The Unknown Kerouac

by Jack Kerouac

  The oil stove was pouring out great heatwaves, it was warm in the kitchen, and there was my Pa sitting at the table in his white shirt with the sleeves rolled up but his necktie tied at the neck, his great frowning serious Breton face bent over the preliminaries to an immense supper of hamburg and boiled potatoes (my mother peeled them for him in his plate) and bread and butter and milk and for dessert he still had half a cold date pie in the ice box. His fingers were ink stained, as always, from a long day’s work at the printing shop he owned, where he put out his two little weekly newspapers (the Billerica News and the Lowell Optic) and a whole mess of job printing that included such complicated jobs as a bound volume of our family doctor’s family tree, with photographs. “Ten, l Ti Pousse” he said as I came in and whipped off my jacket and went in the bathroom to wash my hands. “Cosse qui fat d bon aujourdhui?” “On va achetez le Xmas tree assoir pi ont va l’arrangez.” “Well Gabe,” he says to my mother, “I’ll have to go to the club and look over the books and then be back around 9 to meet Mike and the gang. What you gonna have good for midnight snack tonight?” and there he was already pitching into his supper with huge serious bites, head down, his chair pushed back from the table to allow room for his great paunch bent forward tensely, eagerly, to his huge meal, usually 2 orders in all. “I thought I’d have some nice cold cuts like boiled ham and stuff . . . Bea and Shabby like boiled ham.” “I’ll bring back some beer at 9. Come on Boozie!” he yelled to my sister upstairs. “Time for supper.” Suddenly Kewpie jumped up on Pa’s lap and instead of saying Scat yak! he just fondly caressed it and said “Ah ti Kewpie, i veu du hamburg?” and he took a little bite of hamburg off his fork and gave it to Kewpie who dropped it temporarily on his huge cigar-ashed thighs and then gobbled it up, leaving a little grease spot and my mother said “Eh twe, j’ai faite cleanez Ste culotte la ainc hier. Fwai tut changé encore asoir.” My Pa put Kewpie on the floor and gave him another bigger bite of hamburg and chuckled his chuckle I never forget: rich, compassionate, affectionate, the chuckle that to me held up the world more firmly, by far, far more firmly than any of your Herculean and Hesperidal arms, shoulders and pillars. . . . For in that chuckle I had seen that the world was a fitting place to live in because it meant that man was kind, man was attentive to the wants of others, man was alive, and man had a sense of humor (so to say), man had glee in his heart and not just sour wronks. Kewpie circled around his chair looking up at him with the same belief I had. Now my father leaned back a little, chewing bread and hamburg and potatoes, and eased a few notches in his huge belt, wiped his brow with his handkerchief, and resumed his well earned supper. Everything flew when he ate,—“Ya tu encore d la date pie?” “Ben oui.” “Bring it on, MacDuff, bring it on!” He kept making his own crazy jokes at the table but not like expecting appreciation or laughter, but like W. C. Fields not caring, like I saw favorite friends of mine in future life when they sat at kitchen table and went on talking, chewing, laughing, paying no attention to the effect they were making. . . . Meanwhile now the wind beat about the golden windows of our kitchen, winds from dark hell battling at the sills of gold heaven, some of the wind sneaked in but the old stove sent out those heatwaves and all was warm and suppery in the old home, the cat in the middle of the linoleum, satisfied, washed himself with that particular savory long lick of his fur meaning he was through eating for a few hours and was ready to take a nap in the lap of comfort home. Our apple trees knocked dry limbs over the roof, a few licks of snow were seen whirling across the kitchen light that fanned out to the side porch. “I neige!” said my mother with amazement, always it was amazement she announced either snow or rain. And as always she went and took a look out the window and shook her head. My father reared back, finished, and opened the evening paper, waiting for his date pie without a word, and scowled furiously at various front page reports by the local big paper. “Bwah,” he said, and “Fe!” and “La marde!” and “That old reprobate!” or “That old clapped-up sonofabitch.” “Leo, parle pa comme ca en avant de les enfants!” and he looked up, stunned, as tho he had forgotten where he was, and remembering where he was it didnt seem to make much difference, only stared at my mother a moment with packed stupefaction, and went back to his front page with a deepening scowl that now became so dark it was on the verge of becoming the famous burper rage G.J. kept talking about: “Zagg, when your old man is sore at something the look that comes over his face would be enough to scare everybody on Wall Street if he was a big financier there, I’m telling you that scowl of his would cause a stock market crash . . . And his cough! If those guys ever heard him cough OOOOO gooo gla bla blall b pow the way I’ve heard him on certain winter mornings Zagg, especially on Gershom where the wall of the club and the wall of Blazon store captures all the echoes, Zagg the very walls of Wall Street would topple down in sheer terror, Zagg, take it from me. Zagg you’re very lucky to have an old buck, as you know I only saw my own old buck once, I was in the crib, I looked up, I saw this huge dark man with huge handlebar mustaches looking down at me. Zagg behind him was the angels of Greece!” “I know G.J. . . . I appreciate having my old buck around.” “You dam right better too, Zagg, or I’ll sic Kid Salvey on you to bite your balls off.” So I feasted my eyes on my father when he read the papers because then he didnt see me because whenever he did see me looking his way he always liked to talk to me and embarrass me in that special way fathers do to their boys, kidding them a little too much. When it was my opportunity to feast on his scowl at the newspaper I always remembered what G.J. said and also my earlier childhood man fear that my father would die someday suddenly, there’d be a smell of flowers in the house, he’d be gone forever, I would cry my eyes out in the dark forever . . . the Oedipal dark. Especially since my mother and her cousin Bea I could hear all the time in their long silly talks discussing how sick Uncle Joe was, how soon he was going to die, how all the Kerouacs were all sick and ready to die, and my father Leo would go very soon and the way they carried on it seemed they wanted these men to die. “Pa,” I said, “I saw Uncle Joe this noon, j men a d lecole, pour un verre d’eau.” “Pauve Joe. Cosse qui ava a dire?” “Rien . . . I voula tu vienne le voire.” I dit que tu rest lautre bord de la rivière pit to vien jama le voir. “Ah ben, un bon jeour la . . .” “Estamac flasse” said my mother, referring to Aunt Leontine, knowing my father never wanted to see her and since Uncle Joe was bedridden that is, chair ridden with asthma, he never could go out so the only way to see Joe would be to see estamac flasses too . . . O Gabrielle,” mimicked my father now ferociously, “j’ai lestmac flasse . . . ya tu un tu peu de manger que je peu avoire . . ?” With this he plunged into his date pie with huge incomprehensible bites, swallowing without chewing, pushed the chair back, practically pushed the table away, went to the bathroom, swooshed huge waters around his mouth, spit out the water, wiped his hands, and was done. And now, fresh cigar smoke spuming behind him, he walked fast across the kitchen with the paper to his easy chair by the radio for a moment of reading, his 230 pound bulk making the whole kitchen shake. We saw the light come on in the parlor, heard him flop into the poor chair, heard him cough hugely, and we sat there at the kitchen table inadvertently grinning because of this good, strange yet simple man who was the man of our lives alright. “Ah l bonhomme,” said my mother shaking her head fondly, eating, “s pa que’l ti bon homme ca.” My mother peeled another potato for me and I put butter on it and mashed it all down with a fork and ate. Be mindful of the present vision before your eyes counseled Saint Edgar Cayce, and now I realize I wish I had been more mindful of that present vision in those winter nights in the home kitchen when my father was still alive and was scowling over his newspaper in the den. . . . Suddenly, even, he let out a huge burp that made the cat jump. And then “Ham!” as he cleared his throat to read the editorial.

  “Those were the good old days” said Zagg the town drunk after whom G.J. had named me for no particular reason (at that time) as he leaned against the fence of the club, the fence t
hat was sagged in considerably from the dozens of times me and the gang had thrown ourselves against it, backs first, to get the thrill of it sending us bouncing back into snowbanks. It was after supper, dark now, the lights were all on in Pawtucketville, the snow was flying prettily across the arcs of streetlamps, my mother and Nin and I were all bundled up going to Lambert grocery for meat and the Xmas tree, Zagg the drunk was leaning against the fence drunk talking to himself and as we passed by he said it “These were the good old days” and threw up his hands and said “Woo woo!” because he looked exactly like Hugh Herbert and he knew he looked like Hugh Hubert, everybody had told him so anyway. In fact it was amazing, he had the same elastic? face that looked like it was about to squeeze around and disappear, he had the same voice, the same funny walk, so he kept throwing up his hands saying “Woo Woo.” I never had found out what his last name was but he was known as Zagg, (my gang-given nickname), and he was the town drunk of the area. You’d see him all the time staggering around, or slopping over hamburgs and coffee late at night in the Textile lunch, or waiting outside the door of the club saloon where he wasnt always allowed, or going home late at night weaving and saying “Woo woo” to his house which was apparently at the end of Gershom Avenue. “Ten,” said my mother, “l bohomme Zagg ye toujours sou. Mended mue donc pourquo qu’on homme boeu comme ca.” We got off the sidewalk to walk around Zagg, who leaned against the bent fence looking up at the sky, mouth open saying “Woo woo” to the snow. “I pourra seulement pas s tirez chez eux.” But in my own vision of Zagg was something else: the way he prowled the night, always gay, at that time I didnt know what it really meant to be drunk, all I saw was the gayety and the fact that he talked to everybody and said anything he wanted on the streets and nobody bothered him, I thought he was a great strange mysterious being with the secret of joy in his hand. Saying Woo woo to the snow, all around in the street, was to me so funny, so great, I looked over my shoulder as the women dragged me off. And something awesome about the drunk anyway, since we’d been told as children that when a drunk falls on you he crushes you to death, we always walked around drunks a great distance to avoid that . . . But therefore what awesome power and weight, what awesome glee, freedom, to go around the streets like that. And yet in my child’s heart I knew he was just a pitiful bum too, but there seemed to be something else attractive about being a pitiful outcast in a world where everybody strived to be acceptable and everybody boasted about going to church and confession and about the fact they were working . . . “Vien t en Ti Jean, cosse tu guard a se maudit foulla?” We arrived on Moody Street, the snow was only dusting and fanning along the sidewalks, it was a dry snow and had no chance to cling and start piling yet, in fact all the stars were showing over the telegraph wires of tenemented Moody so we knew it wasnt going to snow much more. “Ont lara teutben pas d neige pour Nole, Ti Nin.” Lambert’s market across the street was one golden light, inside there was Mr. Lambert himself standing in the back at the butcher log with huge meat hackers cutting up golden meats for the ladies of Pawtucketville. Out front, in the snow, beautiful evergreens stood leaning against the paned glass windows with boys standing around in muffcaps selling them. The street was crowded and joyous. Blazon’s candy store had a larger than usual gang standing in front laughing and smoking and talking: they were all there: Vic Sawyer, Vic Albert, Mike Houde, Pete Houde, the lot, pretty soon they’d amble into the club across the street (where now my father was scowling over the ledgers) and get in a little bowling. “What ye say Madame Kerouac!” called Pete Houde gayly from the corner. “Allo Pete!” “How’s the old Xmas tree?” “O we’re just going over to Lambert’s now to buy one!” “I reckon Ti Jean is gonna help you put it up, hey what?” “O sure!” And my sister grinned quietly, all the drugstore cowboys were looking at her as usual. We waited at the corner as a big yellow bus with Moody St written on it swirled up growling in the snow stopped, discharged local people, and went on up the hill of Moody to the end of the line where sad white birch leaned together on the fields that led to Dracut and the dense woods beyond. I thought of all that snow and white birch out there tonight and wished I was taking one of my usual long walks in blizzards. Rubber Hoyle came prowling by, through with his baseball bat work in the cellar, head bowed, as the boys yelled at him from the corner “Hey Rubber, I bet I hit 400 next spring!” “You hit 400 and I’ll sign you up, Vic!” “I hit more homeruns than Hank Greenberg this year!” “You’d have to play 154 games to do that boy!” “Where you goin now Rubber?” And Rubber, thin smile, answered not, and bent on to his goal, which was probably a hot stove league discussion somewhere downtown . . . We went inside the grocery store and my mother bought groceries and then went in back for the meat, for ham and chops and various cuts. Mr. Lambert’s huge rosy face exuded joy over the dead hanks of beef. Great sausages were twirled around behind the glass case. His assistant went in and out of the great ice box with the wooden door: inside were hanging beefs like Rembrandt’s gory and splashed with blood. Sawdust on the floor. And in the back room the smell of pickle barrels and of deeper herrings and sorrows back there where I always imagined Mr. Lambert’s old father must be sitting counting gold coins in a little corner by a candle . . .

  Ti Jean Kerouac that strange little boy standing in the golden butcher shop with his mother and sister, staring at meats. Wondering about the cat in the backroom, the butcher shop cat, that mangy scrounger, seen leaping up on a bag of potatoes to lick his tail, all gray and ragged and I wonder what Kewpie would say. Looking up at the ads for hams in cans, at the decorations for Xmas hanging over the counters, all the laughing people in the store with their snow rosy cheeks, the big fat mothers, the boxes everywhere with the familiar names of families scrawled on the sides . . . “Morrissette . . . Noval . . . Rondeau . . . Beaulieu . . . Salvas . . . Blazon . . . Demarchais.” Mr. Lambert wrapt up our goods in nice thick sleek paper with little grains of brown in them and my mother dumped that in her shopping bag, we got apples, Lemon and Lime in quart bottles (“That’s for our ward eights tonight,” she said, meaning the drinks Pa mixed with gin) and we went back to the cold corner where the fresh trees gave off that wintergreen gum smell and we examined the trees. “S lui la ye trop skinny” said my mother. She wanted a nice full fat tree, like anybody else sensible. We picked it out and I took it by the wood bottom and Nin grabbed a hold of the top part where we’d stick the star, and off we marched home and down Gershom, past the club where we could hear all the alleys roaring as the bowlers got going for another night of smoke and roaring. We ducked slightly at the little sidewalk level window just to see Pa through the iron grates sitting there in his little office with the candy for sale in glass cases, talking to a bunch of the boys, counting the till, frowning, smoking. My mother knocked but he didnt hear in all the racket. I could see beyond in the gloom the great bent bodies of poolsharks tensely ready for the break. We went on home with the tree. “Leve les un peu, tu l drag dans rue.” We got home and carried it proudly into the parlor, turned on all the lights, the cat came out to smell the tree, and Ma and Nin went upstairs to unpack the annual box of tree decorations. My mother came down also with the portrait of dead brother Gerard she had hung on her wall and said “T S tanne mon faire un beau ti coin pour Gerard dans salle, drette contre laube, avec des fleurs pi un tite chandelle.” On a wall shelf deep in the parlor too was the statue of Ste Terese I had seen a thousand times in my dreams turning her head to look at me, with her huge crucifix and flowers across her arms, the inexpressibly sad face. “On peu mettre ca contre son potra. Ben aright, mes c’est ta right la.” We already had the green tree holder ready and as I held it by the middle Ma and Nin got down on the floor and eased it in and tightened the screws from the side and pretty soon after a little maneuvering it was straight up, a great bare green tree in the room. Suddenly I realized what glee it was to be in the house decorating the tree as the cat watched, to be alone with Ma and Nin occupied in such a tender and innocent concern, I felt that strange
shiver in my chest I always felt when I became completely happy. They were happy and smiling and delighted, they’d bought a new set of balls to hang and all kinds of new tinsels and they were taking them out of their boxes with oohs and aaahs. They started to lay the long streamers of red and blue paper snake around the tree and then they began carefully tying on the colored balls and then my mother got on a chair and put up the star, my favorite star, right at the top. Then came the business of the colored bulbs and their wires and plugging it in in the unattainable plug behind the piano. Finally it was looking very pretty. Un beau arbre fattez pis rond. Then the misty business of hanging the tinsels, till finally the tree looked like it was hanging with icicles. Then my mother arranged the ikon of Gerard with flower and an ikon candle and to see the whole effect we put out the parlor light and looked at it and all said “Ahhhhh.” It was so beautiful, reddy-blue, dim, pretty with all kinds of little dancing lights and colors, and the shrine of Gerard was the most beautiful thing we’d ever done for Ma. Ma Ste Terese contre lui la, I said. Mais pourquoi Ste Terese, you pas d place anyway la. Ti Nin seriously went behind the tree to hang more tinsel, she was all bemused in her work. I loved her sometimes because she was so simple and piously so. Nothing fancy. “Ten garde ta tite soeur Ti Nin, la, tu we comme quay fin?” “Oui.” “Al larrange sa toute beau la, pour tue ca. Fausshe toi peu pu avec yelle asteur.” “Oui pi volle pu mon cremel.” “Ouit ti bi di!” I cried sweeping up Kewpie and holding him up to see the tree and letting him put his little moist nose against the biggest reddest shiniest ball. He stared at himself in it with his huge nose and pearshaped profile. He wanted to reach out and grab a tinsel. In fact when I put him down on the rug he did grab a few tinsels and slapped off a ball and chased it in the hall. I neige tu encore? We looked outside, still snowing, it swept in a wordless shroud across the arc of the lamp. Already many of the windows of the homes on Gershom and Sarah were red and blue and green with Xmas tree lights. It was a great night. Now Ti Nin and Ma went in the kitchen yakking happily over their accomplishment and cooked up some cocoa as I sat on the couch, lights out, staring at my tree and my shrine. That day Ti Nin had gone to the library to get books and they were piled there on the couch. I took the first one, Roll River by James Boyd and decided (tho I’d never read an adult book yet in my life) to read it in its entirety in the easy chair right under Gerard’s picture. I moved the chair a little closer, sat down, and began to read by the flickering candle and the tree lights. Immediately I was lost in a great new world I never dreamed existed, up until then I’d always read just fairy tales and cowboy and detective magazines. Here all of a sudden was a serious sunshiny morning in the South and the man was driving a spanking pair of bays with little flicks of his whip, he owned a mansion, there were tragedies in the air, there was a great river rolling, I knew I would finish it all. Ma was standing in the door looking at me fondly. “Ten, gard Ti Nin, Ti Jean, ya ime assez son potra de Gerard qui sassi entour pi i lit.” By and by Bea, Cousin Bea, came in and they all sat around the kitchen table and yakked and I went on reading and suddenly I looked up from my book, stared at Terese to see if she would move her head, which she slightly did, with that slight sighing turn of statues, and then I looked at Gerard and he nodded slowly at me with his saintly, pale face and blue eyes, and then I looked at the star above the tree and it sat there majestically swelling and I knew this would be the happiest Xmas of my life. After Bea Shabby came. Shabby was a great quiet truckdriving French Canadian who lived down the street and was divorced but a little stuck on Bea (who was a widow), they always met at our house, the house began to fill up, a couple of Ti Nin’s chums came in stomping from the snow and whooping in the kitchen so I decided my quiet meditation was over and put on my jacket and went down to the club to bowl a string or see who was there and maybe come home with Pa.