…still smelling like Athit, I found myself awakening in first class next to the recluse, Jim Harrison.
Jim Harrison was planetary from the moment I saw him. He is a thick and somewhat round man, dense enough to have his own gravitational pull and orbiting moons. From the corner of my eye, I can make out that unruly salt and pepper hair, blown back in disarray like Tea tree branches on Rottnest Island off Perth. Add to that a thicket of mustache, with different shaped teeth jutting down, like tombstones out of bear grass. He needs some grooming and some detangling. His eyes remind me of stout cement nails, beset in a tan round face. It’s leather and creases are like that of an old fashion catchers mit. In his eyes are little hematite beads, lens caps on film projectors rolling polyester film from the early 60’s. His left eye roams blindly, while his right tries to console a childhood injury that left him sightless in that one. His clothing this day is reminiscent of that which you’d find hanging wearily in a dark storage closet. His light brown T-shirt is a bit too small stretched over a hemisphere of abdomen. Over that he sports a rust colored and distressed suede jacket, with gnawed fringes on the sleeves as I recall; or so I seem to imagine. I’ll bet that in his pockets are a couple of old well pressed diner receipts, a turnpike ticket, and crinkled cellophane candy wrapper from, like, 1970.
Sitting beside him, I can hear the pitter pat of a mouse running on a squeaky toy Ferris wheel turning in his mind. From drink or lost years, he slurs slightly through stories about Jack Nicholson and that genre of people (Hunter Thompson, Dennis Hopper, Jimmy Buffett, and a few others.) He speaks with a bit of disgust about the Hollywood scene; having just returned geographically and mentally from a movie director’s office in LA, says that there is no money in being an author, but screenwriting, well there’s a living… Aspiring screenwriters are coming out of the knotty woodwork, with lolling tongues and pointy pencils (that’s not exactly what he said, but so I like to imagine it). I don’t get the feeling he’ll be putting out another book – but I hope to see some poetry.
What would I say to Jack Nicholson, who I ran into walking along the bay in San Diego years later? About this chance meeting with his friend Jim Harrison? “Hey Jack, I went out for barbeque with your friend Jim Harrison when he came through Tucson…he told me what a fucking nut you are.” When I ran by Jack that sunny day, I just said “hi Jack,” which seemed to startle him…he lifted his head in bewilderment and tried to spot me from under his shades.
Jim Harrison and I drank booze and made up a story for the flight attendant…you see, he was an underwear model and I was his agent…this went on for the entire flight. He disappeared while disembarking – ending up somewhere in Patagonia for a retreat. That day, I went home and Googled Jim Harrison. And scanned excerpts from his book, “Legends of the Fall”…and it made me think about Thaksin and Athit and Nicholson…
