Pat "Taco" Ryan

A chance encounter with a beloved musician at rock bottom.

Everyone who knew him called him Taco. I didn’t know him. I called him Pat.

It was 1997 when I met him. He was a holdover tenant at the duplex I purchased. Pat hadn’t paid rent in over a year, and I needed a place to live.

The process of evicting Pat was problematic for the reason that Pat was never sober. I figured him for a drunk and a loser. One day in October I was able to catch him before he was pickled, and drove him to a storage business so he would have a place to stash the mountain of furniture and other stuff that was crammed into his side of the duplex.

It was a little awkward, but I tried to make small talk in the car on the way there. “So what do you do?” I asked, and then thought that was a stupid question. What he did was drink�"every day, long and hard. “I mean, what did you do?”

“I’m a musician,” he said tersely.

“Oh, yeah? What instrument do you play?”

"Winds."

"Winds?" I asked showing my musical ignorance.

“Saxophone,” he said more tersely than before in a way that conveyed that the conversation was over.

I paid for the storage unit, and he signed for it. The plan was that I would be at the duplex the following day with a UHaul truck to help him move his belongings.

That next morning, I knocked on the front door, but no one answered. I unlocked the door and let myself in. Pat was on the couch, passed out or sleeping it off, I couldn’t tell. Nothing was packed, or gathered to make the move easier.

My friend, who volunteered to help me out, and I began the long process of moving out all of Pat’s stuff, while Pat laid on the couch snoring. Pat did eventually wake up, grumbled something and left on foot.

My friend and I took the first load to the storage place. By late afternoon we had finally emptied the house. 

“You know what?” I asked my friend. “Pat told me he was a musician�"a saxophonist. Did you ever see a saxophone in there?”

My friend said he hadn’t.

When we returned, Pat was lying in the middle of the floor. I nudged him with my shoe and told him that he had to leave. He stood uneasily. He walked up to me and gave me a shove, and continued to advance though mightily off balanced. It wouldn’t be a fair match, and I told him so. I told him that we wouldn’t fight. He grimaced and staggered out of the duplex, down the street and out of view as my friend, old Mrs. Beaty, who resided in the other side of the duplex, and I watched.

I asked Mrs. Beaty, what was his story? Had he always been an alcoholic? She said, no. “He had a girlfriend and her son living with him. He was very in love with her, and loved that little boy, too. And then, she left him, and he’s been drinking ever since.” Wiping tears away, Mrs. Beaty said, “Pat is like a son to me,” and she went inside.

I felt rotten.

Pat did return a few months later. I saw him walk in to the front yard from the living room window where I sat reading the paper. Remembering that the last time I saw him he was stewed and offering to fight me, I met him in the front yard to head off any trouble. He was sober and healthy looking, and nicely dressed in cowboy boots, jeans, a button-up shirt, a blazer, a scarf around his neck, and a cool looking wide-brimmed hat from under which long black hair hung to his shoulders. Pat looked like a musician.

“What's up, Pat?” I asked.

“I’ve just come to see Mrs. Beaty.”

“Oh, okay,” I said and went back inside.

A few months later I read in the newspaper that a man had been hit and killed by a driver on a poorly lit stretch of street on the East side. Later it was reported that the dead man’s name was Pat “Taco” Ryan. Another article appeared a few days later. It was entitled, “Late saxophonist left a legacy of his music.”

Sometimes, life was a struggle for Ryan, as often is for artists and others who, as Thompson says, “always take that chance.” As Karstein puts it, “like all of us, he fought personal demons in his life.” But, like most first-class musicians, what he’ll ultimately be remembered for is his dedication to his art, and for the beautiful notes he left behind to resonate in hearts and minds and souls.

“Pat wasn’t a stockbroker going out and playing the Warren Duck Club for two hours and then going back to the day job,” Thompson says. “There was no golden parachute for Pat. He never had a house; he never had a really nice car. He lived the artist’s life. He gave it all up for the music.”

His first love was blue note jazz, though he played rock and western swing just as often. Pat was a vaunted figure in the Tulsa music scene, and considered a prodigy from the beginning of his career. He had played with the likes of Eric Clapton, and in the band Asleep at the Wheel. He played with Leon Russell and J.J. Cale, and many others.

Some of his stuff was still in the garage. I needed the space and was clearing it out when I found his year book. I thumbed through the pages of the year book, and read the comments that people had written.

He was truly a loved individual, and very popular. He had graduated from Edison High School, the same as me, but many years earlier in 1970, when I was not even a year old.

Though the article I had read in the paper mentioned it, it was there in the pages of the year book�"a verified, and depressing fact. Pat “Taco” Ryan was voted most talented his senior year. 

I also found a framed photo. In it was a beautiful young woman with long golden hair, a little boy and Pat. They looked very happy.

Reviews

[Trippy]

Thank you for this. Taco was one of the best friends I ever had. By coincidence I was in the valley last night to attend my Nephews football game. It was Carmeggedon 11 on the San Diego Freeway so I took a different route home. On the way I stopped off at an old watering hole of mine and Taco's in the late 80's..just by chance. Turned out the same Bartender (25 years now) was working. Taco came up shortly he told me that he was killed. As bad as it was for him (I have many stories) I just couldnt see him dead. Thank you for this. It gives me some closer today and I do miss my beautiful, funny and tragic Friend. Phil Tripp

[Samuel Dickens]

This is very sad tale you tell, but I'm glad I read it. Now I'm going to check some of my old albums to see if he is credited. So many artists throughout history have been made of similar stuff as our friend, Taco. When one's sunshine is taken from them, only darkness can remain. Thanks for writing this, Collin.