the security and comfort the rest of us thrive on, he produced work of the highest originality.
Bronson followed his own path which brought him to uniqueness and our misunderstanding was that he was like the rest of us.
Well said, Regis, said Jean.
That is interesting, echoed Lyle.
The guy’s a drunk, muttered Claude.
Frenchy cleared the bottles from in front of the men. Regis waved his finger for another round. When Frenchy was done serving, Regis asked,
Frenchy, you must have stories about Bronson?
Frenchy smiled and said,
Bien Oui, monsieur. He come to drink and bring his cow, and tied her in front, and Sonny the policeman come, and tell Bronson that is illegal, and Bronson told him to show him the law that says so, and they go round and round, and Sonny he couldn’t find a law saying it was illegal, and Bronson already know that because he study the ordinances before he brought the cow, and Sonny he get so mad, and Bronson he just laughed at him. The town workers had to come to clean the shit, and they were mad at Bronson too, and Bronson gave me a hundred dollar bill, and told me to buy the town workers a drink on him, and after that, Bronson was their champion.
Frenchy got called to the other end of the bar.
Sonny takes himself way too seriously, said Jean.
He’s a prick, growled Claude.
Spoken like a true hippy, teased Jean.
Bronson was giving Sonny the business, is all, said Regis, just like he did with Currier and the manure, and tacitly, we all took pleasure in what he did, but would never do ourselves. There was a story a lawyer colleague told me about Bronson and him flying from Logan to Texas and back. Bronson drove them to Logan in that VW he had which had an ignition key, but he’d lost the door key, and when he parked the car in the lot at Logan, Tom noticed he didn’t lock it. Tom said, Bronson, are you sure you want to leave that unlocked? This is Boston, not Greenville, remember? And Bronson says, Aw hell, I guess you’re right, and he took the steering wheel off the car, and puts it in his suitcase. They flew to Texas, did their business, and flew home. They landed at Logan, and the airline announced their luggage was left behind in Texas, and Tom says, Looks like we’re spending the night in Boston. Bronson answers, like hell we are, and went out to the car, and took a pair of vice grips from the trunk, and they drove back to New Hampshire with Bronson steering the VW from the side of the steering column with vice grips. Tom said he thought they were dead a couple of times.