“Yeah, Chuck told me that.”
“That, he’s right about.” She grinned. “A couple of them own a small fleet of fishing boats; some for commercial fishing, some to take rich guys out fishing for tarpon. My mom has three other places besides The Palms and you’d think she was Nicky Hilton the way she runs them. I kid you not, Lo is one serious businesswoman when she takes off her bikini. And in case you’re wondering why the hell I’m working at the Crab Shack, it’s because another one of my uncles—Jimmy—owns it. As in Jimmy’s Crab Shack. He talked me into doing it while his wife, my Aunt Doris, recovers from surgery.”
Chuck and I changed into our swim trunks, and then the three of us hauled coolers, a picnic basket full of food, hibachis, blankets, umbrellas, beach chairs, a collapsible table, sand buckets, fishing poles, a volleyball net, a football, a portable radio, and various other necessities across the street and staked out the territory across from The Palms. People started arriving soon after, dragging more stuff. Carl, Linda, Suzie, Brad and Karen from high school—Brad and Karen, obviously a couple. Rick, who Chuck knew from working summers on the beach at Treasure Island. Mary Claire, who volunteered with Ginny on Shell Key. And more, whose names I couldn’t remember.
It looked like a small village by the time we got settled: bright beach umbrellas circling the hibachis, weirdly reminiscent of Conestoga wagons surrounding a campfire. A patchwork of different-colored towels dotted the sand. Chuck and I played catch for a while; then a bunch of us played volleyball, at which—no surprise—Ginny was fearsome. I’d never met a girl like her before—always moving, completely focused on whatever she was doing, whether it was making the killer serve or positioning a beach umbrella to allow just the right amount of sun. She seemed to know every single thing about everyone there. I watched from the blanket, where I’d collapsed to soak up some sun, as she checked in on the details of their lives just like she’d done with the old guys at the Crab Shack.
“So, Paul,” she said, dropping to her knees beside me when it was my turn. “Did you guys ever find Jack Kerouac?”
“Nah,” I said, blushing. “That was Duke’s idea. It was really just an excuse to—”
“Take off for the beach?”
“Yeah. Something like that.”
She laughed. “Think you’ll stay in St. Pete?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I like it here. Maybe.”
She hopped up at the sound of one of the girls calling her name, started to walk toward her then stopped and looked back at me. “Uncle Jimmy has a tendency to go through dishwashers,” she said. “Especially now—with Aunt Doris out of commission. He’s kind of a terror, but if you ever want a job…”
“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll let you know.”
I watched her go, then stretched out on the blanket, my eyes closed, breathing in the sunshine, the smell of the ocean and suntan lotion and hotdogs cooking, the sound of laughter and waves crashing into the shore and who knew how many transistor radios all cranked up, all tuned to the Top Forty.
Happy.
SIXTEEN
Chuck was off that night, so we stayed for dinner at The Palms, watched the sunset, then hung out playing cards with a couple of Ginny’s uncles. I dozed off more than once on the drive back to St. Pete, and I was more than ready to hit the rack when we got to the Y. But when I opened the door to our room, Duke was waiting for me.
“Where have you been?” he asked.
“Beach. With Chuck.”
“All fucking day? Christ, it’s almost eleven.”
“How would you know how long I’ve been gone? What are you even doing here at this time of night? I figured you’d be out.”
“I was out. I came back to get you. Paulie, listen. I heard a couple of guys talking about Jack—some pool game at the Tic Toc he lost and there’s a rematch tonight. This could be it, man. Come on. We need to go. Now. I’m serious.”
He was hopping around the room like he did the day he showed me the article about Jack being in Florida. He’s starting to look like one of those guys who hang out in Morris Park, I thought. His hair was shaggy, he hadn’t shaved in a couple of days, he was wearing a pair of jeans and a tee-shirt that hadn’t been washed for weeks. He’d been drinking; I could smell it on his breath.
“Come on.” He opened the door. He’d started smoking, and he pulled a cigarette from the crumpled pack in his shirt pocket and held it between his twitching fingers, waiting to light it the second we stepped outside. “Let’s split, man. Let’s make the scene.”
“Okay, okay.” I followed him downstairs, past Chuck, who gave me a puzzled glance, and out into the night.
There was no pool game going on when we got to the Tic Toc, just a bunch of people hanging out at the bar, all of them three sheets to the wind, listening as well as drunk people can to this older guy who was totally smashed rant about the sorry mess our country had become. He was graying, unshaven, wearing this ratty plaid flannel shirt and baggy, unpressed pants that barely fit over his beer gut.
The Red conspiracy. The real Mafia: the Jews. Degenerates.
The guy chugged a beer, followed it with a shot, and struck the empty shot glass on the bar, like a gavel. “You think LBJ can fix any of this, you’re sadly mistaken.” He waved his lit cigarette, trailing ashes. “He doesn’t even want to fix it. The Great Society,” he sneered. “Give it all away to the niggers and commie bums who refuse to work for a living. That’s his plan. Well, he can kiss my ass.”
He slid off the bar stool, bent over to stick up his rear end in case anyone wanted to take advantage of the opportunity, and toppled into the arms of one of the guys at the bar, who laughed and propped him back up, then stayed close so he wouldn’t fall over again.
Duke raised the glass of beer the bartender had just set before him. “Yeah,” he said. “Let’s give it all to the rich, instead. Bomb anybody who doesn’t agree with us into oblivion, keep the Negroes in their place. What true-blue American wouldn’t vote for that?”
It got real quiet.
“You’re a punk,” the drunk guy said.
“Maybe.” Duke shrugged. “I’ve read the Constitution, though. Maybe you ought to give it a go yourself, send it on to the G-man when you’re done—not that it will matter in the end. LBJ is going to trounce his ass.”
The drunk lunged off of his stool and stumbled toward Duke, his fists up, a lit cigarette dangling between his fingers.
“Whoa! Take it easy.” The guy who’d propped him back at the bar grabbed his arm, but the drunk struggled away and lunged for Duke again—who just stood there, fists raised, that little smile on his face that said, “Hey, come get me.”
“Duke,” I said. “Come on, man. The guy’s loaded. Let’s get out of here.”
But Duke held his ground. Standing next to him was like standing next to a downed electrical wire; I could feel the tension humming through him. Fortunately, the drunk passed out mid-lunge, and his friend caught him again, this time maneuvering him into a booth, where he slumped over, his head on his chest.
“Asshole,” Duke muttered.
The drunk’s friend turned to him “Hey, fucker. You’re the idiot stick who’s been running all around town looking for Jack Kerouac. Am I right? Well, congratulations.” He nodded toward the booth. “You just found him. Now why don’t you and your buddy get the hell out of here before I beat the shit out of both of you.”
I’d never seen Duke speechless before, but he was speechless now. Me, too.
This was Jack Kerouac?
“Move,” Jack’s friend said.
I couldn’t move.
Duke didn’t move, for whatever reason.
The next thing I knew, a bunch of guys were dragging us out into the parking lot and roughing us up. One of them pushed me hard, and I fell, skidding across the asphalt. I just lay there, my hands raised in surrender. There were way too many of them to make it a fair fight. Duke fought back, though, until one bruiser of a guy got him by the shoulders
and pushed him backward over the hood of a car.
“Listen, dumbfuck,” he said. “The last thing in the world Jack needs is shitheels like you giving him grief. You found him. Now leave him the hell alone. I see you sniffing around him again—”
He cocked his head, raised a fist. Then yanked Duke up and shoved him out onto the street. The guy who had helped Jack in the bar yanked me up from the pavement and gave me a push in the same direction.
“Get the hell out of here,” he yelled. “Both of you.”
And they all disappeared back into the Tic Toc.
Duke started walking, muttering under his breath. The more he muttered, the faster he went—until we were practically running. We got all the way to Morris Park, where he collapsed onto a park bench.
I was exhausted, a little sunburned—not to mention the fact that most of my right arm was bloody and burned like hell where I’d scraped it on the asphalt. All I wanted to do was go back to the Y and fall into bed. But it was after midnight, so that was out of the question. Chuck probably would have let me in if I asked him, but then I’d have had to explain what a fucking fool I’d been.
It served me right, anyway, stuck out here with all the losers—which, if I were honest, I was well on the road to becoming myself. They were tucked away under trees and in the shelter of bushes, covered with army blankets or tattered quilts, their arms around beat-up duffels or grocery bags that held all their worldly belongings, embracing them like lovers. It was a cool, clear night, the black sky sprinkled with the same stars that had shone above Kathy and me in those terrible months, lying together in the backseat of the car, when the only thing I wanted, the only thing that could make me forget about my mom for a little while, was the comfort of her warm, living body close to mine, the whisper of her breath mingled with my own.
“Maybe that wasn’t really him,” Duke said, after a while. “You know what, Paulie? I’ll bet it wasn’t. I’ll bet those guys were just yanking our chains. There’s no way Kerouac would be like that.”
“Like what? Crazy? Old? In case you haven’t figured it out yet, we were never looking for the real Kerouac, we were looking for some idea of him we got from reading the book. But if you think about it, even that guy was falling down drunk and crazy most of the time. And that was—when? The forties, the early fifties? That guy was Jack, all right. It just never occurred to us he’d be like that.”
“Asshole.” Duke stood up, his fists clenched, as if Kerouac were lunging toward him again, as if he’d turned out to be a pathetic drunk for no other reason in the world than to disillusion Duke Walczek, from East Chicago, Indiana, who’d taken to the road to find him.
“This place is shit,” Duke said. “Fucking old people. It’s depressing. Man, it’s time to split this scene. Greenwich Village. Malibu. You name it, Paulie—we’re gone.” He took out his wallet and fingered the money inside. “I’ve still got almost a hundred bucks. How about you?”
I reached for my back pocket. It was half-ripped off; my wallet was gone.
“Those fuckers,” Duke said.
“I don’t think they stole it,” I said. “They were just pissed about Jack. It probably fell out when that guy threw me in the street.”
“You’re too frigging nice, Paulie.” Duke gave a harsh laugh. “Besides, even if it did fall out, I’d bet my ass one of those guys found it and the bunch of them are drinking on your money right now. We need to go back there and get it.”
I looked at him. Jesus. He was spoiling for another fight.
“I’m not going back there tonight,” I said. “We don’t even know for sure my wallet’s there; it might have fallen out while we were walking. If it did, we’d never find it in the dark.”
“All right, then. We’ll backtrack as soon as it gets light,” Duke said. “But if we don’t find it, if it’s not at the Tic Toc, I’ve got enough for both of us. Seriously, man. We need to get out of here. What do you think? New York? California? New Orleans?”
I want to go home, is what I thought. But when I closed my eyes and pictured home I saw Mom and Dad and Bobby and me there together, and it made me feel so sad, so lost and alone, that it was all I could do not to lie down on the park bench and curl up like a baby. I’d put that picture of Mom in the goofy New Year’s hat, laughing, in my wallet, I remembered, which made me feel even worse.
Duke rattled on. “We don’t have to hitchhike. We can take the bus, if you want. We don’t even have to decide where we’re going. We can take the first one out heading any direction. That would be cool, really. We could end up anywhere.”
By this time, my teeth were chattering; my skin felt like it was on fire. I couldn’t see the ocean from where we sat, but I felt its presence, blacker than the night, stretching all the way to the other side of the world. The fishy scent of the breeze coming in off the water made me feel like I was going to vomit, and I hunched over, my forearms on my knees, my hands dangling. But nothing came. Just this awful heaving.
At which point, Duke finally shut up. “Paulie,” he said. “Jeez. What’s the matter?”
I raised my hands, blew out a long breath.
“Hey, it’s okay about the money. Seriously. I’ve got plenty.”
“It’s not the money.”
Duke looked at me. “You want to go back, don’t you? You want to go home.”
“I can’t go home,” I said.
“Yeah, you can.” He sat down beside me. “Look, Paulie, I told you before, home means nothing to me. I got nothing there. But it’s different for you. You got your dad and your brother. You don’t have to go back with Kathy.” He punched me lightly on the arm. “Hey, she probably wouldn’t go back even if you wanted her to.”
When I didn’t laugh, he added, “Or maybe you want to go back with Kathy. That’s cool, too. If it’s what you want.”
“I do not want to go back with Kathy.”
“Okay,” Duke said. “Then—”
“I don’t know then. That’s the problem.”
“Paulie,” he said. “You choose what then is. New York, California. Shit. Dubuque, Iowa. You name it. I go where you go, kemosabe.”
“I can’t just choose,” I said.
“Yeah,” he said. “You can. You have to. Not choosing is just another kind of choice, you know?” He looked at me, his eyes narrowed. “Or maybe you already did choose. Maybe you decided to stick around here and hang out on the beach with Dudley—”
Before he could finish the sentence, I was up, my fists raised. “Fuck you,” I said. “Chuck hasn’t done a goddamn thing to you, so would you please get off my back about him? Just because he’s not out getting smashed every night like you are—”
“Pipe down, for Christ’s sake,” called a voice from under one of the trees. “We’re trying to get some sleep here.”
“Yeah, knock it off,” called another.
We did. We sat back down, but didn’t look at each other.
“Okay, okay,” Duke finally said, in a low voice. “I’m a shithead. I know that.”
“Yeah,” I said. “You are.” But smiled, in spite of myself.
“I mean it, Paulie. The truth is, my cocked-up idea of hitting the road to find Kerouac was just an excuse to get the hell out of East Chicago. I never should have talked you into it.”
“Hey,” I said. “I came to East Chicago looking for you that night. If it weren’t for your sorry ass, I’d be engaged to Kathy by now, picking out my tux for the wedding. So if you’re thinking I’m sorry I left, don’t. And don’t feel like you have to stick around here on account of me, either. It’s okay. I know you’re ready to move on.”
We sat there on the park bench in the cool night air, men with wrecked lives and broken dreams sleeping all around us.
Then Duke asked, “But what are you going to do?”
I shrugged. “Get some kind of shit job for a while. I just need enough to get by until I can get my head on straight. I’ll be fine.”
“You sure?”
&nb
sp; I nodded.
“Okay, then.”
Suddenly, I was so tired I couldn’t keep my eyes open, my head kept dropping to my chest, and I had that half-nauseous, half-delicious feeling I used to get sometimes when I got sleepy during class, but didn’t dare give into it. I got off the bench and lay down on the grass.
“I’m beat,” I said. “I need to cop some Z’s before we do anything.”
“No shit, man.” Duke stretched out on the bench, folding his arms so that his hands made a pillow beneath his head. “It’s kind of perfect, you know? Tonight? Ending up here? It’s something that could’ve happened in On the Road.”
Probably, knowing Duke, he said more. But I fell asleep.
Back at the Y the next morning, we showered and shaved. Duke packed his duffel. We had some apple pie and ice cream at a diner near the bus station, for old time’s sake.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said, setting down his coffee cup. “Last night? Kerouac? Man, I do not want to end up like him, spewing that kind of crap.”
I nodded in agreement.
“California is where things are happening,” Duke said. “Berkeley, man. That’s where I want to be.” He tapped the notebook in his shirt pocket. “Maybe tell a new story.”
Who knows, I thought. Maybe he will.
We walked over to the Trailways station, where it turned out there was a bus leaving in ten minutes for Atlanta. He bought a ticket for it, figuring he’d head west from there.
“Well, this is it, pal,” he said.
We shook, and he slipped me a twenty-dollar bill.
“In case you don’t find your wallet, man.”
Then he was through the gate, boarding the bus. He turned when he got to the top of the steps. “So long, Paulie,” he yelled. “It was real.”
SEVENTEEN
I hadn’t seen much of Duke the past few weeks. Sometimes I’d even wished him out of my life. But when the bus pulled away and it hit me that he was really gone, all I could think about was those long summer nights in the factory, the two of us saving each other from the killing boredom of the place. Right now, he was probably taking the Big Chief out of his duffel and settling in to write the end of our story—Jack Bliss off on the next adventure, this time to save the world, leaving the hapless Rocco Minetti behind to patch together a life.
Looking for Jack Kerouac Page 11
