Years ago, when I was dispatching taxis on the graveyard shift, every now and then I’d get a cab driver on the radio who’d say something like, “Mister Tom, I’ve got a guy here that says you used to be his dispatcher.”
I’d say, “Oh, yeah, what’s his name?”
I’d hear some garbled drunken shouts in the background and then the cabbie would say, “He says you told him monkeys could do his job.”
And I knew it was Lil’ Damon. Damn it. He never let me live that down. The story would come back haunt me for years, through any number of vessels. Friends, co-workers, messengers. Complete strangers.
It may have been one of his first days on the job. Perhaps it was a little harsh to say to a rookie. I paid the price though. Feel like it took a few years before Damon stopped seeing me as merely “management.” Damon took the job to heart and later had a hand in the formation of the SFBMA, hoping to make things a little better for his messenger brethren.
Last weekend, we said goodbye to my friend and brother, Damon Votour. I knew I was going to have to put down a few words about Damon and on my way to our make-shift wake, my mind rolled back on stories, memories, shared shows and parties. There were too many to count. Later that night, as our extended family toasted him, I realized I didn’t know much about Damon’s origin story. I’d known him more than thirty years and I’d never asked where he was born. Between all those discussions about who’s better, the Clash the Pistols or the talks of Unions and the workplace, it never came up.
I’d always assumed he was from Oregon, ‘cause it was through some messenger crusters from Eugene that I met him. Turns out he was from Long Beach before he escaped to Oregon with his mom. But Damon, like many of us, found his real home here, in San Francisco. A true adopted son of the City. He loved the Giants, the Niners, and was a proud and long-standing member of the Elks fer Christ’s sake, not to mention the many years he clocked as a Dog Patch Wino. Knew enough about the history of the city to put any historian to shame. He loved this town as much as anyone I know. I think he’d see himself as a San Franciscan.
For someone who bitched a lot about not being invited to things, Damon was the most consistent common denominator at any function I attended in San Francisco in the last thirty years. Beyond the usual “I see that guy where ever I go,” Damon would materialize at backstage parties, VIP rooms, and late-night hotel room marathons . . . anywhere. Often not sure how he ended up there, and never concerned about when he’d make his inevitable sudden exit.
Damon was like a fused version of everyone’s little brother and a cranky old man. He loved his own cantankerousness and kept that monster fed. For instance, Damon loved the Giants, but he really hated those Dodgers. He loved punk rock, but he really hated disco. And good Lord, don’t bring up Morrisey.
You may’ve found Damon in any situation, but he’d always appear the same, drink in his hand—beers for years, but then those endless pale vodka cranberries—and a smile on his face. Pleasant and present, I call it. Smiling, not because he was happy, but because he saw a familiar face with whom he could contemplate, deliberate, and commiserate.
It’s funny, ‘cause Damon really had this “awe shucks” kind of humility about him, but it never got in the way of him reaching out and taking risks, of seizing the day. I know being a cancer survivor made him appreciate his days, but even before overcoming that horrible hurdle, he wasn’t shy about getting in the middle of life. Damon got the girl, was still at the party when the sun came up, and won the fight more times than he’d ever let you know.
On Saturday, someone had collected some of his favorite happenstance photos, all of them framed and on display. I squinted to see Elvis Costello, Waylon Jennings, Johnny Cash, and John Waters, all embracing a very at-home Damon during various stages in his life. It looked like he was the one holding court in all of them. The same smile, the eager, earnest look in his eyes. More relaxed in the middle of the action than in his own living room. That seems about right I thought. I’ll miss you Damon.
