Jubilee Hitchhiker (144 page)

Whenever Brautigan switched on the television in his room, he'd see Ali, hyping the upcoming bout “on just about every program.” Always an astute observer of popular culture, Richard paid special attention to the champ's appearances. “The most interesting thing about the whole affair was that there were two Mohamid [
sic
] Alis,” he wrote later in a notebook. “There was an extravagant one who was clowning and jumping around on television and there was a quiet sincere almost shy one that I saw every day in the hotel.”

During his remaining two weeks in Japan, Brautigan's poetry, written daily in his notebook, recorded his life like a diary. “The Red Chair” reported an erotic film Richard went to see one evening. In the poem, Brautigan used the noun “voyeur” as a verb, (“feeling, voyeuring every detail of their passion”). This species of neologism has become commonplace. The newspeak of television, politics, and the military altered our language, transforming
transition, scope, parent, text,
and
leverage
into verbs. Back in the 1970s, it was an almost unknown practice. Brautigan, always a stickler in his careful use of language, deliberately chose “voyeuring,” knowing the word would make his reader feel uncomfortable, wanting just that reaction to the perverse decadence of the soft-core porn he had seen.

During Brautigan's last week in Japan, Tony Dingman traveled up from the Philippines and hung out with his old pal in Tokyo. Typhoon Olga halted the production of
Apocalypse Now
for four weeks. During the hiatus, Dingman was out of a job. Detouring to Japan on his way back to the States seemed like fun. Richard brought Tony to The Cradle twice, the second time on Dingman's last night in the city. They had a wild time together. Brautigan wrote almost no poetry during his friend's visit.

Awake at five on the morning of June 25, unable to go back to sleep, Brautigan went downstairs to the Keio Plaza cafeteria for an early breakfast. As he sipped his first cup of coffee, Richard was surprised to see Muhammad Ali come into the room. “There were very few people in the cafeteria at that hour,” he observed, “but they were also startled to see Mohamid [
sic
] Ali there because everybody in Japan knew he was going to fight that morning. Mohamed [
sic
] Ali acted as if it were any other morning, anywhere at any time.”

An attractive young Japanese woman sat at the counter. Without saying a word, Ali approached her and began massaging her neck. Taken by surprise, she turned and stared at him. The champ smiled down at her, his big powerful hands kneading her shoulders and neck. No words were exchanged. Ali massaged her neck for another ten seconds or so and a smile spread across her pretty face. “Then, he stopped and continued to his table. The Japanese girl did not turn and watch him.”

The big fight was broadcast on national TV and shown on 150 closed-circuit locations in the United States. Ali, described as out of shape for his victorious match in April with a “tough young brawler” named Jimmy Young, threw fewer than a dozen punches in his fifteen-round bout with Inoki, who had recently defeated Olympic Judo Gold Medalist Willem Ruska. The rules for their fight had been radically changed two days before the match. Inoki could kick at Ali only if one of his knees remained on the ground. Still, the Japanese wrestler and martial artist hammered away at Ali's legs with his feet, lying on his back for almost the entire fight, which ended in a draw. Muhammad Ali left the ring with damaged, bleeding legs (he later suffered blood clots), pocketing more than $6 million for his pains.

As Brautigan's time in Tokyo drew to a close, he reacted emotionally with a final burst of new poetry. He wrote four poems on June 28, three of them about different aspects of love. Richard spent his last full night in Tokyo at The Cradle. He got “very drunk” and wrote an odd poem, “Stone (real.” It compared his inebriated condition to Bee Cave, Texas. All the while, Takako Shiina sat silently watching him. Richard left Japan on June 30, flying out of Haneda at nine thirty at night. Traveling east into the sunrise, he jotted a final poem in his notebook. “Land of the Rising Sun” noted that as he crossed the international date line high above the Pacific it became the thirtieth of June all over again.

Tony Dingman left Tokyo two days earlier. He met Brautigan at the airport and drove him into San Francisco to Curt Gentry's house. Richard stayed with Curt and Gail for a couple days before heading up to Montana for the summer. During his visit, Brautigan read the Gentrys the entire manuscript of the poetry he'd written in Japan. He did so without a stop. Once finished, he confessed he had no title for the book. With the final poem fresh in her mind, Gail Gentry suggested he call it “June 30th, June 30th.” “There's no other title that fits,” she said.

Back in Montana, Brautigan focused on revising his poetry manuscript. He made almost no changes, adding only a few words to a couple poems near the end of the sequence while also working on the galleys for
Sombrero Fallout
. Writing an introduction for
June 30th, June 30th
occupied most of Richard's time in July. The subject was his uncle Edward, killed during WWII in Sitka, Alaska. Brautigan wrote how this caused him to hate the Japanese people when he was a child during the war.

The introduction chronicled Richard's reading Bashō and Issa. After moving to San Francisco, Brautigan learned to love Japanese food and saw hundreds of Japanese movies. He “slowly picked up Buddhism through osmosis” by hanging out with poet friends like Gary Snyder and Philip Whalen. Richard admitted the poetry in his book was “different from other poems that I have written.” Each bore a date. He acknowledged the quality of the work to be uneven but “printed them all anyway because they are a diary expressing my feelings and emotions in Japan and the quality of life is often uneven.” Brautigan's stay in Tokyo brought the Second World War to an emotional conclusion. He finished his introduction in his Pine Creek studio in early August. His last sentence came straight from his heart: “May the dead rest eternally in peace, waiting for our arrival.”

Brautigan returned to San Francisco in mid-August, wanting some urban pleasure after mailing the completed manuscript of
June 30th, June 30th
off to his agent. John Hartnett, who took dictation and typed Helen Brann's letters, wrote a personal note, saying he had never “read a more moving or evocative group of poems.” The poetry reinforced itself, and by the end of the book,
Hartnett felt that “it was all—from the introduction to the last poem—one poem.” Hartnett concluded: “It's an impressive, powerful, lovely work.”

Richard sent a copy of the manuscript to Jim Harrison, who shared John Hartnett's enthusiasm. “What can I say?” Harrison wrote Brautigan. “It is your work that has touched me the most deeply. [. . .] It is not a succession of lyrics but finally ONE BOOK.” Jim concluded his letter with the highest praise. “I love the book because it is a true song, owning no auspices other than its own; owning the purity we think we aim at on this bloody journey.”

During the second half of August, Richard received a wedding invitation from Ron Loewinsohn and Kitty Hughes. They were getting married on the first of September at the Sebastopol home of London-born Canadian poet David Bromige and his companion, writer Sherril Jaffe. Brautigan declined, saying he had to fly back to Montana the day before the ceremony. Loewinsohn wrote Brautigan a sarcastic note, mentioning how many people at the reception had asked about him, wondering if he was “going to show up.” Ron said he thought they all believed him when he explained his old friend's need to return immediately to Pine Creek. Loewinsohn ended by saying “how touched & pleased Kitty & I were with the telegram of congratulations that your driver sent us on our wedding day.”

Brautigan's stay in Montana was brief. With no driver in residence, life at Pine Creek felt fairly constrained, and it wasn't long before he packed the place up for winter and returned to San Francisco. By the start of October, Richard was living again on Telegraph Hill. Anxious to be off to Japan, Brautigan lingered in the city, waiting for word from his agent regarding the ongoing contract negotiations for
Dreaming of Babylon
and
June 30th, June 30th
. His various behavioral excesses during this period (pushing Nic Roeg down the stairs, tearing up $20 bills in Helen Brann's Stanford Court suite, moving in with Curt Gentry and his new wife under false pretenses) did not prevent Richard from keeping his nose to the grindstone. He stayed in constant contact with his agent, offering his input on every aspect of her deal-making.

Late in October, Takako Shiina flew to America. She was on her way to visit her young lover, Ryu Murakami, a twenty-four-year-old Japanese writer who published his first short novel,
Almost Transparent Blue
, earlier that year.
Blue
, written while Murakami was still a student, dealt with youthful promiscuity and drug use, and although some critics denounced the book as “decadent,” it went on to sell over a million copies and win both the newcomer's prize for literature and the Akutagawa Prize (a pocket watch and 1 million yen) in 1976. Murakami was staying in Manhattan at the Waldorf-Astoria, covering the New York City Marathon, then in its sixth year, for a leading Japanese periodical.

Takako stopped off in Los Angeles, en route to New York. Brautigan was there at the airport to meet her plane, accompanied by Don Carpenter and Melissa Mathison. (Mathison had worked as an assistant on both
Apocalypse Now
and
The Godfather II
, as well as serving as Francis and Eleanor Coppola's babysitter. She later wrote the screenplays for
The Black Stallion
and
E.T.: The Extra-Terrestrial
.) They all went to dinner at Lucy's El Adobe Café, a small, dark Mexican restaurant located on Melrose Avenue directly across the street from Paramount Studios. Much beloved by actors and musicians, Lucy's was the place where Linda Ronstadt was introduced to California governor Jerry Brown, launching their much-publicized romance. Richard ordered “a big pitcher of Margaritas” to wash down the typical campesino fare.

Afterward, Brautigan escorted Takako to their separate rooms at the secluded Sunset Marquis Hotel in West Hollywood. Situated on a tree-lined cul-de-sac a half block south of Sunset Boulevard, the Marquis was another trendy celebrity hangout, redolent of privilege, the low buildings clustered around a central pool. The next day, after sleeping off her jet lag, Takako felt ready for a more vibrant night on the town. She and Richard joined Harry Dean Stanton for dinner at The Palm on Santa Monica Boulevard. The pricy steakhouse was the West Hollywood branch of the New York restaurant much beloved by Brautigan.

After eating, the trio ventured further west along Santa Monica to the Troubadour, where Waylon Jennings performed that night. Founded in 1957 by Doug Weston (whose proprietary credit was emblazoned on the sign above the entrance), the Troub became a hotbed of emerging talent from its very start. Lenny Bruce was busted there for obscenity the year the club opened. The Byrds, Buffalo Springfield, Joni Mitchell, the Pointer Sisters, Neil Young, and Elton John (in the United States) all had their debuts at the Troubadour. Cheech & Chong and Tom Waits were discovered during the Troub's famed Monday night open mic amateur “hootenannies.” Waylon Jennings had played at the Troubadour several times previously, and the large crowd milling on the sidewalk outside the box office testified to his recent full-blown stardom as an “outlaw” country singer. The place was sold out, but Harry Dean knew the management and snuck his friends around to the back door. They went in through the office and quickly found good seats out front for the show.

When the music ended, Richard, Takako, and Harry Dean walked two doors down the block to Dan Tana's, an unpretentious Italian restaurant that, in the twelve years since its opening, had become a popular hangout for actors, studio execs, professional athletes, and mob wise guys. With red-checkered tablecloths, roomy booths, and chianti bottles hanging from the ceiling beams where strands of Christmas lights glowed year-round, Tana's looked more like a New York or Chicago joint than a Hollywood in-spot. Not having room for another big steak, Brautigan and his pals enjoyed a couple of copious cocktails before heading back to the Sunset Marquis, where they sat drinking around the pool until dawn. Takako stayed in L.A. for only two days before flying on to New York. Richard had arranged for a room at the Gotham Hotel and bought theater tickets for her and Ryu Murakami to see
A Chorus Line
and
Equus
.

Takako Shiina stopped off in San Francisco on her way back to Japan. Brautigan met her at the airport, and they traveled by taxi to his apartment on Union Street, where he made her comfortable in his office, converted into a guest room for the occasion. During her short stay, Richard brought Takako over to Bruce Conner's house. The artist presented her with signed copies of his books. Brautigan also arranged for a party in Shiina's honor at the Page Street law offices of Richard Hodge. She knew almost no one among the ten or so guests, but Don Carpenter provided a familiar face.

Before Takako left for Tokyo, Richard took her to Bolinas. Margot and John Doss were heading to their house downtown and provided a convenient ride. Brautigan's place had the cold look of unoccupied emptiness. Richard wasted no time before escorting Takako up the road to Bob and Bobbie Creeley's old farmhouse. The Creeleys were congenial and articulate hosts. Takako recalled great bunches of drying marijuana hanging from the rafters. When the first joints were rolled, Richard declined, but insisted that his friend from Japan, who didn't smoke, should give it
a try. Takako took the first hit of pot in her life that night. It made her sleepy. When they all drove downtown to eat at a local restaurant, she dozed off in the car and missed out on dinner.