By EDBOY
I tap his shoulder in the back room of Bob’s Java Jive, and go, “Bro, you look just like Richard Brautigan.”
He’s missing the broad-brimmed outlaw hat, but he’s got the glasses, the bushy handlebar mustache.
He leans back, says, “Who THE FUCK is Richard Brautigan?”
I show him the weathered copy of Trout Fishing in America that’s conveniently tucked in my jacket pocket.
“Wow,” he says, bringing the book to his face. “That IS me. What did he do? Bag groceries?”
“You know, I wouldn’t be surprised. He was a poet and did a lot of random shit,” I say. “He was born here.”
“He was born in fuckin’ Bob’s Java Jive?”
“No man…Tacoma,” I say. “He was born in Tacoma. He died in 1984.”
“Bro,” he says, “I was born in 1984.”
“You were?”
“Yeah man,” he says. “I’m obviously him. I’m Richard Brautigan. I’m fuckin’ POET, dude.”
The karaoke DJ summons him.
He sings Elvis Costello’s Pump It Up. When it gets to the Pump It Up part, he kicks the air like he’s kicking over a beer can tower.
When he returns to his booth, I show him another picture of Richard Brautigan.
“That’s my next Halloween costume,” he says.
“You’re welcome,” I say.
“Hell yeah,” Richard Brautigan says. “I’m finally gonna be somebody.”
Edboy is an American writer. He runs Spaghetti Days Press out of Tacoma, Washington. Follow him here: @spaghettidayspress.