I’d just moved to San Francisco. Back in Texas, my friend Jeff insisted I call his friend Butch when I got to town. I called Butch, introduced myself and we made a date to meet. He told me to take the ferry to Sausalito and he promised he’d be waiting at the dock.
I took the ferry from the Embarcadero, arrived in Sausalito, and all the other commuters dispersed as their rides picked them up. I waited alone in the parking lot for what seemed like an hour. Eventually a green mini-truck came barreling off the highway into the parking lot and Butch was half-hanging out of the window yelling “HEY JACK, HELLO JACK!” I wasn’t even sure this was Butch but I guess it had to be. Jeff hadn’t warned me that Butch was loud and unpredictable, but I should’ve known he was a wild one. He called attention to himself wherever he went.
No sooner was I in the truck then we began the journey over Mt. Tam, which is a huge mountain with 160 curves from top to bottom. Butch talked a mile a minute and I tried to follow what he was saying with an Arkansas-meets-Northern California drawl. We arrived in Bolinas at his home and I met his partner and all of their dogs, chickens and rabbits. We had dinner and they insisted I stay the night – I was completely unprepared for an overnight stay. We drank after dinner and I told them I had no idea what I was doing in San Francisco but that I had to get out of Houston. Butch agreed with me that he had to leave Texas/Arkansas and when he arrived in San Francisco, he never looked back. His partner was an American Airlines pilot and he was gone early the next morning, but first thing the next day Butch asked me two questions: could I stay another night and could I housesit for them for a few weeks. I wanted to be responsible and hunker down in the City and start looking for work, but Butch was persuasive. That day Butch showed me the regimen of feeding the cocker spaniels and farm animals.
Landing in Bolinas felt like a welcoming quicksand, that I may never get to leave. That night we drank massive amounts of alcohol, smoked pot and did god knows what and drove a few blocks to downtown Bolinas, walked along the pier and ended up at the local tavern, Smiley’s. The bar was sparsely populated but every customer was lit; Butch started playing pool and I snuggled up to the bar next to a big lumberjack-type man and we made small talk. Later that evening, Butch told me that man was legendary poet Richard Brautigan.
A short time after, he was found dead from a self-inflicted gunshot wound. After I learned about his death, I replayed our conversation over in my head and wished that I had not been so surly and nihilistic, which was my default Gothy-emotional setting at the time.
