll his travels. On December 14, Dell increased their offer to $1,000, “the best that we can do.” Edmund Shea stuck to his guns, holding out for the full amount. In the end, he received his $1,500, which paid his way back home to the States from Kano, Nigeria.

Richard Brautigan thought of his manuscripts and papers as treasures worth preserving. The sudden onslaught of fame increased his appraisal of the small personal archive stored in cardboard boxes at Geary Street. A casual conversation with Robert Duncan suggested the Bancroft Library at UC Berkeley might be willing to store his papers for him. In February, Brautigan sent a carton of typed manuscripts, galleys, page proofs, and early first editions over to Berkeley. The small collection included rare treasures: a copy of
The Return of the Rivers
; manuscripts of
Trout Fishing
,
All Watched Over by Machines of Loving Grace
, and
Rommel
; the original production material for
Lay the Marble Tea
; and the galleys, page proofs, and production notes for
Please Plant This Book
.

Richard wrote to Robert Duncan in March, outlining his conditions concerning access to the material he was storing at the library. He stipulated none of the items were to be made available to members of the public without first obtaining his written permission. Thus began a seven-year pas de deux between Brautigan and the Bancroft. James D. Hart, director of the rare book library, wrote to Richard in June, saying how happy he was to have Brautigan's work “on deposit,” assuming “that someday students of your writing will be able to make use of the materials.”

At the beginning of December, Hart spoke on the phone with Brautigan, suggesting that an “informal agreement” be drawn up regarding the placement of his papers. Later that month, Jack Shoemaker deposited more archival material (
Revenge of the Lawn
and
The Abortion
) at the library in Berkeley. Hart followed up with another letter to Richard. He said the Bancroft “would like to think of owning a fine Richard Brautigan collection but we are somewhat uneasy about serving merely as a place of storage without any likelihood of becoming the place of ownership.”

Hart included, in duplicate, the agreement mentioned earlier. He asked Brautigan to sign and return one copy to the library. Richard didn't write back and never signed the agreement. For the next half-dozen years, the Bancroft Library served as the somewhat unwilling curators of a Richard Brautigan collection they did not own.

Around the middle of March, a six-page letter arrived for Richard from “the fat little fingers of the sister of yours whom [
sic
] once upon a time was like a second shadow [. . .]” B.J. was now Barbara Fitzhugh, married and living in Portland, Oregon. After all these years, Barbara still didn't get along very well with her mother and limited her trips back to Eugene to “about twice a year whether I need to or not [. . .] I'm the outsider in the family.” Barbara enclosed snapshots Rex Sorenson had taken of her and the kids on his recent visit to Oregon. She said she'd thought of her
big brother often over the years. “If you'd like to write, I wish you would,” she concluded, “and if you don't, I can understand that also.” She signed, “As Always, Love, Barbara Jo.” Richard never wrote back, but he saved her letter and the snapshots until the end of his life.

On the weekend Barbara's letter arrived, Richard was away in Monterey with Sherry Vetter. They made several trips there that year and the next, flying down (airfare was $10.80 one-way) to spend time with Keith and Lani Abbott or with Price Dunn, always staying at Borg's Motel in Pacific Grove. Brautigan had been scheduled to give a reading at the Ninety-second Street Y in New York on March 30, but for unexplained reasons, the event was canceled.

In April, when Sherry's car was in the shop for repairs, she rented a Chevy Malibu and drove Richard up to Mendocino for a long weekend, his first vacation in two years. A friend had loaned her a cabin on the edge of the picturesque coastal town. Brautigan promptly came down with the flu and spent three days in bed “staring out at the trees.”

Richard ran a high fever and sweated through the nights. On the third morning, he wanted to have sex (“perhaps to break the monotony”) but couldn't get an erection. His sickness had taken its toll. Brautigan sat staring forlornly at Sherry's diaphragm lying on its plastic case as she playfully lifted his bathrobe and prodded Richard's wilted penis with her big toe. She went into town around noon to have coffee with a friend.

Brautigan tossed in bed, burning with fever and staring through the windows at the drizzle-shrouded trees. Unable to take it anymore, he struggled out of bed and into his clothes. He found an old girl's bicycle leaning against the outside of the house and pedaled slowly for half a mile to a graveyard close by Mendocino. Always fascinated by cemeteries, Richard wandered feverishly among the tombstones under an overcast sky, reading the epitaphs of long-dead Californians. Brautigan was back in bed, snug under the covers, staring at the gloomy trees, when Sherry returned from her coffee date, bringing him a glass of orange juice.

At the end of April, Brautigan sent a check for $50 to the Sonoma State College English Department, along with a short letter explaining that he had been overpaid by that amount for the reading he gave there the previous year. Around that same time, Kendrick Rand was shutting down the Minimum Daily Requirement for the very last time one cold windy evening when Richard and Sherry stopped by on their way to La Bodega for dinner. Rand planned a permanent move to his place in Stinson Beach and was closing the coffeehouse forever. Richard suggested a drink in celebration, and, after their meal, he and Sherry rejoined Kendrick on the terrace of Enrico's, where they polished off “a bottle or so of wine.” Richard's newfound affluence bankrolled a recent passion for expensive French white wine. Aside from that, Kendrick saw little difference in Brautigan. “He didn't really change that much.”

After their first bottle, Richard pulled a letter from
Playboy
out of his peacoat pocket. “I gotta show you some of this,” he said, handing it to Kendrick. The message expressed a warm appreciation for Richard's work. “Since you are part of the family now,” the letter concluded, “please feel free to avail yourself of the services of the Playboy Club.” It was signed by Hugh Hefner. From where Rand sat, he looked straight down Kearny Street at the lighted facade of the Playboy Club several blocks away. “Hey, Richard,” Kendrick pointed at the distant nightclub. “You ever been in there?”

“No,” Brautigan replied.

“Well, by god, let's go down there!”

They hailed a cab. A woman dressed in the club's signature abbreviated bunny costume greeted them at the door and asked if they were members. When they said no, she told them only club members were admitted. Richard produced his letter. “I've been invited here by Hugh Hefner,” he said.

They were allowed in out of the cold to wait in a foyer while word of the letter worked its way up through the chain of command. The intrepid trio made their way to the lobby. There, a nest of scantily clad bunnies parted at the approach of “the madam.” She looked them over. “Everyone else is in three-piece suits,” Kendrick recalled. “Real Montgomery Street.” Thinking to call their bluff, the madam said, “Well, I understand that you are the guests of Mr. Hefner?”

“Yes.” Richard handed her the letter. “He's invited me to come to the Playboy Club and avail myself of the services.”

The madam managed to say, “Just wait a moment. We'll accommodate you.” After a while, they were escorted up the stairs from the lobby into a large gaming room where numerous bunnies attended the businessmen shooting pool. More stairs in the multilevel club led to a dining area, while another set descended to the toilets. “They had taken a table and placed it there with three chairs and sat us in this little foyer off the men's and ladies' room,” Kendrick related. “I'm sure we were the first and last people ever to sit there.” Richard, Sherry, and Kendrick ordered double Jack Daniel's and “proceeded to get very drunk.” When members came down from the game room to use the facilities, the raucous trio pretended to be bathroom attendants and greeted them with rude insults. “It was quite an evening.”