The second time Larry Fischer came to Moscow, Idaho, and performed a virtually unannounced gig in the Student Union Building... well, I don't think I've adequately conveyed how hysterically funny that show was. I was in stitches, laughing uncontrollably. It was the funniest performance I've ever seen. Larry's manic energy really emerged, engulfing and infecting everyone in the room, and the result was almost pure comedy. I wish I had it on video. It was a priceless moment.
Afterwards, Larry had a wad of cash from the box-office receipts. He always carried his cash in a front pocket of his levis, with just the tips of the bills showing. I thought maybe it was Larry's parody of a rock star's ostentatious display of wealth, or possibly a quirk in his personality. Anyway, that's what Larry always did when he had some long green, and that's what he did this time.
It was getting late, and Larry needed a place to crash. My wife was firmly opposed to the idea of him staying with us, and I could see her point. But where to put Larry for the night? He was too frugal to pay for a motel room. I felt a certain responsibility for his comfort and well-being... after all, Larry was a friend, and from out of town.
Then I remembered that a couple of guys I knew were having an all-night psilocybin party. John and Phil, if my memory is correct. John was a rich kid from Sun Valley, and Phil was his roommate. They lived in a decrepit farm house on Paradise Ridge, about five miles out of town. I coaxed Larry into my car and drove there. It was about midnight when we arrived.
It was a party, all right. John and Phil and a few of their friends were all zonked on shrooms, smoking pot and drinking lots of alcohol. Larry was not a drug-user, but he didn't mind being around stoners. "Maybe you can stay here," I told him.
When we walked into the house, several people recognized him. "It's Wild Man Fischer!" I heard someone say, and soon we were the center of everyone's psychedelicized attention. Larry stood in the middle of the living room, taking everything in.
"You got any food here?" he asked.
Someone directed him to the kitchen, and soon Larry was making himself an enormous sandwich, as a dozen drugged-out student hippes gathered around him in awe. Then he began to sing to his sandwich. "Oh, little sandwich, soon you will be in my mouth," Larry sang, and then he ate the sandwich. The crowd hung on his every bite. "Now you are in my stomach," he sang, rubbing his tummy. The stoners applauded.
John, the co-host, took me to one side. "Why did you bring him here?" he whispered, his pupils dialated, sweat on his brow. "We were having a pretty intense trip, man. But now... "
"Wild Man Fischer just needs a place to crash for a few hours," I told John. "He won't be any trouble."
Larry left the kitchen and returned to the living room. "It's OK," I told him. "You can stay here tonight. I'll come back and get you in the morning."
"All right," Larry answered. He took the wad of bills from his pocket, and placed it on the cushion of the largest, most comfortable chair in the room. Larry took off his shirt, folded it into a rectangular shape, and placed it over the bills, hiding them. He took off his reeking, beaten-down tennis shoes and put them on top of his shirt. Then Larry took off his levis (after removing his ever-present knife from a pocket), folded them, and placed them over the money and shirt. Larry didn't wear any underwear or socks, so he was now completely naked, holding a knife in one hand. Standing six feet tall, weighing at least 180 pounds with a muscular physique, and sporting messed-up hair, he looked rather imposingly crazy.
Larry then sat atop the little pile he'd created, and glared about the room, caressing the knife's blade with one thumb. It goes without saying that he had everyone's undivided attention.
I took this opportunity to slip out and drive away. I went home, drank a couple of beers, and then fell asleep. When I awoke, it was noontime.
I showered and then drove back to the farm house on Paradise Ridge. The front door was unlocked, so I let myself in. There were several people lying about, dead asleep. Larry was right where I'd left him, wide awake. "It's about time you showed up," he grumbled. Getting to his feet. he sudenly sang, in a loud voice: "And, now, little sandwich, you have turned to shit!" Eyes popped open, as the recovering stoners in the room were jolted into consciousness by Larry's bellowing. "And now I am going to poop you out!" he shouted.
"The bathroom's in there," someone moaned, and Larry briskly walked to the bathroom door and went inside. We could hear him making his ablutions. After a few minutes Larry emerged, returned to the chair, and dressed himself. Before putting the wad of bills back in his pocket, he removed a one-dollar bill and grandly placed it on the chair where he'd spent the night. "Come on, Denny," Larry said, "let's go." And so we left.
As we drove away, Larry looked at me and said, "those people will never, ever, forget their evening with Wild Man Fischer."
(And he was right... they haven't. None of them will speak to me to this day... and this happened in 1971!)
The End