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