A Literary Lagniappe

I love a good story; one that is well told with a good turn of phrase. Consequently, I was delighted to discover Andre DuBus, III recently. I picked up a copy of Townie – A Memoir. I wasn’t far into the book before I was doing a Google search on his name. I discovered that he is a cousin of James Lee Burke, one of my favorite writers. In fact, the extended DuBus/Burke family is chock full of talented writers I was happy to learn.

But this was not the lagniappe of which I speak. As I was far along in the story, DuBus was lamenting that he wished he could write like Breece D’J Pancake, a writer whose prose was, in DuBus’ words, honest. I could scarcely believe this reference to a name from my past. I knew Breece. In fact I went out with Breece once in college.

My fourth year at UVA (senior year at any other University), I was roommates with an English major, Greer Trotter Warren. Greer was quite a character with an outgoing personality and a unique perspective on life. One night early in the fall semester, Greer had a friend stop by. This was a pleasant tall blonde man who was a friend from the English Department at UVA. This was Breece.

I think it was a Thursday which was the night that normally kicked off the weekend at UVA. Greer and I were hanging out…not doing much of anything when Breece dropped in to say hello. Greer introduced us and the three of us sat chatting. Then Breece decided that we needed to come out to the country to his apartment – an efficiency attached to a larger home in the toney Farmington Country Club grounds – because he had a fabulous new recording of Gregorian Chants to listen to. Was this code for etchings I wondered?

So, we all piled into Breece’s car and off we went to Farmington. His room wasn’t large at all. It basically had a bed and desk with a bathroom off one end and a charming little cooking/kitchen unit in the corner. He also had, outside of his front door, a mini-keg. Seriously, he was the only man I ever knew who kept his own keg. Sure enough, Breece put on his recording of Gregorian Chants (REALLY!) and Greer sat on the bed and said she felt like a slice of sugar cured ham. O.K. it was kind of an odd evening. Then after a bit Breece pulled out a handgun and showed it to us. Creeped me out because I have a serious aversion to guns. I have a negative physiological reaction to guns and I certainly don’t like to handle them. I was ready to leave and said so and Breece piled us into the car and off we went, back to the apartment.

I didn’t think much about it, and got on with the business of being a student. Early in the following semester I got a call from Breece and he asked me out. It was the weekend of January 28th, 1977. The date has stuck with me because that was the weekend that Freddy Prinze committed suicide by shooting himself in the head. We talked about that in the car on the way to the bar (to drink beer, naturally). I remember distinctly Breece saying he would never do that because he knew a guy in his hometown who had done that and had botched the job. The resulting permanent mental handicap left this guy doing nothing more than sweeping the city streets. Breece said he could never do that, would never end up being like that.

So, we passed a pleasant evening, drinking beer and chatting. He told me about having done some traveling and how he got free breakfast by showing his driver’s license. He’d go to a diner and make a bet with the waitress about his last name. Sure enough, once he produced the license he’d be rewarded with a free breakfast. Who had a last name of “pancake”? All in all it was a pleasant evening. It was a one time deal. He was nice and I like to think I’m a nice person but there was no chemistry.

I didn’t think any more about Breece – or Greer for that matter. She had taken off second semester to go travel in Europe. Greer’s and my relationship was one based in necessity. She was a friend of a friend who had needed a room for a semester while she saved money to travel on. I had needed a roommate for at least part of the year, so it was a fit for both of us. We all went on our merry ways.

In the spring of 1979, I was working as a substitute teacher and living in an apartment in Charlottesville. I came home from school one day and picked up the paper and to my dismay saw an obituary for Breece Pancake. I was stunned. I immediately called Greer and asked what she knew. She, too, was shocked and said, “I’ll call you right back” and hung up. Greer was well connected in the English Department and she knew how to get information. I thought surely this was a mistake, but how could it be a mistake. It wasn’t like this guy’s name was Joe Smith. Breece Pancake is a pretty unique name. Greer called back and confirmed that it was Breece. I couldn’t believe it when she told me he had committed suicide by shooting himself in the head with a gun. How could that be, especially after the conversation we had that night of our one date. Greer said he had been given a choice assignment in the Graduate English Department and that he was dating someone he really cared for. By all accounts his life was going well, things were good.

I have often thought of Breece in the thirty plus years since that day when I found out about his suicide. So, I was intrigued at DuBus’ reference to him. I knew he was a graduate student in the English Department which meant he was probably working on his PhD. Naturally that would indicate that he had done some writing, but I was never aware of the kind of writing or if he had been successful. So I was off to Google again, to do another search. How surprised and please I was to find that he was a good writer and in fact has been recognized as one of the best to come out of West Virginia. A volume of his short stories was published posthumously in 1983 and was reissued in 2002. I am pleased for his family and his girlfriend who loved him; glad that they have a tangible representation of his talent; his greatness at his craft. I am sad, though, about the choice he made and the fact that by taking his life he prevented the rest of us from enjoying all that he had to offer.

So, that was my lagniappe, my unexpected gift. I will order a copy of his work and will read it. I am sure it will be good. I suspect it will make me a bit melancholy for a nice man who shared a couple of evenings with me many moons ago.