It took me a long time to realize my prize piece of memorabilia was now morbid.
A lot of things had changed in the three months since I’d been in Portlandia, and one of them was that Billy Rancher, the darling of Portland’s rock scene, was slowly, and publicly, dying from lymphoma. He was twenty-nine when he died in 1986, and he kept performing up to the end.
If you believed the newspapers and rock critics at the time, the whole city adored him and was his friend. But looking back, I can’t help wishing that, in those final months of his life, Billy Rancher had had at least one really good friend, like Noah, who would have given up anything for him—even knowing that he’d have to let him go.
The Rise & Fall of the Gallivanters was a difficult book to write, and I’m grateful that I’m surrounded by people of Noah’s generosity and magnitude. My first and best reader, Peggy King Anderson, for example. And Steven Chudney of the Chudney Agency, who, when I said, “I’m worried about placing this one. It’s weird,” replied, “I loved it.”
A giant thank-you to Maggie Lehrman at Abrams, who also appreciated weird, then Tamar Brazis and Orlando Dos Reis, who made the unimaginable parts blend more smoothly into the narrative.
And finally, I couldn’t have made it through such a difficult process if not for my family, Juan, Sofia, and Ricky. Juan for putting up with me in general, and Sofia and Ricky for letting me hug them when I have a bad day, even though they’re too old for it to be cool.
Go do some gallivanting of your own, kiddos. I’ve got your back.
The Rise and Fall of the Gallivanters Page 20
