“The magician’s underwear was found in a cardboard suitcase floating in a stagnant pond in the outskirts of Miami.” It was an hour before Tom Robbins was scheduled to arrive, and Christian Martin and I flung the opening line of Another Roadside Attraction back and fourth like a bandanna soaked in honey hoping that it would stick in Christian‘s mind during the interview. Thanks to a Bellingham Weekly article that Christian wrote some years back, he got the chance to interview him in front of a live audience at the Boundary Bay Brewery and I got a back stage pass. Tom Robbins is probably the person who most inspired the early legs in my journey as a writer, and subsequently, as we stood there in the parking lot waiting for him, I was beside myself. Over the past twenty years, since reading the aforementioned first line, I had acquired a whole laundry list of synchronicities around the wacky wordsmith who shares his philosophy through meandering story lines and conversations between unlikely characters such as spoons, cans of beans and dirty socks. Our job was to wrangle Robbins when he arrived, find him a parking space and bring him to the back gate for easy backstage access. As Christian and I, now joined by Christian’s friend Trail Rat, stood in front of the new Farmer’s Market parking lot admiring the beet placed in Robbins’ honor atop the building, we discussed the photo we would take when he arrived. A few minutes later we noticed that he had already arrived, sans car, and was dangerously close to the front entrance where he would undoubtedly be accosted by people wanting to talk to him, tell him about their stories he was unknowingly part of and have him sign their books. Christian yelled at Tom as I got into the car to get my book for him to sign, and my camera. I then composed myself for our walk around the building at which time I would be telling him about how I met Amanda Ziller at The Last Exit in Brooklyn back in 1992 and how Tom did the wedding for a woman I used to date who, as I understood it, introduced him to his current wife. When Christian introduced me to him, he shook my hand and then continued walking with his small entourage around the building. I walked behind unable to hear much of what was going on.
The prior evening had been an especially difficult one for Tom Robbins, but not nearly as difficult as it was for his wife. Just after bed time they heard a strange noise. His wife went outside to investigate and found a raccoon dragging their little dog under the deck. When she went to grab the dog, the raccoon bit and scratched her arm to shreds. To make matters worse, on their way home from the hospital, Tom ran out of gas. As I followed a very preoccupied and sleep deprived Tom Robbins through the gate, it was apparent that this would not be the best opportunity for a connection. When Christian grabbed my book from me and asked Tom to sign it Tom said that he would be sure to sign it after the show. Tom later warned the crowd that his signing would be extremely brief due to the circumstances
The weary man with arthritic hands who I followed into the venue perked up the moment he got on stage and kept the crowd in stitches for about an hour. There were times, I must admit, that Tom's answers to the questions seemed to go the way of a nitrous balloon escaping from a hippie’s hand, though he seemed to catch it at the last moment controlling the last bit of laughing gas as it blanketed the crowd. It is hard to tell if it was his doing or the Boundary Bay Beer's that, the audience was eagerly imbibing. I’m thankful that I have it on video for future reference. (Look for it on you tube soon.)
When the show was over, Tom Robbins sat at a table and signed books. Eventually the line got down to one person and then to me. I handed my book to his helper who asked my name and if she could open the book to the signing page. By this time, I was pretty sure that in his mind, Tom was already home with his wife. I chose to give my new copy of B is for Beer to Tom and have him sign it to my girlfriend. As I was reading “To Cass, Tom Robbins,” on the title page of the book, Tom came back to life and yelled to Christian, “Hey Christian, where’s that friend of yours, I want to sign his book.”
“It has already been taken care of, Tom. Thanks,” I replied.
The highlight of my evening was the moment of anticipation in the parking lot before the first official Tom Robbins sighting. At that moment Tom was still the young, mischievous long haired figure whose photo graced the back of Still Life with Woodpecker. He would undoubtedly greet any question I had with wit sharp enough to slice a beet in two without spilling a drop of blood. I still very much wish to have a sit down with Tom Robbins, someday. I’ll just politely ask him to keep the dog in the night before our meeting.
