van-gogh-sunflowers.jpg)
The soft-spoken literature professor smiled knowingly.
“I overcame that problem,” he said. “I found a psychiatrist in Nashville – where I live and work – who specializes in creative types. He put me on ten milligrams of amphetamines once a day.”
“It worked?”
“Almost immediately. It didn’t bring back the manic episodes – I mean, who would want that? – but it gave me access to that creative edge I had before I started the meds.”
We were enjoying a smoke break in Jack Kerouac Alley, between drinks at the bar in Vesuvio. The setting sun reflected in the windows of City Lights Books.
“The bigger question is whether bi-polar disorder needs to be treated medically at all,” he said. “I mean, look at Van Gogh, for instance.”
“Of course.”
“In every one of his paintings you can see the manic highs and depressive lows. And that manic edge is always evident in those almost violent, knife-like brush strokes.”
I puffed my cigarette and nodded eagerly in agreement.
“Do you have a favorite Van Gogh?”
“It may sound trite, “ I said, my eyes darting to the ground, “but I’m partial to ‘Sunflowers’.”
“Not trite at all. A vibrant work. I think it’s one of his best.”
We returned to the bar. We had been drinking on his tab all afternoon, a good thing considering that I was flat broke until Friday. He was one of those tourists who come to Vesuvio for a literary experience; they gaze at the framed photos of Kerouac, Ferlinghetti, and James Joyce as if they are museum pieces. They want to have a beer or two or three and engage in long, drink-laden discussions about books and literature while soaking in the bar’s fabled history. If I’m sitting at the bar, which is likely most afternoons, they get that experience.
“So you’re living the starving artist lifestyle here in North Beach, huh?” he said.
“I was once a well-fed artist,” I said. “But divorce, a variety of illnesses, all kinds of shit conspired to put me where I am now.”
We spoke into the evening. We conversed on Southern literature, agreeing that Flannery O’Connor is too much work and that Cormac McCarthy is just right. Fitzgerald was talked about at length. Michael Chabon was roasted on the bonfire and we shared a toast to Dylan Thomas. By evening’s end, I sent the visiting professor off in a cab to another San Francisco literary landmark, John’s Grill in Union Square.
The following day I’m perched at the bar at Vesuvio, coffee mug in one hand, red notebook and pen in the other. I was working on a short story titled ‘Sunflowers’ about my encounter with the kind stranger from Nashville. While I wrote, nerves rattling from the free coffee that was being poured, I wondered – still being one day away from payday – how I was going to pay for a much-needed beer.
Janet, the co-owner of Vesuvio, was working the bar that afternoon. Janet is a savvy business woman who blends in well with the bohemian atmosphere she owns and runs.
“Rodger?” she trilled. “Would you do me a favor?”
“Sure.”
“I think the bar needs some flowers today. Do you know where the post office is on Stockton Street?”
“Yes.”
She pushed a handful of cash across the bar. “Here’s twelve dollars. Would you go buy us five stems of sunflowers?”
I returned ten minutes later with a handful of sunflowers. A free beer awaited my return.
Nice piece, Rodger. Never underestimate the kindness of strangers.
Sounds like you’re making a home for yourself in North Beach at last. Flowers in a vase, a comforting beer, and good conversation. Yay!
A Perfect reflection on the afternoon for me. I was exactly the tourist you describe. To sit in that bar, across from that bookstore, and inhale… everything. I was just looking over my notes from that afternoon in my moleskin, and even as the alcohol levels increased, the comments that I gleaned from Rodger remained lucent and wonder-filled. I can’t thank you enough for a grand afternoon.
ps; that novel I was trying to remember about the modern lefties that exhume the body of Sinclair Lewis because they need a cause… it is called “U.S.!” by chris bachelder
Thank you so much for stopping by the site, Dave. I, too, had a grand time in your company and look forward to seeing you next time you’re in the city.
Cheers!
Hey, good job Rodger. What’s the name of that intensely alcoholic English novel by the bloke who died in his forties from a while back…Barstal something? Anybody know what I’m talking about?
Going to the beach for a few days and looking for other summer reading.
Here are three dipsonovels of recent date.
Ah – but that’s only one beer – and it’s a long day ahead…
I once overheard a comment from someone in an obscure niche industry say of another colleague – “When he dies we’ll just stuff him and put him in a hotel lobby – no one will know the difference!” (In this case – the guy referenced was a sales rep who spent most of his time in various hotel lobbies.)
It’s all just public domain!
Regards,
Vaughn
[...] me tell you, with Vesuvio being right next door to City Lights Books I had literally hundreds of terrific literary discussions with both locals and tourists. People fucking read in SF, man, and they take their books seriously. [...]