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V
The Night of the Living Borscht
But my first true introduction to Richard's wonderful, scary craziness
came a few weeks after the thistle debacle. He called me up and said he
and Aki were sick of Paradise Valley and wanted to come to Bozeman for a
sort of second honeymoon. They would get a room at the Holiday Inn and
spend a few days in a "fresh environment." I was delighted that they were
coming and Judy was pretty happy too because I wouldn't be driving crazy
over Trail Creek at all hours of the night. She fixed them dinner for
their first night in Bozeman and I straightened the house up. When they
arrived, they seemed pretty sullen. Richard was already in Imperial mode
and was mumbling about borscht. Akiko helped Judy in the kitchen as
Richard began to divulge the gruesome details of the previous day.
Apparently Jimmy Buffet and Jim Harrison were to come to their house for
dinner and Aki had worked for a day getting some of her super borscht
ready for them. I knew Richard had high praise for Harrison, though it
might have been tempered a little by jealousy since he had just sold
Legends of the Fall to the movies for around a half a million. As it
turned out, because of a fishing float-trip on the Yellowstone, Harrison,
Buffet and their group had just managed to squeeze the borscht into their
agenda before they rushed off to Chico Hot Springs. Because of this,
Richard and Aki felt snubbed. Jimmy had walked around the kitchen while
the borscht was being served saying, "Hi, I'm Jimmy." This, to me, seemed
only natural for a newcomer to the house, but it infuriated Richard, and
throughout the rest of the evening he would intermittently whisper "Hi,
I'm Jimmy," then in disgust, "Popular Culture." All of this dominated the
conversation before, during and after our own dinner, so no one relaxed
very much. Around eight or nine, Richard said to Aki in his most polite
Imperial voice, "Dear, it is time for you to go back to the motel and
bathe, powder and prepare your body for me." A "give me a break" look
darted across Aki's face, but, like the obedient Japanese wife, she
started out the door. "And don't worry," said Richard, "Greg will bring me
to you as soon as we have discussed some things." As soon as she was gone,
Richard's face once more contorted to a sneer and he muttered, "Popular
Culture."
By ten o'clock we were still talking about the same thing. Later, I
learned that Richard called this "tracking." He would get on a subject
which was bothering him and repeat it over and over again, as if through
repetition, he could purge the situation--and maybe he could. I know that
this type of repetition works well in his poetry and fiction, but now I
also know that it is fairly typical in alcoholics. After about two hours
of drinking and tracking, Richard said, "We must go to Pine Creek and
settle some business." I gulped, Judy scowled, Richard and I trudged
purposefully toward the car. I probably shouldn't have gone along with
Richard's judgment at times like this, but I could see a strange hole in
my normal life opening up and the hole was ominous, interesting, and
strong as a flame to a moth. Soon we were on our way over Trail Creek,
Richard sloshing whisky on the front seat of my Mazda Miser, and I driving
as slowly and carefully as the urgency of the situation would allow. As we
rattled across the bridge toward the Pine Creek Lodge near Richard's
house, he said "Slow down here. We must make plans. The borscht bandits
are in the cabins near the main store. We must Punish them." I started
sputtering cowardly drivel like, "But I sort of like Buffet's music"
and "I've always wanted to meet Harrison but not like this." Richard stared
at me like he might stare at a maggot in some cheese he was eating and I
shut up and obeyed. When we got to the cabins at the lodge, Richard
ordered me to drive up into the yard. "Now," he said, "push this cabin
with your car. I want it moved." Swept away by the gypsy winds of destiny,
I nudged the little station wagon into the yard and lightly bumped the
cabin. "Yes," said Richard, "yessss. Now flash your lights and honk your
horn." When I hesitated, he reached over and did it for me. We waited for
a few seconds that seemed like minutes, but no one came from the cabin.
Then, as if a sudden gust of logic had swept down from the Absorokas,
Richard sat back in his seat, whisky sloshed all over him, and said,
"Hmmm, maybe we shouldn't be doing this. There are children in there.
Those guys can be pretty mean. They could sue me for all I'm worth. Quick,
let's go to my house and hide on the floor." So the next thing I knew,
there we were on Richard's kitchen floor with all the lights out,
discussing the impact of Japanese film on his work. From borscht to "The
Realm of the Senses" in one quick logical sweep. Then, as he started
talking about a Japanese woman picking up an egg with her vagina, a little
shock came over his face. "Maybe we should go back to Bozeman now." It was
now two a.m. "Aki is waiting for me." So back over miles of gravel
mountain roads we went, leaving the Buffet/Harrison group in god knows
what kind of quandary. I hope they never woke up.
"We must stop here at Sambo's," said Richard, as I did my best to get him
back to the Holiday Inn before something awful happened. "I will order her
some shrimp. She loves them and they should be a perfect peace offering."
I somehow doubted that. The shrimp order took so long that we at a
hamburger and fries while we waited. Finally the waitress came with a
plate of scrawny fried shrimp to go. Richard stood indignantly and said.
"You are getting no tip. Your service is so terrible, I just wanted you to
know that." I hid my face and darted out in front of Richard, who remained
at the door reprimanding the tired, frazzled waitress. "Good luck," I said
as Richard carried the plate of measly shrimp into the Holiday Inn.
The next day Aki and Richard pulled up in front of our house in the White
Acre (Richard's huge, old, white hog of a Plymouth). Aki tromped the
brakes and Richard's head went slamming into the dashboard. She sat in the
car while he came in and explained that she had been doing that all
morning. I didn't ask what had happened to the shrimp.
Gorgo's Brautigan Stories Index
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