Subject: The grave digger
From: Jack Rieley
To: 'Beach Boys list' (
pet-sounds@lists.primenet.com)
Date: Oct 26 1996 - 7:48pm
With Brian, Dennis and Carl Wilson cheering me on, I had just gone
into hock for much too much in order to acquire a classic 1954
Bentley R type, previously owned by the British charges d'affaires in
L.A. The wooden picnic tables, the foot pedal which greased the car
and its solid ride thrilled me, even if the right-hand drive was
difficult to cope with.
Brian came out to my place in Topanga Canyon and insisted upon acting
as my driver for an afternoon. He even brought and wore a chauffeur's
cap. We visited all the spots -- a Piggly Wiggly, some smorgasbord
place in the Valley, the dry cleaner and a wine shop where I picked
up an expensive Medoc. My driver was in a particularly happy mood --
we spent the day laughing a lot.
Late the following afternoon my phone rang. Marilyn was hysterical.
"Come quick! ... It's awful!! .... Please hurry!" There were no
explanations, not that I sought any: Brian was in big trouble.
The Bentley performed more than adequately, getting me from Topanga
to Bel Air in no-time-flat. When I pressed the button next to the
gates at Bellagio, Marilyn shrieked with worry. "At last! Please,
drive thru! Hurry!" The gates swung open, I drove the final bit and
rushed into an open front door.
Mar was in the kitchen, looking through the big window that
overlooked their enormous Belair pool and garden. Her tears would not
stop flowing. "He's there," she managed, pointing to a spot far back
in the yard.
I looked, could not believe what I saw, then thought carefully how to
deal with the situation as I walked slowly out to the spot where
Brian Wilson stood. He was gripping a big shovel and he was
concentrating mightily on digging a hole. It was more than 6 feet
long, a couple of feet wide and it was getting deep. Was Brian aware
that I had walked out to him and was indeed but a few feet away? I
believe he was but shall never know for certain. In any event, he
continued digging away.
Shuffling methods of dealing with the crisis in my mind, I said
nothing for a long moment, and he did not acknowlege my presence.
Finally I mustered a cheery "Hi Brian! How ya doin?"
He turned to me, smiled fleetingly as one does upon seeing a friend,
then -- with a good deal of drama -- he threw that shovel to the
ground. "I'm pissed off!" he declared. Silence. And then: "I've been
diggin this grave for hours, tryin to get it just right. But you know
what? f*ckin Mar refuses to cover me up with dirt when I get in!" His
tone was angry.
I stared at him, began to open my mouth, but words did not come to
me.
Our eyes now met, my dumb stare meeting his frustrated, angry glare.
After a few seconds Brian Wilson suddenly broke into peals of loud
guffawing laughter. He continued to laugh, eventually I joined in
with him. The joke was over. The prank was complete. The comedian's
bit had reached its punch line.
He came up to me, still reeling with his own loud laughter, put a
hand on my shoulder, and we walked back toward the house. Soon
Marilyn, who had apparently watched it all through her kitchen
window, came outside and joined us, she now laughing too with that
fog-horn laugh of hers that I loved to imitate.
We never spoke of the incident again. Never. Today, nearly 25 years
later, I still haven't got a clue whether Brian Wilson was on this
side or that side of the line on the afternoon he dug his own grave.
- Jack
Author
