Tell them Mr. Tennessee Williams has signed
his last autograph, he said, sighing richly, lolling back in
an overstuffed chair,
asking for olives. Did I look like a bodyguard? A maid? At age
24, thunderstruck by proximities, I would stand between him and
his readers. Against the luscious green brocade, he flexed his
shoulders, closed his eyes. Balanced a green olive with a dash
of red on his lower lip, popped it in. A woman with a book dashed
forward. Tell them Mr. Tennessee Williams has signed his last
autograph,
I said, raising my elbow. She looked horrified. Her friends lifted
dainty glasses of wine near a lamp with a stained shade. William
Stafford held a paper plate carefully, tiny diamonds of crackers
and cheese. He liked them. He would sign anything. And here was
Ken Kesey wearing a fuzzy orange poncho, saying I would be a better
singer if I sang more like Bob Dylan. Well, who wouldn’t
be? William Burroughs urged me to up my intake of Vitamin C.
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