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It’s Monday morning. All weekend I’ve been<br />
looking for Lew Welch. A month ago we exchanged<br />
letters, tentatively agreeing that he will meet the class.<br />
However, we have lost touch. I fail to get a letter off<br />
to him in time to his temporary address in<br />
Washington. The letter I leave at Serendipity<br />
Bookshop gets rightly forwarded to Gary Snyder’s<br />
place above Nevada City while I’m off to New York<br />
at Easter, but apparently doesn’t get back to him.<br />
Back in the Bay Area, I work on a<br />
few leads. Jack Shoemaker, at the<br />
Bookshop, says to try the No Name<br />
bar in Sausalito. A week ago I start.<br />
One day one bartender says he saw<br />
him on Saturday. But that he’s gone<br />
to Nevada City. A couple of days<br />
later another bartender says he saw<br />
him last night. I leave a message for<br />
him to call. No luck. On Friday<br />
night I hear Allen Ginsberg has<br />
come to town. Lew mentioned that<br />
in his letter. Perhaps they’re together.<br />
Ginsberg must be going to the Peace<br />
March. On Saturday at the Polo<br />
Grounds, I look all over for Allen,<br />
half expecting him to be leading<br />
chants in the middle of somewhere.<br />
No luck. Just people, people, people.<br />
I call City Lights and get a clue that<br />
he might be staying up at the<br />
publishing office, up on Grant.<br />
On Sunday afternoon, I go to the<br />
door, but no one is there. I go to the<br />
store. Ask the clerk who knows<br />
nothing. I write a note. While I’m at<br />
it, a short olive complexioned guy<br />
with a girl who has a woolen cap<br />
pulled tough style over her head,<br />
come in. The guy, happy smile on<br />
his face ups to the counter and says,<br />
“Have you seen Allen,” as if he were<br />
getting ready to put his hands on a<br />
gift. The young oriental clerk with<br />
shoulder length black hair, says,<br />
“No.” The guy, almost taking a<br />
dance step back, says, “Is he staying over the<br />
publishing office?”<br />
The clerk, honest, says “I don’t know. I just<br />
heard he got into town.”<br />
And I’m flashing, maybe I’m gonna pin this<br />
note on the wrong door, if Ginsberg is upstairs. So, I<br />
say to the guy, “Say, I’m trying to get a note to Allen.<br />
Did you say that place is upstairs?”<br />
The guy, continuing to back out the door, puts<br />
a slow smile on his face, as if he were courtier to the<br />
now secret guest, says, “I’m afraid I can’t tell you<br />
that.” Smack.<br />
“Elitist.” The word comes flash out of my<br />
mouth. Bam. He backs out the door where his hard<br />
chick is waiting. “Elitist,” she repeats, as if trying to<br />
disown the accusation. But it’s only re-enforced when<br />
it bumbles out of her mouth. They split.<br />
Lew Welch used to speak a lot about only<br />
writing what is ‘accurate.’ That made me feel foul<br />
after.<br />
I leave the note on the front door, asking Allen<br />
to please call, if he can help in the search. I get home<br />
and wait. Nothing happens. I give the No Name one<br />
more call. Yes he was in Saturday night. No, they<br />
don’t know where he’s staying. I simply give up,<br />
saddened by the failure of the whole process.<br />
----------<br />
Lew Welch<br />
About ten students show. We all decide to go<br />
anyway. We’ll go to Muir Beach and find Wobbly<br />
Rock. Four cars and we’re over there by ten o’clock.<br />
35