Why Richard Brautigan Shot Himself in the Head
“Over and over again—”
I interrupt myself and raise a finger to the sky as he looks up and time appears to dilate, the arm he is using to slowly cycle groceries from one belt to the other and from then on into the mouths and asses of the dopey persons now slowly rising to distraction from the minutia lagging as it moves the air from the air upwardly like gas rising from a swamp, I say, “And this is Henry Miller, one of the greatest writers of all time,” I say this with stress in my chords and I resume, taking my last breath,
“—I have said that there is no way out of this present impassé. If we were wide awake we would be instantly struck by the horros which surround us…we would drop our tools, quit our jobs, deny our obligations, pay no taxes, observe no laws, and so on. Could the man or woman who—”
The woman facing him cuts me off with a loudness in her voice:
“Excuse me,” she says and her tone’s firmness and finality and solipsism makes mine evaporate into the swamp gas. He and I exchange a glance while she stares into his forehead with indignance. She says,
“I have a coupon.”
And this is why I think Richard Brautigan shot himself in the head.
