Big Sur Page #2

making all that racket

down there?"

And the guy looks up,

and he says,

"You're the psychic,

buddy. You tell me. "

Did you write that?

No, I... I read it

in the paper.

Herb Caen wrote it.

Here's to Tyke.

I'll go give Lew a call.

Yeah, Lew, this is Phil.

Listen, I'm down

with Jack at the bar.

Why don't you come down?

Old Jack!

On the rocks, right?

Hey, buddy.

Hey.

Drinking any less?

Unless we're drinking.

That we are.

Can I get one of what

he's having, please?

Hey, go play a record

or something.

Right.

Who's the kid?

Kid I met named Paul Smith.

He's a little scared

of you, I think.

He's a little starstruck.

Yeah, apparently.

Janie.

Yeah, you know.

Cheers.

Didn't know you

were gonna be here.

Good to see you.

Welcome back.

I'm glad to be back.

We missed you.

I'm back.

So what are you doing back?

What are you doing here?

I been hanging out at Big Sur.

Really?

Yeah.

Lawrence sent me down there.

You know where in Big Sur?

How was that?

Paradise.

Wow.

Thank you.

I realized the

unbearable anguish of insanity.

Big ministers of states,

bishops walking around

with a dirty behind.

How uninformed people can

be thinking insane people are happy.

In America,

they have these racks

of dry-cleaned clothes,

like you see on trips.

And advertising firms with

their neckties and their...

Dinner.

A regular nuthouse actually

and just exactly the image

of what the journalists want to

say about the Beat Generation.

Nevertheless, a harmless and pleasant

arrangement for young bachelors

and a good idea

in the long run,

because you can rush

into any room

and find the expert,

like, say,

Philip's room, and ask...

He said go f*** yourself.

Make your mind like a wall.

Don't pant over

outside activities,

and don't bug me

with your outside plans.

Or you go running

into Lew Welch's room,

and there he is sitting

cross-legged on his mattress

on the floor

reading Jane Austen.

Ain't nothing but a well-cooked

beef and onion stew

that you let cool afterwards.

Then you throw in mushrooms

and lots of sour cream.

I'll come down and show you as

soon as I finish a chapter.

Or you go into Johnson's room

and ask if you can borrow

his tape recorder

because at the moment,

some funny things

are being said in the kitchen

by Michael McClure

and Lawrence Ferlinghetti.

There was Zen, jazz, booze,

pot and all the works,

but it was somehow obviated

as a supposedly degenerate idea

by the sight of a beatnik

carefully painting

the wall of his room

in clean white

with nice little red borders

around the door

and window frames.

Yeah?

Come on down, pal.

Let's go see Neal.

My God, what the hell

has happened?

There's nothing but

construction in the Valley now.

Looks like Los Angeles.

Yeah.

Population explosion's

gonna cover

every bit of backyard

dirt in America.

In fact, someday

they'll have to start

piling frigging levels

of houses and others...

I think I see a flying saucer

in the sky over Los Gatos.

It's five miles away.

Yeah. It's just the top

of a radio tower.

We're anxious

to see great Neal Cassady,

who was always

the major part of my reason

for journeying

to the West Coast.

I haven't seen Neal

for several years,

because mainly he just

spent two years in San Quentin

on a stupid charge

of possession of marijuana.

Neal actually loves his home,

paid for by rail road insurance

when he broke his leg trying to

stop a boxcar from crashing.

Loves his kids and especially

his little son,

Timmy John,

partly named after me.

And then there's Caroline.

She's got her mind

on other things

than taking care

of the children,

though all she really wants is to be alone

with me and talk about Neal Cassady,

which includes the fact

of Billie, his mistress,

who has threatened to take

Neal Cassady away completely.

In fact, I can see it now,

a great big

four-way marriage

with Neal and Caroline.

It is...

Hi, Caroline.

Hey, Jack.

All right, you guys

come by around 1:00

when the boss leaves,

and watch me work,

and keep me company

a while, all right,

before you go back to the city?

Okay?!

Yeah.

Neal doesn't like me drinking.

Yeah.

I don't like some of the

things Neal does either.

We all have our something.

Neal's little something

lives in San Francisco.

She might as well move in.

I'll be your something.

Yeah.

I always said

I had two husbands.

You could have picked me.

You're nobody's fool, Jack.

I can see in Neal's eyes

that he can see in my own

eyes the regret we both feel

that recently we haven't

had chances to talk

like we used to do

driving across America.

Oh. Incoming!

Whoo!

Lew Welch now realizes

why I've always

loved Neal Cassady.

Expecting to see

a bitter ex-con,

he sees instead a martyr

of the American night in goggles

in some dreary tire shop

at 2 A.M.

making fellows laugh with joy

with his funny explanations,

yet at the same time, to a performing every bit of the

work he's being paid for.

And then had been reenlisted

in the Army Reserves

in active duty for the

remainder of the war.

Retread.

My God, he can do all that,

then even explain it

while he's doing it.

Who wants to give it a try?

I'm good.

Come on, Jack.

We know both know

a little something

about retreading.

No, no, no.

I'm fine where I am.

Done!

Paul.

Neal really

loves me like a brother.

And more than that, he gets

annoyed at me sometimes,

especially when I fumble and

bumble like with a bottle.

Far from my clean cot

on the porch in Big Sur,

no blue jays yakking

for me to wake up anymore,

no gurgling creek.

Waking up the next morning,

groaning, of course,

but this is the big day

where we're going to visit

poor Albert Saijo at the

TB hospital in the Valley.

Lew perks me up right away

bringing coffee

or wine, optional.

Any drinker knows

how the process works.

The first day when you

get drunk is okay.

The morning after

means a big head,

but you can kill that easy

with a few more drinks

and a meal.

But if you pass up the meal

and go on

to another night's drunk

and wake up

to keep the toot going

and then continue on

the fourth day,

there will come a day when

drinks won't take effect,

because you're

chemically overloaded,

and you'll have to sleep it off,

but you can't sleep anymore,

because it was

the alcohol itself

that made you sleep

those last five nights.

So delirium sets in,

sleeplessness, sweats,

trembling,

a groaning feeling of weakness

where your arms

are numb and useless,

nightmares,

nightmares of death.

She's a nudist,

and, by God, she is

gonna practice it.

She's a big,

beautiful brunette

in the line of taste you

might attribute to every slaky,

hungry sex slave in the world,

but also is intelligent,

well-read, writes poetry,

a Zen student,

knows everything,

who is in fact just a big,

healthy, Romanian Jewess

who wants to marry

a good, hardy man

and go live

on a farm in the Valley.

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