Rufus Brownleaf

Back in the days when Mrs. Denotsko and I were travelers, we had many opportunities to meet many, many interesting people. Usually, these folks were met in locations frequented by the more nontraditional side of our population. We saw many of these locales, mostly because we were more comfortable surrounded by freaks like ourselves. One of my favorites was Berkeley, California. Having spent much of my youth studying to refine the process of rebellion, I was quite familiar with Berkley's history as a paradise of social protest. It was one of the places I had vowed to visit before death took me, and I was in awe. It was like standing in the middle of Stonehenge, or looking out over Pearl Harbor, or Saint Peter's Basilica. I could hear Mario Savio's voice echo as I walked past Sproul Hall. I stood in quiet reflection as I look ed at the garish tennis courts that had been built in People's Park. It was quite an experience for me.

As we kicked around Telegraph Avenue, enjoying the freedom that our lifestyle afforded us, we were in our element. We just hung out, and drank, got high with all the locals. As we sat in a bar, looking out the window at the local wildlife, a crazy old man kept putting himself into the center of our vision. He was making faces at us, and sticking his tongue out. He had a very warm personality, despite his bizarre behavior. We waved to him and he came inside to our table. He introduced himself as Rufus Brownleaf, and pulled up a chair. When a girl at the next table heard the name he claimed as his own, she called him a liar, and said his real name. After which he assailed her with a flurry of obscenities and curses upon her offspring. She only laughed at him and went back to her friends.

We spent a few hours listening to Rufus' views and philosophies on life and modern culture. He was fairly well educated, and I could tell that he had spent a lot of time thinking about things. He always referred to money as Exxon Coupons, and said he worshiped at the Temple of the Arches every other morning. We were well into our conversations before I realized the Temple of the Arches was MacDonald's. Rufus walked with a very pronounced limp and held his head cocked to the left. He said it was a result of a car accident in the mid 60's that had also claimed his mother's life. He was a young man at the time, and moved to Berkeley and had been living there ever since. He called the disability check he received monthly tit money from Uncle Sam's bosom.

As the evening wore on, Rufus invited us back to his apartment for the night. He was well aware that we had no place to stay and was willing to share anything he had. It was obvious that he really loved the fact that we all listened to his ramblings with out judgment. We loaded up into the van and headed for his secret lair. He lived on Telegraph Avenue; but way down in Oakland because it helped stretch his tit money a little farther. As we pulled up outside his building, he gave us the safety briefing. "Lock the doors, don't talk to anyone, you don't have any money, don't come outside without me."

He lived in the basement of a rundown row house. The front lawn and porch was littered with gangbangers, hookers, and trash. I'm pretty sure that if one looked close enough, it was also probably a collection point for empty bullet casings, crack vials, and used condoms. We immediately became the only thing worth looking at for the locals. Rufus escorted us around the house where we entered through a stairwell that led down to the basement. We didn't come back out till daylight had chased the neighbors inside.

We sat and listened to Rufus tell us about the things he had seen. He read to us from some of the thousands of books that were stacked around his home, and very graciously enjoyed our habit of almost nonstop pot smoking. We all stayed awake long into the night. After Rufus had slipped away to get some sleep, our friend Todd entertained us by doing silly dances. He had a sweater tied around his waist and swung the arms of it like little legs. Charlie Chaplain could not have had more skill.

The next morning, we left Rufus. As always, we promised to return to visit; but we never did. We lived our lives day by day, and the day never came. We never made it back to Berkeley. I have thought about that night with Rufus many, many times since that summer. It's strange to think that you could learn so much from a stranger in such a short time. There have been many times in my life that the thought of Rufus, and the life he lived, brought total contentment to me. He had nothing, and lived richer that anyone I have ever known.