The Empty Chair

by Bruce Wagner

  When I reached the end of Big Sur—“Sea: Sounds of the Pacific Ocean at Big Sur,” the great heretical coda—when I finished reading that end-poem, awash in the Term Term Klerm Kerm Kurn Cow Kow Cash Cluck and Clock of it, oh what a staggering thing it is!—which, by the way, like wine and wafer, is no representation of Jack, but the very blood, body and brain of him, in those stanzas the man truly dug his own deathless, unintelligible, operatic, watery grave—when I got finis with Sur, I went straight to the Internet and found a website for the estate of Neal Cassady. And there it was . . . a real-time contact for Carolyn! I have no memory of the emotions that compelled me to send what I believed at the time to be a short, sweet, wryly seductive e-note. It was late, and I was actually here—at the hermitage—of course I was, on a star-tossed mercilessly typical Big Sur night. After firing off my communiqué, I went outside and stripped naked, delirious with joy, got my skin tasered by stellar wind while listening to the rapturous offstage massacre of waves being their usual demure, assassin selves—warriors unlike Arjuna, with never a moment of doubt.

  Within an hour, I received a reply.

  From her . . .

  I was stunned out of my skin. Gob-smacked, as Carolyn would say, for she’d written back from England, where she made her home. ’Twas mid-morningtide in Blighty.

  Now please keep in mind I had just finished that wonder of a book in which Carolyn is portrayed as “Evelyn” and I had a bit of a—no, I had a massive crush on the gal I came to know as the fag hag Iron Lady. So, I write back and she writes me and before you know it we are corresponding. Her emails sounded young, Bruce, young, smart and with it, and suddenly I get paranoid. As if maybe I’m unwittingly participating in some kind of Web thing someone wrote code for, you know, being duped by a promotional goof the publishers use to hawk new editions of The First Third or Off the Road (fag hag Iron Lady’s memoir)—half of me thinks I might be playing the fool for one of these newfangled interactive artificial intelligence ad campaigns getting written up in Wired. Remember too that in the initial throes of it, I was most likely drunk and had probably smoked a little, partaken of the chronic as my younger friends would say . . . plus, I’d just finished this glorious, glorious book and was so full of the Beats I was practically the fifth Beatle! I was horny for them, and lo and behold there I am having a sudden chat-fest, basically flirting with Neal Cassady’s wife! In my mind she’s not even his widow, all of them are still alive, and it’s all happening now—like something out of Philip K. Dick! But I’m still paranoidly thinking, you know, uhm, okay, if this isn’t some slick viral campaign then maybe someone hacked into the website, it’s a rogue program merely drone-responding to the pathetic battalion of geeks that have Roman candle crushes on “Carolyn Cassady”—who’s long dead. Of course! She’s dead! What was I thinking! I was swooning so hard, I hadn’t even bothered to check if she was still alive . . . all I had was a “contact” proving otherwise. I’d been “corresponding” with a rudimentary A.I. program that held up its end of the conversation with sad, schmucky groupies before eventually diarrhea-ing the humiliating contents all over the Web. Because how could it be possible that the real Carolyn Cassady, a wizened old woman, got it up for emailing—immediately responding—to strangers?

  This went on for a month or so. (The Internet informed that Mrs. Cassady was alive and well.) I didn’t mean to imply there was anything sexual about it, of course there wasn’t, not that I didn’t feel sexual, Lord, I had a hard-on whenever I wrote her! Nope, nothing remotely immodest, in terms of content. I’m sure she sent the same incisive, vivacious emails to other fans but no one could take away from me what I considered to be fact: I was now, by definition—mine!—having a ménage à quatre with Neal, Carolyn and Jack. I’d have been the Ginsberg in the group. See, the miracle of Jack is that, from everything I know, from everything I intuit, he was a mess, and a not too friendly one. Kerouac was drawn to women but was so awkward around them, so deeply uncomfortable, so needy and nasty that he was a faggot by default. He was really kind of an alien, an extraterrestrial. The way he treated his poor daughter Jan! Shitting on her when she came to visit that first time—that only time?—she was just a kid!—disowning her to the end, can you imagine the pain of that young girl? Jesus, it’d have been more merciful if he’d killed her with his own hands. Both those boys—Jack Sundance and the Cassady Kid—had serious mommy issues. Ti Jean’s trouble was that he always felt like he was cheating on his mother. Gabrielle was his enduring love, his true wife. And Neal, well, the minute he got a gal pregnant, the minute she became a mom, he’d have to marry her on the spot, even if he was already married to someone else! Gotta do right by Mom! R-e-s-p-e-c-t. (Find out what it means to me.) Neal liked pimping his women—wives—Moms!—to Jack (to an extent). And the only real way Jack got off was sleeping with women who were “taken.” That was the pathology. You don’t need to be a therapist to figure that one out. Incest ruled the day. I’ve always thought of Carolyn as the Mother Superior of the Beats . . . Mother Superior—that says it all, don’t it?

  After a few months, the emails tapered off. Carolyn was pushing 80. I started to worry that her health might be an issue. So I resolved to do something bold. I decided to travel to England to meet my pen pal. Why not? Money wasn’t a problem; anyway, I’d always wanted to visit the Lake District and see where Wordsworth and Coleridge hung out. Wordsworth was born in Cockermouth, imagine being a homophobe and living there! But I was actually thinking in historical terms, literary history mind you, albeit minor literary history, and my idea was to write a piece about the whole experience for a journal or a magazine. The notion of how we met and my flying over to meet her struck me as just the sort of thing that might also be turned into a wonderful little independent film. So I wrote to her and said that it happened I was going to be in the Commonwealth—I never told her that she was the only reason I was coming—and would she be amenable to receiving a visitor? She said she would and that was that.

  Have you seen photos of her? I mean, when she was younger? They’re in all the Beat biographies. There aren’t so many, nothing “iconic,” she wasn’t really a looker. I think probably no one really wanted to take her picture, she was kind of a Debbie Downer. A pain-in-the-ass snob with a stick up her ass. There’s nothing worse than a dumb snob, and prudish to boot. It seems like the same few photos are reprinted, over and over. She always looks like she had gas or was being forced to watch dogs copulate—that would be Jack and Neal! Or Neal and Allen. Or Allen and Jack. What stands out the most, in the shots I’ve seen, is her male energy. She looks stern, almost mannish. Which makes total sense, knowing all we know now. Of course the Bell’s palsy didn’t help the overall look.

  When I called from London to confirm our appointment, I was beside myself. Welcome to Phil Dick’s Match-dot-com! It was the first time I’d actually heard Carolyn’s voice. She pleasantly offered directions to her place. She said she knew nothing about the “motorways” and the only route she could recommend was the approach from Windsor Castle. Which I thought was apt, because she was royalty—it didn’t matter that everyone but Neal thought she was a pill and a sonofabitch. She was still the Queen and always would be. And boy, did she let you know it!

  She came to the door like a movie legend expecting her biographer, a cross between Barbara Stanwyck—there it was, that male, Stanwyck energy—and Doris Day (the latter-day Doris, the one I’ve seen in pictures with her doggies in Carmel Valley). She had a throwaway elegance, an aggressively pretentious modesty, as if her role model was Queen Elizabeth in those “rugged” shots in the Land Rover at Balmoral. After all, Carolyn had decades of experience being the grail, or the next best thing anyway, for thousands of fanboys like myself. She’d outlived her men, and in direct bloodline to the gods, had gained immortality herself—

  She asked me in for “a cuppa and nibbles” and it wasn’t long before she turned on the poison spigot. I’m no Kipling, but I’ll do my best to
give you a flavor . . .

  [A hilarious impersonation of an American dowager followed, his voice taking on a sporadic, contrived “English” inflection] “By the time Neal was with the Pranksters, he just wanted to die. The trouble was, he no longer believed in suicide. His religion was against it. So he rolled busses, he kept ‘rolling’ busses. I told Kesey it was terrible what was going on but he didn’t want to hear it—Kesey stopped talking to me. They all stopped talking to me, heaven knows why. One day Neal showed up at my house without shoes, looking dreadful. I said, ‘Why are you still with Kesey?’ and Neal said, ‘Honey, people look at me and expect me to perform.’

  “Allen was very close to my son. And Allen was lovely—for a time. But around 10 years before he died, he decided he wanted nothing to do with me. We named my son John Allen, after Jack and Allen. When John was a boy, he loved playing with Allen. When Allen was dying, John asked me what he should do because it’d been quite some time since they’d spoken. I said, ‘Call him!’ So John did and the person on the other end said, ‘You know, Allen would have loved to talk to you but he’s in a coma now.’ I’d go see Allen before he decided not to talk to me, he was in London all the time. He’d come for a reading or to do this or that, see one person or the other, and I’d go see him whenever he needed a pair of hands—he loved applause. He even went to Venice on a stretcher because they were giving him some kind of an award. As long as Allen was being honored, he’d show up! I told him years ago, if you can’t learn to accept the plaudits for what they are, it’ll never be enough, you’ll never be able to get enough praise. Right up to the end he thought he was worthless. He thought he was worthless when he was young, and he thought as much right before he died.

  “Ferlinghetti decided to dislike me because I said his manager was ripping him off. He didn’t want to hear that. I was owed a lot of money and they finally paid something, like $500—they wrote me a check. I told him the fellow was stealing from him, but he liked the fellow and didn’t want to hear it. He’s got a different manager now. [He pretended I’d asked him a question] What do I think of whom? Joyce Johnson? Oh, her.3 She’s, well—ugh—I won’t get into that. They’re all whores and hangers-on. They slept with Jack once and all of them want to write about it. [Again, he pretended to be engaged by an invisible interlocutor] Who? Oh! That one always liked Burroughs—which probably explained why he stopped talking to me, and why I stayed away.”

  They all seemed to stay away from Dame Fag Hag Iron Lady! I’m really channeling that cunt . . . What else did we talk about? Allen Ginsberg’s visit to Ezra Pound in Italy—Ginsberg and Pound must have been hungry for a pair of hands, no doubt! And Peter Ackroyd. I’m not sure how Mr. Ackroyd came up, but dear Carolyn had an opinion!

  “Oh yes, he’s a wonderful biographer. I used to stay in his house in London whenever I was in the city. He’s written some marvelous books—the big one about Dickens—that’s the one he’s known for—I haven’t read the last few—he stopped drinking and now he’s so fat. We don’t talk anymore, I used to know why, but I can’t remember just now. Don’t care, really . . .

  “Joyce Johnson and I do not speak. She’s jealous! My God, how those women lived! Sleeping around—with anyone. I never did that—

  “The fact is, I never liked most of their writing much—the Beats—none of them—never did. Jack wrote a few good ones. But you see, I went to Bennington. I was a discerning reader. I was disciplined, I had a classical education. Do you know that’s what Neal was seeking? Classicism and a traditional life. He wanted respectability. That was how he wanted to live and we did that. Neal was able to get along with people of all classes. And I had respectable friends. That was all Neal really wanted. Neal never had a mother. That’s what he was looking for in me.

  “I make good money now, they come and pick my house clean as a bone! I call them the ‘Archive People.’ The Archive People come and comb. And wow, do they know what they’re looking for. In one of my memoirs, I wrote about a book Jack liked, by Sri Au—Sri Audi-something—like the car—no, hold on, let me look . . . I’ve got one of his over here somewhere—Sri Aurobindo. I don’t know what the ‘Sri’ is all about, maybe it’s supposed to be ‘sir’ but someone got dyslexic. He was a sage, from India, one of those holy men who appealed to Jack. I wrote somewhere that Jack made notes in the margins of books—even I forgot, but the Archive People didn’t! They asked me if I still had it and I said I didn’t know so they came over and we looked, and they found it. O there’s quite a market! I sold a sticker, and this was a tiny ‘Can You Pass the Acid Test?’ signed by Neal, I think I got 75,000 after commission. You know, that was the little diploma they used to give . . . or maybe I got the 75 before commission. Gave it all to my son, told him to use it, because he was destitute. Don’t wait till I’m dead, I told him. See, he’s out there selling cars and no one’s buying.

  “My money manager invests everything and my account is getting fat. There’s a Swedish rock star, the Elvis of his country. A friend told me she’d been to one of his concerts. She said that, behind him, right onstage, was an enormous picture of yours truly. Because this Swedish Elvis was influenced by Jack and everybody and even wrote some books, about ten, that became bestsellers over there. My friend saw that picture and said, ‘Carolyn, you should be making money off that.’ So I rang up the singer and said, ‘You need to pay me NOW.’ So we made a deal where he printed up a few hundred of these things and we both signed them and I’d get the money. But he was dragging his feet. I looked at his schedule and said, ‘Well I see you’re going to be in Stockholm. Wouldn’t that be a good place to meet up?’ So we did. And while we’re signing the posters, he asked if I wanted to go to his concert—they’re booked for years in advance—and I said, ‘Sure, can I bring a few friends?’ I wound up bringing a whole crowd! He announced me from the stage. There I was in the VIP section and 25,000 people roared and turned their heads to look at me. I asked my friend if she got a picture of all those people’s heads turning and she said, ‘No, Carolyn, I was taking a picture of you.’ The next day I was told that when it was announced that I was in the stadium, it was like some kind of religious experience for the audience. I said, ‘Well, if it was a religious experience for them, what do you think it was like for me?’ Anyway, we signed the posters but I started to think those things were probably going to take a long time to sell. I mentioned that to the Swedish Elvis and he told me to ring up his man, to settle the accounts. When I got the fellow on the line, he said, ‘Would you like it all in one? Or in two?’ One lump or two. I said, ‘Let me have it all in one.’ They cut me a check right there, for 18,000 pounds. O, the world is having a tough time, but not me!

  “I always felt shy and worthless. Didn’t get over it till I was 65—that’s how long it took for me to speak in front of crowds. Because, of course, I was invited all the time. Ginsberg was just needy. At least I knew why I felt worthless. It was because my brothers molested me when I was 10. Took me 55 years to get over . . .

  “Jack wrote Big Sur up in Larry’s cabin. And I’m in the book. A few years ago, some people made a documentary about it. They interviewed me for an hour-and-a-half but I was in the movie about two seconds. When I finally watched it, I almost fell asleep. Had to pinch myself it was so boring. They filmed me walking on the beach but it was the wrong beach. Why, I don’t know. I told them it was wrong but they didn’t seem to care. I guess they were going to fake it. But what’s the point of faking it if you’re making a documentary? That cabin isn’t even up there anymore. In Bixby Canyon. It’s a posh home now. There are a few buildings or whatnot where it used to be—but nothing in that film is authentic. I just don’t understand why people avoid facts! There I was walking down the wrong beach . . . and everyone they decided to put in the movie was so full of opinions. You see, I don’t have ‘opinions,’ I have knowledge. Jack wrote to me that he had to write that book. He felt good about it. The one thing I liked about that documentary w
as they flew me out from New York on EOS. I don’t think it exists anymore but it was all First Class—the only way to travel. My son met me there and we had a fabulous day in New York. Then we took the train to California and it was horrid.”

  One day at San Quentin—she’d been doing her thing up there, and had managed to extend her sabbatical another six months—they told Kelly that a prisoner from the East Block had requested study time. The East Block is Death Row. Kelly thought that was a good omen. The great Buddhist teachers had always said the dharma was best practiced in the shadow of death-awareness. What better a pupil than one on Death Row?

  It took some wrangling between the prison and the ACLU because the powers that be weren’t all that excited about the prospect of “Dead man meditating!” It was a control trip, that’s all. A few months went by . . . my wife didn’t have a clue what was going on. Then a friendly soul at the ACLU called to say their argument was a constitutional slam-dunk and the warden had capitulated.

  Kelly told everyone she didn’t want to know the man’s crime or even his last name. “Half are probably innocent, anyway” was what she said to me. The prisoner was brought to a special room with a glass partition. (In her usual jail class, there were sometimes half a dozen inmates, and a guard but no barriers.) She described the condemned charge as “big and rough, sort of handsome, darty paranoid eyes, bookish glasses, big head of grayish Brillo pad hair, biker moustache.” His name was Ricky. The first thing he wanted to learn about was the Noble Truths. When he pronounced “noble” as in Nobel Prize, Kelly was touched. She said his nervousness was poignant; it’d probably been a while since he’d seen a woman, let alone spoken to one. Kelly was certain this kind of teaching would strengthen her own practice.