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.