A good friend gone
I was shocked and saddened today to learn of the death of Chris Gibson. Chris was a well known establishment around San Luis and will be greatly missed. I think it's safe to say he was one-of-a-kind and his death will leave a massive void in a lot of lives.
I first met Chris while working at Barnes & Noble. My roommate Kevin and he were friends and combined with the fact that I worked at Chris' favorite hangout meant we were destined to become friends ourselves. We talked of philosophy, history, and literature. We also talked about EVERYTHING else in this world. His cutting remarks on life, both local and global and his unrestrained wit are legendary. (For more on Chris' sense of humor, go to computarmachine)I wish more had appreciated who he was.
Many only knew the ever-present and often overwhelming image of Chris Gibson as the guy wandering around downtown. And that saddens me even more, because he was so much more than that. When I first moved away from San Luis in 1999, I didn't really feel a connection to Chris. He was a friend, but I had many and I didn't think I would miss him anymore than the next. But that all changed on the day I actually moved away. I had packed all of my belongings into the back of my pick-up truck, but was completely confounded on how to tie it all down. I had images in my head of debris falling from my truck and killing people when all of a sudden, Chris came up my driveway.
He remembered I was leaving that morning and wanted to see if I needed help. Boy did I. I asked him if he could tie a knot and was treated to not only the best knot ever tied (It made it all the way to Seattle without losing any tension) but to an hour long story about tying knots on fishing boats in Alaska as well.
Upon arriving back in San Luis two years later, Chris and I took up our friendship as if I never left. I listened to stories of his childhood, stories of his alcoholism and of his crushing depression. Yes, Chris could make me want to cry, but he made laugh too. He introduced me to a lot of people that helped me in a myriad of ways. He painted my bathroom and taught me how to fish for smelt. He borrowed like two hundred dollars from me and was one of my best friends in SLO.
I guess what saddens me the most is that I could never really help him. He was his own worst enemy and that made knowing him real hard sometimes. He was dealt A LOT of bad hands in life and ultimately never worked through them all. There wasn't much his friends could do for him, but be his friend. I hope I was a good one.
In an attempt to end this on a high note, I will relay one of my favorite Chris Gibson "experiences." One of Barnes & Noble's frequent customers is Steve Ford, son of former President Gerald Ford. He is a pretty unapproachable guy and so we never attempted it. Not Chris. Upon finding out who Steve Ford was, Chris sat down, introduced himself and quickly became lose acquaintances with him. One night, Chris and I were talking, the bookstore was about to close and Steve was heading out the front door. Chris yelled out, "See you Chuck." Steve (aka) Chuck Ford responded, "All right, Chris," without batting an eye. I paused and then asked Chris why he called him "Chuck." "Because that's his name," Chris quickly replied. "No, I'm pretty sure his name is Steve," I said. Chris seemed confused and then replied, "Steve?" "His name isn't Chuck?" "No," I said. Chris was silent for a while and then said, "Ah, what are you going to do?" At that Chris left for the night.
posted by Bill Eseltine at Wednesday, July 27, 2005
2 Comments:
Thanks, Bill, a lot of us felt as you do about Chris. He came up to me about two months ago and said, "Nick...got five bucks I could borrow?" I had only six in my wallet. I gave him the five.
He came up to me just before his death and said, "Nick, I'm going to pay you that five back soon."
I said, "It's all right, Chris. Mike (my brother) and I got some work and I don't need it, but thanks anyway."
I just saw him crossing Chorro Street just days ago, it seems; it could have been the 26th of July for all I know. It's so strange to think that he's gone.
Well, not really. He's here in a way that we can't understand, that no one can understand who is still walking around.
I hope I was a good friend of Chris's too. I will admit sometimes when I'd see him I didn't want to talk to him. Now that makes me feel pretty sad.
But Mike and I always tried to listen to what he had to say. He was strangely serious in that you never knew what he would say to you or about what subject. His jokes were always pretty funny, because he was the one telling you these things, because, despite his unwashed appearence, one knew that he was a very talented person who was just crippled by circumstances and unable to walk away from what made him walk away from so much else.
More of us walk away from much of what he walked away from than we perhaps know.
The writer for the New Times was right on about Chris, a very good story. Your personal account, too, is very welcomed. I am saving them both in a file so I can remind myself now and then about just who Chris was, oer perhaps none of us will ever know just who he really was or could have been.
But Mike and I will remember him fondly and if a bit sadly we will also remember him with a smile that cannot help come to one who could count himself Chris' friend.
He had so much to offer I can only hope I gave him back some iota of what he gave us. Mike and I are both so stunned about his death.
I can't reach that far to where Chris is now but Chris can touch us; he is touching us now.
Thanks, Bill.
And thank you, Chris, for your friendship and for just being who you were when you were still walking around.
See you in the after-life where we know you are shining and whole.
Nick and Mike Campbell
Bill:
Thanks for posting your comments on Chris. He was a very good friend of mine. I have been posting some stories and just random thoughts on Mermaid Avenue. Below is one of the stories:
The Inner Boot
Chris approached one day, bursting with excitement, stating that he had something important to show me. We were living together in the house on Palm Street just off the train tracks in San Luis Obispo. I was working nights in a restaurant, with days spent browsing the shelves at Phoenix or Leon's Bookstore, sitting around coffee shops, and generally feeling at odds with the world. Given his level of enthusiasm, I assumed Chris had another piece of music for me to hear: some rare recording of a monumental baroque organ masterpiece. What would it be this time, I wondered: Buxtehude, Bruhns, Sweelinck, perhaps a little Frescobaldi?
His introductions to a piece of music typically took the form of lecture including reference to phase of life in which the composer worked, biographical commentary on the organist performing, and extensive details regarding the construction of the organ (sometimes with an aside for stories of how the organ narrowly evaded certain destruction during the conflagrations of World War II). As I write this, I look at my recording of the Art of Fugue played by Helmut Walcha on the Laurenskerk Organ in Almaar. Chris would have much to say...
This time, however, it was not a piece of music. Rather, he presented me with a worn-out, funky looking pair of black leather boots. Euphemistically, they would be described as rustic, distressed. He had found them abandoned, while out walking alongside the train tracks. Boots were a big deal between us back then; one I need to focus more attention on again today. Chris stressed the importance of fine footwear to carry one through the bullshit. Insisting these were just the boots for me, he was pissed that I was not immediately blown away. He sat me down with a bottle of Lexol leather conditioner (always his favorite) and can of black shoe polish. More than likely, he had a non-filter Camel dangling from his near toothless mouth as he once more launched his treatise on the importance of the boot. Retaining still a fair bit of skepticism, I nonetheless set to work. As I worked, I listened to his philosophical litany pour forth. After perhaps a quarter of an hour's laboring, I found that the boots looked great: dense, black luster playing elegant counterpoint against bright silver lacing eyelets. These boots looked cool as hell.
Over the coming weeks, the problem was the damned things were as stiff and uncomfortable to walk around in as they were aesthetically appealing. Chris would not let up, however, but set me on a path of ever more elaborate ways to adjust where the boots applied pressure to my increasingly tortured feet. I played along, trusting this experienced advisor and soon had blisters to beat the band. After a short time, a daily ritual evolved requiring multiple pieces of folded paper towels and strips of masking tape. He assured me that all of this was trifling inconvenience to be got through as part of the breaking in process.
Eventually, the boots and I found harmony. They carried me over miles of territory, some bullshit, some not. As it happens, the boots finally met their end. All the stitching came apart; the soles were worn to nothing. Chris probably would have suggested that they could still be resurrected, but somewhere along the way they just disappeared.
Post a Comment
<< Home