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  “Yeah, well, if I just killed a guy I’d be a little shook, too,” said Clarence.

  The front door opened, and Brautigan entered and crossed back to the table.

  “He’s all right.” He smiled. “He’s not dead.”

  “Shit,” said Miki Dora.

  “Good,” said Clarence.

  “Apparently I broke his nose in the fight, and a nose bleeds like crazy. He did knock me out, then took the sheet to clean himself up. He threw it out the window. Perfect drunk logic, huh?”

  “Wow,” said Clarence.

  “What a fucking relief,” said Richard.

  Miki stood. “You pick up the check,” he said to Richard. Then he walked out of the place.

  “Who is he again?” Richard said to Clarence.

  “He’s a big-time surfer,” said Clarence.

  “Seems like a nice guy,” said Richard.

  “Yeah,” said Clarence. “Well, I’m going to hit the road, too. Thanks for dinner.”

  “Thanks for all the music,” said Richard. “I hope you like the book.”

  * * *

  Richard Brautigan died of a self-inflicted gunshot wound on or about September 14, 1984, at his remote home in Bolinas, California. His body was discovered by a private investigator on October 25, 1984.

  Miki Dora died at his father’s house in Montecito, California, on January 3, 2002. He was sixty-seven years old. The wall at Malibu still carries his name.

  Nicolas Roeg was still directing at the age of eighty.

  Jefferson Wagner, aka Zuma Jay, remains the coolest man in the world.

  The River

  Clarence

  To me music is like a river. I have lived my life beside the river. Every day I get up and I look at the river. I watch it and notice when it rises or falls. I see how the wind affects the surface and ruffles it, and how the lack of wind leaves it looking like a mirror. I follow the water as it flows over rocks and around obstacles. I have studied the river my whole life. I know it as well as I know myself.

  Most days I swim in the river. Sometimes I float on it, looking up at the trees and the sky. Other times I dive beneath the surface and try to become the river. I feel it all around me and I feel like part of it. I find it difficult to distinguish between the water and myself, and I don’t know where one begins and the other one ends. And then I am the river.

  At night I sit beside it. I sit in the dark and listen to it and I feel like the Rain King and I listen to it and I close my eyes and I listen to the river. Some nights it’s just noise. A nice noise, a peaceful noise, but just noise. But then something will happen. Something will move beneath the surface and the noise becomes something else. It’s discordant like John Cage or Harry Partch, but then it sounds like music almost and it’s Captain Beefheart and then Frank Zappa, and the noise turns beautiful and annoying all at the same time, and that’s good and so unexpected that it makes me laugh out loud in the darkness.

  But on other nights the river sings, and it can sing anything. It’s a choir. It’s the Edwin Hawkins Singers singing “Oh Happy Day,” and it’s all gospel all the time until it turns into opera and classical piano and violins and Wurlitzers and Hammonds and big church organs and Al Kooper on “Like a Rolling Stone” and Dave “Babyface” Cortez and whoever played organ on Del Shannon’s “Runaway,” and suddenly there are a million different voices and a million different instruments, and I can hear each and every one of them and they’re all good. I can make out Speedo and Ivory Joe Hunter and some group singing about white port and lemon juice and Willie Dixon and Robert Johnson and Son House and Garnett Mims, and then the Darktown strutters dance by in the shadowy light, followed by the Viscounts playing “Harlem Nocturne” and “The Touch,” and the Rockin’ Rebels’ “Wild Weekend,” and then Hank Williams and Johnny Rodriguez and Mickey Newbury from a depot in Frisco, and the music just washes over me and makes me feel whole.

  I can’t be separated from the river. I cannot be away from it. It follows me; it changes its path to be with me and to stay with me and to define me. It is my purpose and it flows through my soul and it always will, and nothing in this world, including death, can stop that.

  Burbank, California

  Don

  Clarence and I sat in the executive dining room atop the Team Disney Building, the building supported by the Seven Dwarves, having lunch with Steve McPherson, who was then the president of Touchstone Television. We were there to discuss an idea Clarence had for a TV show. It was called Paradise Mississippi and was the story of an aristocratic black couple in England who are broke but inherit what they think is a castle in the town of Paradise, Mississippi. It turns out to be a miniature-golf-themed amusement park with a castle motif, but they don’t find that out till they get there. During lunch we pitched this notion to Steve, and he thought we might have a shot of selling it to Fox. He promised to set up a meeting over there, which in fact did take place a few days later.

  After talking business for a while the conversation turned to E Street stuff. Clarence was his usual, charming self and we were having a good time. The chairman of ABC Entertainment was a guy named Lloyd Braun. He was in the room having lunch with Bob Iger, the future CEO of the Walt Disney Company. ABC and Touchstone Television had that week made a talent deal with an African American comedian named Earthquake. As Lloyd and Bob stood to leave, Lloyd spotted Clarence and made an assumption. He crossed to our table, with Bob a step behind him. When he got there he leaned across the table, extended his hand, smiled, and said, “Earthquake, I presume,” as if he were meeting Dr. Livingstone in the jungle. Clarence is used to people approaching him and shaking hands and figured Lloyd for a fan. If the word Earthquake registered with him at all, I’d be very surprised. I caught Steve’s eye but the damage, if there was any, had been done, so he just shrugged.

  Bob Iger, however, didn’t get to be a mogul by being slow. “Clarence Clemons,” he said, extending his own hand, “of Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band.” If he had more time I think he would’ve started humming “Born to Run.” Lloyd, to his credit, realized the faux pas he had made and chose to undo it by pretending it never happened. In the nanosecond after Bob spoke Lloyd said, “I love you guys. I’ve got all the albums. Are you playing in town?” It was a masterful correction, and it worked because Clarence hadn’t really been listening and had no idea who these guys were.

  Watching people react to Clarence is interesting. He commands almost any room he enters. He’s big, yes, but he appears bigger in person. He looks like a building walking around. In recent years he’s been wearing his hair in long dreadlocks that only add to the effect. When you couple that with his rock-star wardrobe, it renders those of us who travel with him invisible.

  If I’m in a crowded restaurant with Clarence, I believe I could pick up my knife and stab our waiter in the neck and nobody, including the waiter, would be able to give an accurate description of me. I would appear in all the reports as “some guy with Clarence Clemons.” But the upside is that when I go out anywhere with him, we’re a star.

  The Legend of Kaupo, 1983

  This one takes place a few days after my club Big Man’s West closed. It’s a combination of many real conversations set in an exotic locale. Mahalo. —C.C.

  Bruce and Clarence sat on the wooded steps of the Kaupo Store on the far side of Maui. The store was closed. The store was almost always closed. A sign on the door read, “This store is usually open Monday–Friday around 10:30–4:30. Don’t be surprised if not open yet. Soon will be. Unless otherwise posted closed Saturday and Sunday and when necessary. Occasionally.”

  It was Monday, January 10, 1983.

  Kaupo was more of a place on the map than a town. It was located on a four-wheel-drive-only road on the backside of the Haleakala Crater, far from the tourists in Kihei or Kaanapali.

  They had been sitting on the steps for more than twenty minutes, and not a single vehicle had passed by on the rutted dirt road.

  Both me
n wore shorts, flip-flops, and T-shirts. Clarence’s shirt said, I survived the road to Hana. Bruce’s was plain white and said nothing. Clarence wore the Panama hat he had gotten in Puerto Rico years ago. Bruce’s head was bare.

  “Hot,” said Bruce.

  “I love it,” said Clarence.

  “Car rental company said you’re not supposed to drive out here,” said Bruce, nodding toward their rented red Ford Mustang convertible.

  “I won’t tell,” said Clarence.

  The wind was blowing hard out over the ocean, but the building and the mountain behind sheltered them.

  “I like it here,” said Bruce.

  “Hawaii, Maui, or here?” asked Clarence.

  “All of the above,” said Bruce. “But especially here. No people.”

  “Somebody must live in these houses,” said Clarence, referring to the few structures surrounding the store.

  “Guess they’re all at work. There’s a ranch here. Cattle, looks like. Or maybe back in Hana at the hotel or something,” Bruce said.

  “Yeah,” said Clarence. “I wonder if they ever open this place. I could use a Coke.”

  “I love the sign,” said Bruce.

  “Yeah,” said Clarence.

  They had flown to Maui the day before, after crossing the country in a private plane from Jersey earlier.

  “Sorry about your club,” said Bruce.

  “That was fun Saturday night, though,” said Clarence. “We went out with a bang. Thanks for showing up.”

  “Hey, what the fuck,” said Bruce. “I love singing ‘Lucille.’ I’d go anywhere to sing it. Actually it had nothing to do with you or the club closing. I just felt like singing and I happened to be passing by your place at that exact moment.”

  Clarence laughed. “Sure,” he said.

  A man on a tractor drove by, followed by a slow cloud of dust. They watched him come and go. He never looked at them.

  “How’s Nebraska doing?” asked Clarence.

  “Good, it’s doing good,” said Bruce. “You like it?”

  “Yeah,” said Clarence. “I thought ‘Atlantic City’ sounded good with the band.”

  “Better?” asked Bruce, turning to look at him.

  “Different,” said Clarence. “More heat.”

  Bruce looked out at the ocean. The wind line was a few hundred yards offshore. The water looked blue and flat, then suddenly turned white and stormy.

  “You might be right,” he said.

  “I’m always right,” said Clarence.

  Bruce laughed. “I’m glad we’re doing this,” he said. “It’s like the old days, before everything got so…”

  “Big?” asked Clarence,

  “That’ll do,” said Bruce. “I’ve missed hanging out, shootin’ the shit, no place to be. You know what I’m saying?”

  “I hear you, brother,” said Clarence.

  Bruce tilted his head back and felt the hot sun on his face.

  “I’ve got some new songs,” he said.

  “More sad shit about losers?” Clarence smiled as he spoke.

  Bruce laughed again. “No. Well… it’s bigger stuff. Stuff for the band. It’s got… I don’t know, power. Yeah. Born in the U.S.A.”

  “That a song?” said Clarence.

  “Not yet,” said Bruce. “But it will be. I’ve got a lot of pieces.” He sang the first line.

  “Wow,” said Clarence.

  “I got the title from a screenplay somebody sent me. It comes out of the Nebraska thing but now it’s happening fast,” said Bruce. “All these songs. I can’t write ’em down fast enough.”

  “I saw you on the plane,” said Clarence. “You didn’t even stop writing to eat.”

  “It gets like that. It was like that with The River, too. Nebraska was different. I was in a bad place.”

  “Yeah,” said Clarence. “You write your way out of it.”

  “Right,” said Bruce.

  “So you think we might actually play again someday?” asked Clarence.

  “Yeah,” said Bruce, and he laughed the way he did when he was thinking ahead of what he was saying. “I think so. I hope so.”

  “Good,” said Clarence. “I’ve gotta pay for some shit.”

  “Come to LA after this and I’ll play you some stuff I’ve been doing in the garage,” said Bruce.

  “Okay,” said Clarence. “But first I wanna get a good tan.”

  Bruce laughed.

  “You ought to stand in front of a big American flag like in Patton for the cover. I mean if you call it ‘Born in the U.S.A.’ ”

  “That’s an idea,” said Bruce. “But I’ve got a song called ‘Dancing in the Dark,’ too. That’s a good title.”

  “Like ‘Dancing in the Dark’?” Clarence sang the old tune from the film, The Band Wagon.

  “Same title, different song,” said Bruce.

  “Is there a sax part on it?” asked Clarence.

  “I promise,” said Bruce.

  There was a noise behind them and the door opened. A tall, skinny, pale kid with long, stringy black hair set it in place, leaving the inner screen door exposed.

  “We’re open,” he said.

  “You got cold soda?” asked Clarence.

  “Yup,” said the kid. He looked about eighteen. He wore a HANA CANOE CLUB T-shirt and an old, faded gimme cap with some letters on it that were hard to read. “Been waiting long?” he asked.

  “Nah,” said Bruce. He and Clarence stood.

  “You guys look familiar,” said the kid. He had a wispy mustache and goatee. He, too, wore shorts and flip-flops. “You from the other side?”

  “Of what?” said Clarence.

  “Kahului,” said the kid.

  “No,” said Clarence. “We’re from the other side of the world.”

  The kid looked confused.

  “The East Coast,” said Bruce.

  “Of what?” said the kid.

  “America,” said Bruce.

  “Are you guys in a band or something?” the kid asked. “You look famous.”

  “Nah,” said Bruce.

  “Nah,” said Clarence.

  “Well, c’mon in,” said the kid.

  Inside the dark, cool store Bruce and Clarence took sodas from the old stand-up refrigerator and looked at the pictures of the store and the people who worked there in the old days.

  “You going to Hana?” the kid asked.

  “We were there earlier,” said Bruce. “We’re going to a place called Kula.”

  “Nice there,” said the kid. “It stays cool up-country. Hardly any tourists unless they’re on their way down the hill on bikes.”

  “More tourists than here, I’ll bet,” said Clarence, sipping his soda.

  The kid laughed. “Yeah. More than here,” he said.

  “You live here?” asked Bruce.

  “Yeah, my wife and I live in the back. Her dad works on the ranch,” he said. “The Kaupo ranch.”

  “Quiet,” said Bruce.

  “Yeah,” said the kid. “What do you do?”

  Bruce looked quickly at Clarence then back to the kid. “We’re dentists,” he said.

  “Really?” said the kid.

  “Nah, we’re musicians,” said Bruce.

  “I thought so,” said the kid. “Have you guys accepted Jesus Christ as your personal savior?”

  Bruce and Clarence just looked at the kid for a moment. Clarence realized that the air smelled like flowers. Orange blossoms or honeysuckle or something equally fabulous.

  “I have,” said Clarence, “but he’s an atheist.”

  “Hey, thanks for the sodas,” said Bruce. “We’d better get going.”

  “The road stays bad for another five miles,” the kid said. “Then it gets to a kind of paved section down around Nu’u Bay, but that’s pretty rough, too. It doesn’t get real good again until you get to Ulupalakua.”

  “Ulupalakua,” Bruce repeated. “What does that mean?”

  “I’m not sure,” said the kid. “Ul
u is breadfruit, so it’s something about breadfruit. I’m from Florida.”

  “Me, too,” said Clarence. “West Palm Beach.”

  “Tampa,” said the kid. “I got in some trouble there. I used to be pretty wild before I found the Lord.”

  “Good for you,” said Bruce. “Big Man? Shall we get going?”

  “Yeah,” said Clarence.

  They turned toward the door. Another car pulled into the small, dusty parking lot outside with a young Japanese couple in it. They didn’t have a “honeymooners” sign on the car, but they really didn’t need one.

  Bruce and Clarence took a step toward the door.

  “God bless,” said the kid.

  Bruce stopped and turned back to him. “Your hat,” he said.

  The kid took his hat off and looked at it as if he were surprised to find it sitting on his head. “What about it?” he said.

  “What do the letters stand for?” asked Bruce. It appeared to read rembass.

  “I don’t know,” said the kid. “It’s so old it’s falling apart. Got it from my father-in-law. He’s from New Jersey.”

  “He’s from Jersey?” said Clarence, smiling.

  “Yeah,” said the kid, still looking at the hat.

  “How much you want for it?” asked Bruce.

  Los Angeles

  Clarence

  The sound check for the first “Magic” show in Anaheim lasted over an hour and featured a blistering version of “The Ghost of Tom Joad,” with guest Tom Morello sharing vocals with Bruce and performing a jaw-dropping guitar solo. Steve, Bruce, and Nils are all great guitar players, but of the three Nils is the best. Nils is an incredible guitar player. When Tom finished his solo, Nils turned to me and said, “Holy shit.” That’s the highest compliment Tom could ever get.

  Sound checks are very private things on E Street. No one who is not a guest of the band is allowed into the room when the sound-check songs are being played. On this day three people were sitting in the audience of the otherwise empty Honda Center. One was Barbara Carr, from Bruce’s management team, and the other two were friends of hers, a mother and her handicapped daughter. As the sound check ended, Bruce called to the guys as they began to exit the stage.