Closets

I remember I once went through a period of counting closets in haunted houses. I was inbetween love affairs. I had no idea what would happen next with my heart or if anything would ever happen again, so I counted closets in haunted houses.

I was glad when it was over.

7,914,322 closets is too many, not to speak of walking up the stairs to each haunted house and slowly opening the front door.

The Grasshopper's Mirror

Yesterday I thought I saw my first grasshopper of summer, something moved grasshopperly in the grass, but I didn't actually see it. I saw something else, perhaps the wind or the ghost of a grasshopper, trying to remember last year when it was alive.

Today for certain the first grasshopper of summer jumped right onto the road in front of me. There was nothing haunted to its presence. It was just suddenly there.

I will be seeing grasshoppers for the next four months, on into October when the cold nights and snow will change it into what I thought was a grasshopper yesterday, a lingering uneasy gesture in the grass.

A Gun for Big Fish

The Last of What's Left

The children gathered solemnly like shadows from the Bible to divide among themselves the last of what was left, which was barely nothing compared to what had once been, but it was more than being dead, so they had been taught for centuries.

They each took their portion which could only be counted with a microscope, and then went silently in different directions, never to see each other again.

There was no reason to.

They left behind an empty place where everything had once been.

The Lost Tree

There were a lot of things that we could have talked about. Last year we made love under a tree in the woods. There was a nice patch of soft, perfect for love-making grass under a tree. It was a hot afternoon and the tree lent our passion its shade.

This spring I've gone for some walks down in the woods but mysteriously I can't find that tree. Not that I've deliberately gone seeking it like a ghoul wanting to feast on the ghost of a dead passion. I just thought that somehow upon a spring walk, I must just come across that tree, but I haven't. I don't know what I would think if I were to find that tree. I know that I would not sit down underneath it or in the future bring another woman to that tree.

There were a lot of things that we could have talked about.

We walked back to the house in silence. I felt happy. I didn't know at that time that every step we took was a step toward walking out of each other's lives.

The Short Story

Why is a short story short?
     Ask that man sitting on a bench in the park, any park, but be prepared, for he might tell you a story longer than you would want to listen to.

Walking Toward December

8 o'clock in the evening: I am walking down a street of closed shops and few people. It's Sunday, a day of rest. The shops are resting. People are in their homes waiting for Monday and work.
     It is late August but soon it will be December.
     The sun is going down.
     Another day is ending.
     They will keep ending just like this one until it is December.
     Why not December?
     And besides, haven't you heard yourself say, "It's almost Christmas? Where did the time go? I still haven't done all my shopping."
     It started with this August evening wondering what you're going to get Aunt Caroline who is so finicky and hard to please.

The Ad

A story about a large gingerbread cottage in the lobby of the Keio Plaza Hotel, in Tokyo, Japan. Brautigan included observations of a man vacuuming crumbs from the carpet in front of the cottage, and two women posing for a photograph in front of the cottage.

Added Days

April 1984
Vague memories from Brautigan's childhood.
Written while Brautigan stayed at the Keio Plaza Hotel, in Tokyo, Japan.

An Apartment on Telegraph Hill

May 1968
The narrator (a thinly disguised Brautigan), a sculptor whose work "had long since ceased to yield any satisfaction" and who "had no interest in women except to get occasionally laid when I got bored with getting drunk and it took a really good woman to get me away from the bottle" dreamed of having "a girlfriend on Telegraph Hill" with a nice apartment. "Coming from a poor family, I've always been attracted to women above my station."

The Habitue

Written while Brautigan stayed at the Owl Hotel in Amsterdam, The Netherlands, concerning getting his shoes repaired.

The Haight-Asbury Crawdad

Fall 1963
Brautigan describes one of his favorite walks in the Haight-Ashbury neighborhood, saying "it's beautiful where Haight Street meets Stanyan Street at the Golden Gate Park. I like . . . to enjoy the last hour before sundown."

Key to the Frogs of South-Western Australia

A story about a writer who attempts to write a spontaneous novel, thinking to use "Key to the Frogs of South-Western Australia" as the title. Every time he starts, however, he remembers a short story by Wallace Stegner, "Field Guide to Western Birds," and its metaphors of observing and identifying life (outward endeavors) rather than writing (an inward endeavor), and stops. The title came from a book Brautigan purchased prior to starting this story.

Last Words about What Came and Went Yesterday

Written in Japan during Brautigan's 1979 visit, this story concerns piles of shattered umbrellas following a typhoon.

Mussels

Written while Brautigan stayed at the Owl Hotel in Amsterdam, The Netherlands, concerning a nearby sandwich shop. The hot mussel sandwich could be as good as any reason for returning to Amsterdam.

My Name Is Forgotten in the Grass

September 1981
A single paragraph story about Brautigan's feelings about his daughter Ianthe's wedding to Paul Swensen. "She is my only daughter, and the end of my family name. [. . .] My name became the shadow of an old deer bone among the green grass that doesn't know its name."

October 1963

Brautigan and his first wife, Virginia (Ginny) Dionne Alder, separated 24 December 1962, when he learned of Virginia's affair with his friend, Anthony (Tony) Frederic Aste. Virginia, and daughter, Ianthe, moved to Salt Lake City, Utah, with Aste. Early in October 1963, they returned to San Francisco. Brautigan wrote about the changes he saw in Ianthe in a series of unpublished stories. In one, "To Love a Child in California the Way Love Should Be," he writes about the heartache of having to leave after visiting with Ianthe for only one-half hour. Her crying, he wrote, followed him down the stairs as he walked away.

Sandwalker

Written while Brautigan stayed at the Owl Hotel in Amsterdam, The Netherlands, concerning a fantasy of wanting to reach through the wall of his hotel room and kill a young boy in the next room who was keeping him awake.

The Umbrella Photograph

Written in Japan during Brautigan's 1979 visit.

Umbrellas in the Snow

January 1984
Written while Brautigan stayed at the Owl Hotel in Amsterdam, The Netherlands, concerning his surprise to see residents break out their umbrellas with the first snow of the year.

Walking Mushrooms

Written in Japan during Brautigan's 1979 visit