Stephen Crews Wylder

Death of a Beatnik Stephen Crews Wylder

"Remember what Kenneth Rexroth said," shouted poet Stanley Rasmussen, as the police led him out of the coffeehouse. 'Against the ruin of the world, there is only one defense-the creative act.'" It was Saturday night, October 3, 1959, at the Bridge of Sighs Café in Venice. Venice West, that is. Where St. Mark's is a rundown hotel, the Doges are a street gang, and all but a few of the canals have been filled in. The place LIFE Magazine called "Beatsville USA."My name is Gershom Davies. Venice is my home, too. I don't look or talk like the Beats-at least not the way most Americans believe they do. The Beats don't much care how you dress or talk. Maybe that's one reason I live here. I'm a stringer for the Los Angeles Gazette. It's piecework, paid by the column-inch. In the old days they used a string to measure copy, and the name stuck. At least that's how the story goes. The raid on the coffeehouse wasn't the first, and I'm sure it wouldn't be the last. The Bridge could expect periodic raids for staging poetry readings without a police permit. But this was the first time the vice squad actually arrested the main performer. Rasmussen's arrest would have been worth a small story in itself. What made it big was that he was married to Rochelle Benét. You couldn't visit a newsstand without seeing her face-her pale skin contrasting with those mahogany-brown eyes and all that auburn hair. Clara Bow of the Beats. The thinking man's crush. Yeah, I was crazy about Rochelle and I had the advantage of sitting next to her. If only she weren't married to a good friend... But I had a story to write and a mystery to solve: what was Stan trying to say? It turned out somebody else wanted to know as well-somebody who wasn't going to play by the rules.