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By Root 8897 0

” he said, sticking out his hand to Tom, who stared at him. “Yass, yass. Well, Sal old man, what’s the story, when do we take off for Mexico? Tomorrow afternoon? Fine, fine. Ahem! And now, Sal, I have exactly sixteen minutes to make it to Ed Dunkel’s house, where I am about to recover my old railroad watch which I can pawn on Larimer Street before closing time, meanwhile buzzing very quickly and as thoroughly as time allows to see if my old man by chance may be in Jiggs’ Buffet or some of the other bars and then I have an appointment with the barber Doll always told me to patronize and I have not myself changed over the years and continue with that policy—kaff! kaff! At six o‘clock sharp!—sharp, hear me?—I want you to be right here where I’ll come buzzing by to get you for one quick run to Roy Johnson’s house, play Gillespie and assorted bop records, an hour of relaxation prior to any kind of further evening you and Tim and Stan and Babe may have planned for tonight irrespective of my arrival which incidentally was exactly forty-five minutes ago in my old thirty-seven Ford which you see parked out there, I made it together with a long pause in Kansas City seeing my cousin, not Sam Brady but the younger one ...” And saying all these things, he was busily changing from his suitcoat to T-shirt in the living room alcove just out of sight of everyone and transferring his watch to another pair of pants that he got out of the same old battered trunk.

“And Inez?” I said. “What happened in New York?”

“Officially, Sal, this trip is to get a Mexican divorce, cheaper and quicker than any kind. I’ve Camille’s agreement at last and everything is straight, everything is fine, everything is lovely and we know that we are now not worried about a single thing, don’t we, Sal?”

Well, okay, I’m always ready to follow Dean, so we all bustled to the new set of plans and arranged a big night, and it was an unforgettable night. There was a party at Ed Dunkel’s brother’s house. Two of his other brothers are bus-drivers. They sat there in awe of everything that went on. There was a lovely spread on the table, cake and drinks. Ed Dunkel looked happy and prosperous. “Well, are you all set with Galatea now?”

“Yessir,” said Ed, “I am sure. I’m about to go to Denver U, you know; me and Roy.”

“What are you going to take up?”

“Oh, sociology and all that field, you know. Say, Dean gets crazier every year, don’t he?”

“He sure does.”

Galatea Dunkel was there. She was trying to talk to somebody, but Dean held the whole floor. He stood and performed before Shephard, Tim, Babe, and myself, who all sat side by side in kitchen chairs along the wall. Ed Dunkel hovered nervously behind him. His poor brother was thrust into the background. “Hup! hup!” Dean was saying, tugging at his shirt, rubbing his belly, jumping up and down. “Yass, well—we’re all together now and the years have rolled severally behind us and yet you see none of us have really changed, that’s what so amazing, the dura—the dura—bitity—in fact to prove that I have here a deck of cards with which I can tell very accurate fortunes of all sorts.” It was the dirty deck. Dorothy Johnson and Roy Johnson sat stiffly in a corner. It was a mournful party. Then Dean suddenly grew quiet and sat in a kitchen chair between Stan and me and stared straight ahead with rocky doglike wonder and paid no attention to anybody. He simply disappeared for a moment to gather up more energy. If you touched him he would sway like a boulder suspended on a pebble on the precipice of a cliff. He might come crashing down or just sway rocklike. Then the boulder exploded into a flower and his face lit up with a lovely smile and he looked around like a man waking up and said, “Ah, look at all the nice people that are sitting here with me. Isn’t it nice! Sal, why, like I was tellin Min just t‘other day, why, urp, ah, yes!” He got up and went across the room, hand outstretched to one of the bus-drivers in the party. “Howd’y‘do. My name is Dean Moriarty. Yes, I remember you well. Is everything all right? Well, well. Look at the lovely cake. Oh, can I have some? Just me? Miserable me?