Buying the bar and running it for three years was an education I couldn’t get at any university. One of my first tasks was to clean up all the craziness that went on there. When I started running the place, it was basically a roadhouse—not the kind of bar you’d take your mom to. My friend, the bouncer who had my back in the fight, was a real Patrick Swayze–type of guy (only bigger) and helped me weed out the riffraff.
During those years, it was a wonder I didn’t get killed by some of the patrons who frequented the place, like one guy who went by the name Biker Bob, a trained killer and mercenary. One night he came in looking for me and wanted to settle the score for the guy who had his ear bitten off. High on drugs and acting crazy, he came right up to me and asked, “Are you Billy Busch?”
I denied it (of course) and said, “I think I saw Billy just leave.”
My fighting days were behind me. I tried hard to clean up my image, and the image of the bar. My father had always been opposed to people who couldn’t handle alcohol. And, at the time, there were a lot of people who couldn’t do that at my bar. I tried my best to figure out a way to deal with it. It wasn’t easy. I made a lot of mistakes, and looking back, there are things I wish I’d done differently. I was naive when I started. I learned in a hurry the things you could get away with in the bar business that were unethical, and I didn’t want any part of it. I knew my dad wouldn’t have done business this way, and I didn’t want to either.
It was there that I learned what life was like outside the bubble of Grant’s Farm. I learned pretty quickly that people were out to get something from me and expected a lot from me because of my name. I had to become very cautious of whom I called a “friend.” Everyone always wanted me around when it was time to pay the bill or when they wanted baseball tickets and the like, but after the game was over, I’d never hear from them again. I started to become a bit suspicious of men—and women. I became more realistic. I learned that not everybody out in the world is going to be sincere.
As an adult, I started to see the varnish fade on the shiny veneer that was the Busch Family Fairy Tale. I had always been a bit naive and bought into the fairy tale hook, line, and sinker. My sister Trudy would even often say to me, “Billy, we are living in a fairy tale. We have a fairy-tale life.” But that was only half true. Two truths can exist at the same time, which makes reality all the harder to comprehend and dissect as the years go by. Yes, we had fairy-tale parties, experiences, and money, and yes, people used us, our parents neglected us, and we grew up not knowing how to trust other people or how to love each other.
The more I got out into the real world and saw how others behaved, the more aware I became of my own cognitive dissonance. On the one hand, I loved my mom, dad, and family members, and on the other hand, I could see they weren’t the best role models of human virtue. Nothing was ever consistent either. There were times I look back on and think, Man, did that actually happen? Yes, my mom threw lavish parties and knew how to celebrate a holiday, but she also lined my brothers and sisters up and whipped them in front of their friends and our employees for throwing outdoor furniture cushions in the pool to use as flotation devices. As kids, we never knew what to expect from our parents, and as we grew, I think a lot of us kids internalized all this trauma and behavior, and instead of doing something about it and getting the help we needed, we acted out in a lot of the same ways. We snapped at and turned on each other, just as our mother and father had turned on us.
But despite it all, I was hell-bent on trying to pretend everything had indeed been that fairy tale because, quite honestly, it was easier and less painful than dealing with the truth of it all. And the truth was, I never knew if I was coming or going with any of them. I never had a sibling who had my back unconditionally. My father had always warned us that the largest number of friends we could really count on would be two or three. And for a brief time, I thought those “friends” were my three brothers.
For a few years in the 1980s, Adolphus, Peter, Andy, and I, the four horsemen as depicted by the Remington bronze, got the Busch company to sponsor our polo team, and we played competitively all over the country. During those years, we were probably the closest we had ever been—and ever would be. After I sold the bar in 1983, Adolphus, Andy, and I purchased an Anheuser-Busch distributorship in Homestead, Florida. Since August III had to approve owners of distributorships, he had to grant us permission to do so as well. Ultimately, he allowed us to have it because if we were preoccupied with a distributorship, we wouldn’t make waves or try to work for the company itself. In many ways, he knew we didn’t pose a threat of any kind by owning a distributorship. And it turned out to be a great business for a little while.
We were closer during those years not only because of polo and the distributorship, but also because of what was happening back at Grant’s Farm. We all knew Margaret had turned our father on us. She was doing her best to keep our dad from us, and there was a real possibility that she would also try to dissuade our dad from leaving us Grant’s Farm in his will. The only thing we kids had, and truly loved, was the farm. August III had the company and was running it, and we were never going to be able to touch that. I loved the farm more than anything. It was the best part of my childhood, and all the animals on the farm were my friends. Moreover, I considered many of those that worked on the farm my dearest friends and family. The idea that Margaret might somehow come in during the final years of Dad’s life and persuade him to write all his kids off, bonded us together in a way we had never been before.
By 1986 I had already decided it was time to finish my degree at St. Louis University; I started taking classes again and working alongside Andy at Grant’s Farm. We had gone to an animal sale in Macon, Missouri, and there we saw a baby African elephant, two years old, go up for auction. We immediately called our dad, and even in his old age, he knew a good thing when he heard it. “Buy the goddamned thing,” he said. Andy and I were so excited. It had been years since Grant’s Farm had an elephant. We had stopped hauling elephants from Busch Gardens in Tampa, to St. Louis several years before, and, like her namesake, my Tessie had been sold to the Ringling Brothers circus. They knew great elephants when they saw them.
Since we had the new baby elephant, we knew we needed to get a companion for it. So, we bought another one, a female. We named the pair Bud and Mickey (after Budweiser and Michelob, naturally) and brought them back to Grant’s Farm. While I was going to school, my project was to train the elephants. I had so much fun with them. Dad loved them too, especially when I would bring the elephants right inside the Big House, where he was, to brighten his spirits. He’d sit there and feed them peanuts, fruits, and vegetables and pet them. Sometimes, when Dad was sitting on the porch, I would walk the elephants into the pond so he could watch them play, swim, trumpet, and blow water all over themselves. Dad got a huge kick out of that. I remembered the stories he used to tell me of the times he’d ride his horse up the stairs into his dad’s bedroom to make him laugh. I couldn’t help but think he was remembering those times, too, when I brought the elephants inside to see him. I was so grateful for those times. Seeing him smile and laugh in those final years was a rare gift.
In 1987 my brothers and I arrived home after spending the winter in Florida, where we’d been playing polo all season. I planned to attend school and work with the elephants again so they could perform in the elephant shows. When I made my way up from the Big House to see the elephants, I’d pass by not only the capuchin monkeys, who were performing tricks and collecting coins from the guests, but their beautiful trainer as well. One day, as I was walking by them, I thought to myself, Who is this pretty girl? Every day I would walk by her as I headed to the elephants. I’d try to say hello, but she wasn’t interested. I couldn’t tell if she was just shy or if she didn’t like me. She’d put her head down and look away. But I was persistent. I found out her name from another guy who worked at Grant’s Farm. Christi. She was the talk of the farm for all the men who worked there.
I ended up buying some more monkeys so I’d have an excuse to spend more time with her. I asked her if she would help me, and she flat out said, “No.” When she finally did decide to help me with the monkeys, they loved her and hated me. Before long Christi had these two young monkeys on a leash, eating out of the palm of her hand. I realized that if she could train those wild monkeys, she could handle someone like me.
One day the monkeys were biting me, and out of frustration I snapped and asked Christi if she would finish up for the day and clean out their cages.
“I don’t work for you,” she said. “Clean your own cages.” And she walked out.
After that, I was officially smitten. I did everything I could to make her talk to me again. I even asked her if I could drive her convertible.
“Yes,” she said. “As long as you can take it up to the shop and air up the tires.” What a turnaround—now I was working for her. I thought she was playing hard to get, but the truth of the matter was she was shy, only nineteen years old, and didn’t quite know what to make of me. After I first visited her, the other workers began warning her about the reputation my family had. She could be setting herself up for trouble.
Finally, a big opportunity for a date came up. Margaret and Dad were throwing my brother August III a lavish fiftieth birthday party. So I asked Christi, “Do you want to come with me as my date?”
There were other people and workers all standing around, and she didn’t know what to say. She didn’t want to look like she was going out with the boss’s son. She also didn’t know what my story was, except for the rumors she’d heard.
I stood there for a while, waiting for her to make up her mind. “I got to know now. It’s happening tonight.”
At last, she said, “Yes,” and then immediately asked, “What do I wear?”
“Oh, it’s casual,” I said. “Meet me back here in an hour and a half.”
So off she went, and when she came back, she stepped out of her car in a little skirt and blazer. She looked around at the other women arriving in long gowns, pearls—the works—and said she wanted to turn around and leave. To this day she swears that if she’d had a cell phone back then, that’s exactly what she would have done. She would have called me and said, “Nope. Not doing this.” But because she didn’t want to stand me up, she honored her word and went up to the house.
Our entire family was coming out when she was walking up to meet me, and the way she tells it, everyone looked at her and then at me as if to say, My God, Billy, what did you just pick up? Where did you find this one? I took one look at her and I thought she was absolutely beautiful. She didn’t need a gown or fancy jewelry. I took her by the arm and together we walked to the Bauernhof, where the party was held.
As soon as we got to the party, she felt uncomfortable. For a time, she snuck off and hung out with her employee friends until she felt better. Eventually, she knew she had to come back to the table. She told me she felt entirely out of place, but I thought she was perfect. Later that night, I took her out on a golf cart, and we drove around the grounds and had so much fun. It was the first of what would become many dates.
The next two years were both thrilling and exhilarating. What I loved most about Christi was that she could take me or leave me. She had her own life. She wasn’t possessive. She was far from impressed that I was a Busch. And she never, not for one second, bought into the idea that I lived a fairy-tale life. She was a hard worker, hustling at several different jobs while also working as a cosmetologist and putting herself through college. She was no gold digger and had zero patience or tolerance for people who put on airs or thought they were better than anyone else because of how much money they had or what their name was. She was also loyal and a fierce defender of me. I realized she was looking out for me when others, who said they were, weren’t.
Interestingly, Margaret liked Christi. She could sense what I did—that Christi wasn’t interested in “being a Busch.” She was truly interested in me. She also loved that Christi went out of her way to take care of my dad. In the last two years of Dad’s life, Christi was always there for him. Whenever she came over, Margaret would say, “Darling, your girlfriend is here.” My dad would get this big twinkle in his eye, and as someone who always had a soft spot for beautiful women, he would light up. He’d give her his hand and a little file. He loved having his hands touched and rubbed. Christi would also sneak him cigarettes. She would sit and listen to him talk or play cards with him so Margaret could get a break. I would even leave the two of them and go out for beers with the guys. She was patient and kind, and my father adored her. “Wow, pal, she’s good-lookin’. You better hold on to this one,” he’d say to me.
In 1988, to the shock of all of us—well, quite frankly, it was a relief—Margaret died suddenly of a brain hemorrhage. It was a shock because she was seventeen years younger than my dad, and we all expected her to outlive him. It was a relief because we knew that without her around, there wouldn’t be any further interference in our relationship with Dad. For one blessed year, we had him to ourselves. By then he was old and feeble, and we all needed to be looking out for him, especially now that Margaret wasn’t there. And sure enough, it didn’t take long for someone to come along and try to take advantage of him.
One night Frank, my dad’s valet, came to me and said, “Billy, I just got to tell you—that night nurse and your daddy are talking about marriage.”
I was incredulous. “What?”
“They’re talking about getting married!”
I thought to myself, Oh shit, we’re not going through this again. Now the night nurse is after Dad for his money. Dad was almost ninety years old, and this nurse was in her thirties. People do just want something for nothing in this life, and if they have the opportunity to take it, they will take it.
I knew she worked from 10:00 p.m. to 6:00 a.m., so early the next morning I waited in the kitchen for her to come down from my dad’s room. When she did, I asked if we could talk for a second.
She said, “Yes?”
“I understand that you’re talking to my dad about marriage. Let me just tell you that’s unprofessional, and if I ever hear about this again, you won’t be welcome back in this place. I better never hear another word about you marrying my dad. Do you understand?”
She got really embarrassed because she knew she’d been caught. She said, “Yes.” And the next night she called in and told the nursing service that she wasn’t coming back to Grant’s Farm. And that was the last we saw of her.
We bought a house for my father down in South Florida so he could be closer to Andy, Adolphus, and Peter, who were still playing polo. I was running our recently acquired distributorship in Houston, and along with Christi, I would visit him in Florida often.
Dad brought his coach horses down with him that winter. He would go out on the coach every day with Frank still by his side. My brothers were all there too, and so was I, as much as possible. It was great to be able to spend one-on-one time with him. It was like we had our dad back again, after nearly a decade of being kept apart.
In the spring of 1989, he headed back to Grant’s Farm and his health started to deteriorate. He was still driving the horses every day, but for the most part, he was declining, and we could tell he didn’t have long. On September 29, 1989, surrounded by his children, my father died in the same bed where his father had taken his own life. When he took his last breath and the nurses pronounced him dead, we heard the elk bugle in the Deer Park, as if to cry out, The King of Beers is dead. All of Grant’s Farm was in mourning—it seemed even the animals knew. August III, the family stoic who never showed emotion, broke down and started crying. Our dad was dead.
We loved him, and now he was gone. He wasn’t the King of Beers to us. At the time of his death, Dad had repaired his relationships with his children. He and August III were friends again. We were all doing our best to get along. The only one who was not there when Dad died was Adolphus. He harbored so much bitterness toward August III that he couldn’t stand to be in the same room with him.
Dad’s funeral, which was held at the new Cathedral Basilica of St. Louis, wasn’t so much a somber affair as a celebration of life. The massive church was packed. There was a huge public outpouring. People lined the road from Grant’s Farm up to the cemetery. This was because he was a legend. He was someone we all respected. He did a lot in his lifetime for other people, for the business. He was leaving an enormous legacy, one that his forebears had left him, but he was leaving it even stronger and better than it was before. Here was a guy who lived life to the fullest in every way imaginable, and he was lucky enough to be able to live a long time. He lived until he was ninety. He had seen the turn of the century. He had lived through two world wars, a depression, and Prohibition, and had built an internationally known company. When he took over the company in 1946, it was producing just over three million barrels of beer, and when he left in 1974, the company was producing thirty-four million barrels.
We buried him at Sunset Cemetery alongside Margaret, his father, mother, brother, and of course, Christina.
Seeing him in the final year of his life, so sick and so weak, we all saw it as a huge relief that he was no longer in any pain or suffering. We all had a sense of happiness for the good life that he lived, loving his brewery, his farm, and his family.