by Jack Kerouac
But a week later I take Memère into San Francisco to let her ride the cable cars and eat in Chinatown and buy toys in Chinatown and I have her wait for me in the big Catholic church on Columbus while I rush to the Place, Cody’s hangout, to see if I can recoup that $10 from him. By God there he is sipping a beer, playing chess with “The Beard.” He looks surprised but he knows I want my ten bucks. He cashes a twenty at the bar and pays me and then even comes with me to meet Memère in the church. As we walk in he kneels and does the sign of the Cross, as I do, and Memère turns to see us do that. She realizes Cody and I are fatal lovely friends who are not bad boys at all.
So three days later as I’m kneeling on the floor unpacking a crate of advance copies of my novel Road which is all about Cody and me and Joanna and big Slim Buckle, and Memère’s at the store so I’m alone in the house, I look up as a golden light appears in the porch door silently: and there stands Cody, Joanna (golden blonde beauty), big tall Slim Buckle, and behind them the midget 4:2 inch Jimmy Low (known not as a “midget” at all but simply Jimmy, or as Deni Bleu calls him, “A Little Man”). We all stare at one another in the golden light. Not a sound. I’m also caught red handed (as we all grin) with a copy of Road in my hands even before I’ve looked at it for the first time! I automatically hand one to Cody who is after all the hero of the poor crazy sad book. It’s one of the several occasions in my life when a meeting with Cody seems to be suffused with a silent golden light, as I’ll show another later, altho I dont even know what it means, unless it means that Cody is actually some kind of angel or archangel come down to this world and I recognize it. A fine thing to say in this day and age! And especially with the wild life he was now leading that was going to end in tragedy in six months, as I’ll tell in a minute—A fine thing to be talking about angels in this day when common thieves smash the holy rosaries of their victims in the street … When the highest ideals on earth are based on the month and the day of some cruel bloody revolution, nay when the highest ideals are simply new reasons for murdering and despoiling people—And Angels? Since we’ve never seen an angel what angel do you mean? But it was Christ said “Since you’ve never seen my Father then how can you know’ my Father?”
81
Ah yes, maybe I’m wrong and all the Christian, Islamic, Neo Platonist, Buddhist, Hindu, and Zen Mystics of the world were wrong about the transcendental mystery of existence but I dont think so—Like the thirty birds who reached God and saw themselves reflected in His Mirror. The thirty Dirty Birds, those 970 of us birds who never made it across the Valley of Divine Illumination did really make it anyway in Perfection—So now let me explain about poor Cody, even tho I’ve already told most of his story. He is a believer in life and he wants to go to Heaven but because he loves life so he embraces it so much he thinks he sins and will never see Heaven—He was a Catholic altar boy as I say even when he was bumming dimes for his hopeless father hiding in alleys. You could have ten thousand cold eyed Materialistic officials claim they love life too but can never embrace it so near sin and also never see Heaven—They will contemn the hot-blooded lifelover with their cold papers on a desk because they have no blood and therefore have no sin? No! They sin by lifelessness! They are the ogres of Law entering the Holy Realm of Sin! Ah, I’ve got to explain myself without essays and poems—Cody had a wife whom he really loved, and three kids he really loved, and a good job on the railroad. But when the sun went down his blood got hot:—hot for old lovers like Joanna, for old pleasure like marijuana and talk, for jazz, for the gayety that any respectable American wants in a life growing more arid by the year in Law Ridden America. But he did not hide his desire and cry Dry! He went all out. He filled his car with friends and booze and pot and batted around looking for ecstasy like some fieldworker on a Saturday night in Georgia when the moon cools the still and guitars are twangin down the hill. He came from sturdy Missouri stock that walked on strong feet. We’ve all seen him kneel sweating praying to God! When we went to San Francisco that day whole cordons of police were surrounding the streets of North Beach looking for crazy people like him. Somehow by some miracle we walked with pockets full of bottles and pot right thru them, laughing with girls, with little Jimmy, to parties, to bars, to jazz cellars. I couldnt understand what the cops were doing! Why werent they looking for murderers and robbers? When I once suggested this to a policeman who stopped us because I was flagging my buddy’s car back with a railroad lamp so there’d be no accidents anywhere the policeman said “You’ve got quite an imagination, havent you?” (meaning I might be a murderer or robber myself.) I’m no such thing and neither is Cody, you have to be DRY to be those things! You have to HATE life to kill it and rob it!
82
But enough about California for now—I later had adventures in Big Sur down there that were really horrible and only as horrible as you get when you get older and your last moment impels you to test all, to go mad, just to see what the Void’ll do—Suffice it to say that when Cody said goodbye to all of us that day he for the first time in our lives failed to look me a goodbye in the eye but looked away shiftylike—I couldnt understand it and still dont—I knew something was bound to be wrong and it turned out very wrong, he was arrested a few months later for possession of pot and spent two years sweeping out the cotton room in San Quentin tho I happen to know the real reason for this horrible ordeal in the real world is not because of having two cigarettes in his pocket (two bearded bluejeaned beatniks in a car saying “What’s the hurry kid?” and Cody says “Drive me down to the station real quick I’ll be late for my train”) (his driving license taken away for speeding) (“and I’ll give ya some pot for your trouble”) and they turn out to be disguised cops—The real reason aside from he didnt look in my eyes, was, I once saw him belt his daughter across the room in a chastising crying scene and that’s why his Karma devolved that way—Tit for Tat, and Jot for Tittle—Tho in two years Cody was about to become a greater man than ever as maybe he realizes all this—But, and, according to the laws of tit-for-tat what do I deserve myself?
83
Why, just a little ole earth quake—Memère and me ride Greyhound bus all the way back to Florida the same wretched way, the furniture behind us, and find a backporch apartment for a low rent and move in—The late afternoon sun beats mercilessly on the tin porch roof as I take a dozen cold baths a day sweating and dying—And also I get mad because my poor little nephew Lil Luke keeps eating my Pecan Sandy Cookies (as Kookie a reason for one of the great foggy mistakes of my life) so I ragingly crazy angry go and actually take a bus back to Mexico, to Brownsville, across at Matamoros, and down a day and a half to Mexico City again—But at least Memeè is well because at least she’s only two blocks away from my sister and sorta likes her porch apartment because it has a kitchen bar which she calls “Gabe’s Place”—And all you hearts who love life realize now that to love is to love—Tho I’m lost in the unutterable mental glooms of the 20th Century Scrivener of Soul Stories going down again to Gloom Mexico for no particular good reason—I always wanted to write a book to defend someone because it’s hard to defend myself, it’s an indefensible trip but maybe I’ll get to see old Gaines again—He’s not even there.
Ah you meerschaum merry thinking sad gentlemen in the London fog, and how’d it befall to you?—Gallows at dawn for a mean Magistrate with Wig of Doom?—I went to the old address to find Old Bull, the hole in his window was repaired, I climbed up the roof stairs to see my old room cell and the washer ladies—A young clean Spanish Woman had moved into my house and painted the walls whitewash new and sat there among laces talking to my old landlady to whom I said “Where is Mister Gaines?”—And in my inconceivable French head when she said “Señor Gaines se murio” I heard “Mister Gaines deathed himself”—But she means he’d died since I left—It’s a terrible thing to hear from the lips of human beings that a fellow sufferer has finally died, ogred time with his rash deed, ploughed space with his Dare and Died in spite of all logically spiritual injuncti
ons—Has cut out for good—Has taken that Honey-&-Milk Body out to God and didnt even write and tell you—Even the Greek cornerstore man said it, “Señor Gahr-va se murio”—He’d died up himself—He who cried to me and Irwin and Simon on the last day when we were running away to America and the World and for what?—So never again old Deathly Gaines riding cabs with me to Nowhere—And never instruct me again in the arts of Living and Dying—
84
So I go downtown and get an expensive hotel room to make up for it—But a sinister Marble Hotel it is—Now that Gaines’ gone away all Mexico City is a sinister Marble Hive—How we continue in this endless Gloom I’ll never know—Love, Suffer, and Work is the motto of my family (Lebris de Keroack) but seems I suffer more than the rest—Old Honeyboy Bill’s in Heaven for sure anyway—Only thing now is Where’s Jack Going?—Back to Florida or New York?—For further emptiness?—Old Thinker’s thought his last thought—I go to bed in my new hotel room and soon fall asleep anyway, what can I do to bring Gaines back to the dubious privilege of living?—He’s trying his best to bless me anyway but that night a Buddha’s born to Gina Lollobrigida and I hear the room creak, the door on the dresser creaks back and forth slowly, the walls groan, my whole bed weaves like I say “Where am I, at sea?” but I realize I’m not at sea but in Mexico City—Yet the hotel room is rocking like a ship—It’s a giant earthquake rocking Mexico—And how was dying, old buddy?—Easy?—I yell to myself “Encore un autre petrain!” (like the sea storm) and jump under the bed to protect myself against falling ceilings if any—Hurracan is whipping up to hit the Louisiana coast—The entire apartment building across the street from the post office on Calle Obregon is falling in killing everybody—Graves leer under Moon pines—It’s all over.
Later I’m back in New York sitting around with Irwin and Simon and Raphael and Lazarus, and now we’re famous writers more or less, but they wonder why I’m so sunk now, so unexcited as we sit among all our published books and poems, tho at least, since I live with Memère in a house of her own miles from the city, it’s a peaceful sorrow. A peaceful sorrow at home is the best I’ll ever be able to offer the world, in the end, and so I told my Desolation Angels goodbye. A new life for me.
About the Author
Jack Kerouac (1922–1969) was an American writer best known for his novel On the Road. Born in Lowell, Massachusetts, Kerouac attended Columbia University and then, during World War II, briefly served in the Merchant Marine and the US Navy. Along with his friends, including Allen Ginsberg, William Burroughs, and Neal Cassady, Kerouac was a key figure in the counterculture movement known as the Beat Generation. He wrote his first novel, The Town and the City, about his struggle to balance the expectations of his family with his unconventional life. Kerouac took several cross-country trips with Cassady, which became the basis for On The Road. The manuscript, which was presented to his editor on a single, unbroken roll of paper—the scroll was later exhibited to record crowds in Lowell—was initially rejected. Upon its publication six years later in 1957, Kerouac was faced with challenges resulting from his newfound fame as he tried to live up to the image portrayed in his novels and faced criticism from the literary establishment for being part of what was considered a fad. He published several more novels including Doctor Sax, The Subterraneans, The Dharma Bums, and his final great work, Big Sur. He settled with his mother and his wife, Stella Sampas, in Florida, where he died in 1969 at age forty-seven.
Kerouac’s popularity has not waned since his death. On The Road remains widely read, and a new film adaptation starring Garrett Hedlund and Kristen Stewart premiered at the 2012 Cannes Film Festival. Kerouac was named one of the most important figures of the twentieth century by Life magazine and the Times (London). Interest in Kerouac continues to grow with the publication of his letters, poetry, spiritual writings, early novels, and more from his remarkable literary archive. Countless writers and musicians, including the Doors, Bob Dylan, and Patti Smith, have cited Kerouac as an influence.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
A brief excerpt from this novel appeared in Evergreen Review under the title “Seattle Burlesque,” later reprinted in The Moderns: An Anthology of New Writing in America and in Holiday magazine. The lyrics appearing on page 90 are from “I’m Glad There Is You” by Paul Madeira and Jimmy Dorsey. Used by permission of the Copyright Owner, Morley Music Co., Inc. The lyrics appearing on page 91 are from “The Touch of Your Lips,” words in music by Ray Noble. Copyright © 1936 by Santly Bros.-Joy, Inc., assigned to Joy Music, Inc. Copyright renewed 1963 and assigned to Joy Music Inc., New York, NY.
Copyright © 1965 by Jack Kerouac
Copyright © renewed 1993 by Jan Kerouac
Cover design by Mauricio Díaz
ISBN: 978-1-5040-3401-2
This edition published in 2016 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
180 Maiden Lane
New York, NY 10038
www.openroadmedia.com
EARLY BIRD BOOKS
FRESH EBOOK DEALS, DELIVERED DAILY
BE THE FIRST TO KNOW—
NEW DEALS HATCH EVERY DAY!
EBOOKS BY JACK KEROUAC
FROM OPEN ROAD MEDIA
Available wherever ebooks are sold
Open Road Integrated Media is a digital publisher and multimedia content company. Open Road creates connections between authors and their audiences by marketing its ebooks through a new proprietary online platform, which uses premium video content and social media.
Videos, Archival Documents, and New Releases
Sign up for the Open Road Media newsletter and get news delivered straight to your inbox.
Sign up now at
www.openroadmedia.com/newsletters
FIND OUT MORE AT
WWW.OPENROADMEDIA.COM
FOLLOW US:
@openroadmedia and
Facebook.com/OpenRoadMedia
