Our encounter with Brian was interesting because he initiated the conversation at a time when we weren’t even “trying” to do research. We were sitting on a circular wire-frame bench, tired but thrilled after our first night of work on the project. The bus didn’t come for a long while. The conversation became an evaluation of the day’s efforts. We tried to figure out why some of our interviews fizzled while others yielded interesting information. Having formal goals and a set list of questions didn’t seem to work. But asking questions without any context or aim in mind led to awkward silences. In my mind, the trick was to spring upon the first interesting piece of information, and create a custom context to conduct the interview within. The “context” of the interview with the juggalos had been created when I gave one of the guys a buck to buy cigarettes with, after he asked for cigarettes. After that point, the conversation had been fruitful because both parties knew how they related to the other. The juggalos were doing me a favor by telling them about themselves, and I wasn’t just being a nosy asshole because I gave them cigarette money. Of course, offering cigarettes wouldn’t be a good hook for most other interviewees. But for an older person, offering an interesting historical anecdote might do the same thing. Asking the same formal questions (questions typed up before entering the field) will only lead to the same formal answers. Instead of stubbornly insisting on sticking to a data-collection scheme, the documenter has to create the purpose of the work as he or she collects information, continually using the new information to redefine the purpose of the documentary. As they say, a battle plan is the first casualty when two armies meet.
But back to the story of Brian. I figured that the best way to make connections with people would be to offer these sorts of trinkets, whether they be information, compliments, or actual cigarettes. I was reminded of how Hortense Powdermaker brought along huge cases of Marlabos, which she would carry around to offer to the Lesu men. It was the same idea, except modified for use on angsty teenagers. So we would have to get some cigarettes. But where? None of us were eighteen. But Jane was. Or maybe they wouldn’t check ID. What was the worst that could happen, really.
At this point in our deliberations, we heard a snorting laugh. Not an unkindly laugh, just a gruff outburst of amusement. It was the guy who had been sitting silently on the opposite side of the circular bench, jaw resting on his fists, elbows on his knees. He held a long, thin cigarette between two crooked fingers, and the embers scattered and glowed in the dark wind. I thought about what I had just told myself about “context”, and decided to do something silly.
I asked him if I could buy a “couple of cigarettes”, and to prove my intentions, I awkwardly extracted my wallet from my pocket. He laughed again, again amused, and shook his head. “You don’t want these. Nasty things. Cheap.” I remembered how my great-grandfather would smoke the same sort of smokes, and how terrible the car would smell. Very nasty indeed.
For some reason he started apologizing, saying he just though we were funny. I asked him if he’d been at Barton Springs. It was an obvious question, but I hoped it would lead somewhere useful. It did: he was a regular, and when I asked him how often he came, he told us that he’d taken the bus down to the springs every day for the last three weeks. For twenty-seven years, Barton Springs had been “a home to him.” It’s hard to say exactly what he meant by calling Barton Springs his “home”. It could have been simply hyperbole, an expression of his love for the place. But from his dress, and his mannerisms, I’d guess he meant “home” in a literal sense.
We asked him if he felt a sense of community at Barton Springs, since he spent so much of his time there. And he did. As we boarded the bus, he told us about some of the people he knew on the “creekside”, some “good people”. He finally asked why we wanted to know all “this stuff”. We explained the purpose of our project, and our goals. He seemed to get it instantly. He launched into a series of anecdotes, telling about the different people that had become “associates”. They weren’t necessarily friends, he said, but he knew each of them by name and would talk about whatever was going on. There was the late “Francis”, who had his ashes scattered over the park after his death about ten years ago. He also had a friend who had spent so much time there that he got on the board of the springs, even though he was homeless. He said that most of the people he knew simply “didn’t want to participate in domestic life. They don’t want to make trouble. They’re cool people. Most of the problems, the fistfights and the vomiting drunks, happened on the other side, the “paid side”. He felt that there was a big division between the two sides of the fence. The cops didn’t bother the people on the free side. It was quieter; nobody would bother you if you didn’t want to be bothered. But at the same time, you could talk to anybody. He seemed happy to tell us about his connection to the place.
“Barton Springs is one of the few places in the world where things are really cool,” he said, with an air of finality. I wonder if the double entendre was intentional.
He started rattling off facts about the springs. He knew his shit. There are lots of misconceptions about the Springs, he said: for example, the water doesn’t go into the Colorado River, it goes into the Edwards. He told us that he often looked up stuff about the springs on the internet. And he had read the historical society signs over and over again. The Natives had been using the site for for thousands of years before “Uncle Billy” Barton bought out the springs. The water is, on average, 68 degrees Fahrenheit. There are 27 million gallons of water. He repeated this fact, making sure we were impressed.
I asked him to tell us a joke.
After thinking for a few long minutes, he brought out this gem: “let a weird mathematician do a number on your sister.” He smiled sardonically. Two guys in the front of the bus roared with laughter. They were carrying fishing poles and empty coolers, and sweat circles sagged under the armpits of their polo shirts. We explained our purpose, and they seemed very excited to help. They came a lot, for fishing, of course, great fishing. One of the guys, who introduced himself as Eric, said he had just one thing that he wanted for us write down: “There’s nothing you can’t do legally in Austin.” He nodded significantly. I carefully wrote down his wise words.
“I know those guys,” said Brian quietly. “I see them most nights. You’re lucky you got this bus. It’s the last one of the night.”
Brian got off at 6th street, wishing us luck. On every other trip we took to Barton Springs, we saw him, often just in passing.
-Patrick Steadman
