Posted By: Scott Saalman May 7, 2022

Recently, we were notified that our rent in Fishers would be raised an added $800 per month, triggering a second move in less than a year. Once again, I challenged myself to sort through boxes of past writings and correspondences to determine how to lighten the load.

It was during this sifting and sorting that I became besieged by memories of my old buddy Matt Fry in the form of a letter written in 1987, postmarked Van Nuys, Calif.

The letter began: “Hey there you crazy last semester squawker. What’s the latest parrothead activity back on the campus of USI?”

Matt and I bonded because of Jimmy Buffett. A mutual friend, aware of our devotion to the beach bum balladeer famous for “Margaritaville,” introduced us. We became fast feathered Parrot Head friends.

We also shared a fondness for John Prine and Jerry Jeff Walker. Matt introduced me to a Prine song, “The Bottomless Lake.”

“We are falling down / Down to the bottom of a hole in the ground / Smoke ’em if you got ’em / I’m so scared I can hardly breathe / I may never see my sweetheart again.”

It became one of my favorites.

At the time of the letter, Matt was a fresh USI graduate living in LA, a major geography jump for a small-town boy from Eldorado, Ill. The letter reminded me of how lonely he was then, part of this due to having not met any Buffett fans.

“I’ve got to logically approach this matter and try to find out exactly where a Southern California parrot head would roost,” he wrote, adding, “I’m in desperate need of some tropical tantalizing talk and an equally (imaginative mind) to accompany me to Margaritaville.”

Matt, himself, was a wonderful singer songwriter. He seemed happiest with his six-string. His perpetual smile while performing told us that.

The letter alluded to his shows at the Dixie bar in Evansville on Wednesday nights when draft beer sold for a quarter, the perfect dive bait for a college crowd. He played “The Bottomless Lake” every gig.

My fondest Matt memory was at the Dixie. While he was on stage, I handed him a piece of paper with lyrics I wrote. The song was called “8th Fairway Delight,” detailing how two young lovers rendezvoused at the local golf course one night only to have their togetherness spoiled by a water-hose wielding greenskeeper.

“They were public lovers / Anytime anyplace / No need for any covers / Never too tight of a space / A picnic table or a park bench / Or under the public light / But the best place of all was on the 8th fairway that night.”

“Is this autobiographical?” he asked.

“No, but it is based on a true story that I made up.”

“I got this,” Matt said, and right on the spot, he put music to my words, the first time any of my words had been put to song. It was the sweetest applause I ever heard. I knew then I had a friend for life.

“I really thought that old distorted PA was a piece of (crap) but I would be simply elated to sit down behind that Sears microphone and plug in my old flat top to roll through another weeknight session of drunken orchestration. Never knew how good I had it until it’s all gone … Perhaps we can plan a special time when I come home next time to do it all again … mark my word, we will do it all again – more than once!”

At the time of the letter, Matt was working on two other songs of mine, “Mr. Coffee” and “I Guess Your Letter Wanted Me More Than You Did.” In the letter, Matt mentioned the constant questions gnawing at him. “Did I make the right move? Is the big city life the real life for me?”

Two months later, on a Friday afternoon, our mutual friend, Amy, called. Matt had drowned after a plane crash just off Malibu. The pilot of the rented Piper Cherokee had been drunk and survived. A woman lived too. A second man died.

According to the LA Times, as the four-seat plane flew south over the Santa Monica Mountains, it quickly lost altitude. The woman testified how the pilot described the drop as being “better than a free fall.” “He was laughing about it,” she said. Then, the plane flew so low over the ocean that “it was as if you were on a boat and could just stick your feet in the water.” She recalled the pilot saying, “Look, water on the wing tip. Look, we’re so close we can get water on the wing tip.” The plane dipped, hit the ocean twice and started to fill with water. “I didn’t feel anyone moving around me. I sat back and just waited to die.”

After hanging up the phone, stunned, I drove by a little church with its door open and soon found myself inside, alone, with bent knees. From there, I stopped at the Alpine bar for a long-neck beer and toasted my buddy.

Matt ended his letter this way: “Anyhow Saalman, I guess I’ll sign off for now. Take care. Later.”

Once again, reading Matt’s letter while prepping for another move, I thought, “Later, Matt, much later.” Then, as always, I listened to “The Bottomless Lake,” which always seems like the right thing to do.

Contact Scott at [email protected] .

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