Robot was part of the inevitable drama of Highway One, the only road through the long Big Sur coast, its spinal column, its circulatory system. Since all human activity in the area transpires between the surf line and the first ridge line; life, full, naked and dramatic takes place within the sound of the highway.

If American is a melting pot, Big Sur is where the odd, the eccentric, the artistic, the visionary, the utterly mad settle out of solution. They wander in and stick to the flypaper majesty of this coast. Look in front of every business or at any scenic pull out, and you will find a story, a life played in a different key, an exercise in caricature. The daily routines of life are indistinguishable from street theater.

Robot has been a fixture along side the road as long as most could remember. He claims that he wandered into the area after being released from the army at the end of the Korean War, a veteran without a job or a direction. To the casual tourist he was just another roadside bum, but that would like saying that the wild and seductive Big Sur coast was just another beach.

Occasionally, he was able to procure an old van to live in, but most of the time his home was in a tent sitting just off the highway, on any patch of flat land, the stream culverts running under the highway and spilling down to the beach his unheated showers.

Making a living along the side of the highway was and is a creative venture, and Robot was an artist. He would do tricks for the tourists, such as balance chairs and tables on his nose, he could weave a wonderful story for anyone who would buy him lunch, and he would watch over the surfers’ parked cars for a few bucks. He also carved some original stone pipes that he’d sell to the dopers who constantly hung around Big Sur.  He looked like a Barbary pirate, talked like a stevedore and had the heart of a poet.

At one point, he had two tents set up on a narrow ledge, twenty feet below a scenic turn out and 400 feet above the legendary surf spot called Fullers. He was virtually invisible to the tourists who stopped to gaze over his head and out at the majestic coast, while he sat just below them on a small stool, carving pipes, scraps of stone surrounding his small living space. From there it was a short walk to Deetjens Inn for his regular breakfast.  The reclusive old lady who owned the land and lived on the point opposite his ledge, tolerated him, their relationship consisting of the occasional wave over the hundred years of open coast.

Robot knew just about everyone who lived along this 90 miles stretch of wonderland. Some were his friends; others disliked him. He had a problem with substance abuse, which meant he had a problem with others. Getting drunk or doing lots of drugs often made him belligerent. Disruptive behavior had gotten him thrown out of many bars, even some that catered to disruptive people.

He moved around from time to time, and eventually I lost track of him, hearing only of his whereabouts via rumor. I’d heard he’d gotten in trouble with the law one or more times, and after not hearing anything about him for several years, I was told he’d died.

I don’t know the details of his end, but I know he was unique, even for a place like Big Sur.