Sunflowers

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.