6
In those days I didn’t know Dean as well as I do now, and the first thing I wanted to do was look up Chad King, which I, did. I called up his house, talked to his mother—she said, “Why, Sal, what are you doing in Denver?” Chad is a slim blond boy with a strange witch-doctor face that goes with his interest in anthropology and prehistory Indians, His nose beaks softly and almost creamily under a golden flare of hair; he has the beauty and grace of a Western hotshot who’s danced in roadhouses and played a little football. A quavering twang comes out when he speaks. “The thing I always liked, Sal, about the Plains Indians was the way they always got s‘danged embarrassed after they boasted the number of scalps they got. In Ruxton’s Life in the Far West there’s an Indian who gets red all over blushing because he got so many scalps and he runs like hell into the plains to glory over his deeds in hiding. Damn, that tickled me!”
Chad’s mother located him, in the drowsy Denver afternoon, working over his Indian basket-making at the. local museum. I called him there; he came and picked me up in his old Ford coupe that he used to take trips in the mountains, to dig for Indian objects. He came into the bus station wearing jeans and a big smile. I was sitting on my bag on the floor talking to the very same sailor who’d been in the Cheyenne bus station with me, asking him what happened to the blonde. He was so bored he didn’t answer. Chad and I got in his little coupe and the first thing he had to do was get maps at the State building. Then he had to see an old schoolteacher, and so on, and all I wanted to do was drink beer. And in the back of my mind was the wild thought, Where is Dean and what is he doing right now? Chad had decided not to be Dean’s friend any more, for some odd reason, and he didn’t even know where he lived.
“Is Carlo Marx in town?”
“Yes.” But he wasn’t talking to him any more either. This was the beginning of Chad King’s withdrawal from our general gang. I was to take a nap in his house that afternoon. The word was that Tim Gray had an apartment waiting for me up Colfax Avenue, that Roland Major was already living in it and was waiting for me to join him. I sensed some kind of conspiracy in the air, and this conspiracy lined up two groups in the gang: it was Chad King and Tim Gray and Roland Major, together with the Rawlinses, generally agreeing to ignore Dean Moriarty and Carlo Marx. I was smack in the middle of this interesting war.
It was a war with social overtones. Dean was the son of a wino, one of the most tottering bums of Larimer Street, and Dean had in fact been brought up generally on Larimer Street and thereabouts. He used to plead in court at the age of six to have his father set free. He used to beg in front of Larimer alleys and sneak the money back to his father, who waited among the broken bottles with an old buddy. Then when Dean grew up he began hanging around the Glenarm poolhalls; he set a Denver record for stealing cars and went to the reformatory. From the age of eleven to seventeen he was usually in reform school. His specialty was stealing cars, gunning for girls coming out of high school in the afternoon, driving them out to the mountains, making them, and coming back to sleep in any available hotel bathtub in town. His father, once a respectable and hardworking tinsmith, had become a wine alcoholic, which is worse than a whisky alcoholic, and was reduced to riding freights to Texas in the winter and back to Denver in the summer. Dean had brothers on his dead mother’s side—she died when he was small—but they disliked him. Dean’s only buddies were the poolhall boys. Dean, who had the tremendous energy of a new kind of American saint, and Carlo were the underground monsters of that season in Denver, together with the poolhall gang, and, symbolizing this most beautifully, Carlo had a basement apartment on Grant Street and we all met there many a night that went to dawn—Carlo, Dean, myself, Tom Snark, Ed Dunkel, and Roy Johnson. More of these others later.
My first afternoon in Denver I slept in Chad King’s room while his mother went on with her housework downstairs and Chad worked at the library. It was a hot high-plains afternoon in July. I would not have slept if it hadn’t been for Chad King’s father’s invention. Chad King’s father, a fine kind man, was in his seven-ties, old and feeble, thin and drawn-out, and telling stories with a slow, slow relish; good stories, too, about his boyhood on the North Dakota plains in the eighties, when for diversion he rode ponies bareback and chased after coyotes with a club. Later he became a country schoolteacher in the Oklahoma panhandle, and finally a businessman of many devices in Denver. He still had his old office over a garage down the street—the rolltop desk was still there, together with countless dusty papers of past excitement and moneymaking. He had invented a special air-conditioner. He put an ordinary fan in a window frame and somehow conducted cool water through coils in front of the whirring blades. The result was perfect—within four feet of the fan—and then the water apparently turned into steam in the hot day and the downstairs part of the house was just as hot as usual. But I was sleeping right under the fan on Chad’s bed, with a big bust of Goethe staring at me, and I comfortably went to sleep, only to wake up in twenty minutes freezing to death. I put a blanket on and still I was cold. Finally it was so cold I couldn’t sleep, and I went downstairs. The old man asked me how his invention worked. I said it worked damned good, and I meant it within bounds. I liked the man. He was lean with memories. “I once made a spot remover that has since been copied by big firms in the East. I’ve been trying to collect on that for some years now. If I only had enough money to raise a decent lawyer ...” But it was too late to raise a decent lawyer; and he sat in his house deject- edly. In the evening we had a wonderful dinner his mother cooked, venison steak that Chad’s uncle had shot in the mountains. But where was Dean?
7
The following ten days were, as W. C. Fields said, “fraught with eminent peril”—and mad. I moved in with Roland Major in the really swank apartment that belonged to Tim Gray’s folks. We each had a bedroom, and there was a kitchenette with food in the icebox, and a huge living room where Major sat in his silk dressing gown composing his latest Hemingwayan short story—a choleric, red-faced, pudgy hater of everything, who could turn on the warmest and most charming smile in the world when real life confronted him sweetly in the night. He sat like that at his desk, and I jumped around over the thick soft rug, wearing only my chino pants. He’d just written a story about a guy who comes to Denver for the first time. His name is Phil. His traveling companion is a mysterious and quiet fellow called Sam. Phil goes out to dig Denver and gets hung-up with arty types. He comes back to the hotel room. Lugubriously he says, “Sam, they’re here too.” And Sam is just looking out the window sadly. “Yes,” says Sam, “I know.” And the point was that Sam didn’t have to go and look to know this. The arty types were all over America, sucking up its blood. Major and I were great pals; he thought I was the farthest thing from an arty type. Major liked good wines, just like Hemingway. He reminisced about his recent trip to France. “Ah, Sal, if you could sit with me high in the Basque country with a cool bottle of Poignon Dix-neuf, then you’d know there are other things besides boxcars.”
“I know that. It’s just that I love boxcars and I love to read the names on them like Missouri Pacific, Great Northern, Rock Island Line. By Gad, Major, if I could tell you everything that happened to me hitching here.”
The Rawlinses lived a few blocks away. This was a delightful family—a youngish mother, part owner of a decrepit, ghost-town hotel, with five sons and two daughters. The wild son was Ray Rawlins, Tim Gray’s boyhood buddy. Ray came roaring in to get me and we took to each other right away. We went off and drank in the Colfax bars. One of Ray’s sisters was a beautiful blonde called Babe—a tennis-playing, surf-riding doll of the West. She was Tim Gray’s girl. And Major, who was only passing through Denver and doing so in real style in the apartment, was going out with Tim Gray’s sister Betty. I was the only guy without a girl. I asked everybody, “Where’s Dean?” They made smiling negative answers.
Then finally it happened. The phone rang, and it was Carlo Marx. He gave me the address of his basement apartment. I said, “What are you doing in Denver? I mean what are you doing? What’s going on?”
“Oh, wait till I tell you.”
I rushed over to meet him. He was working in May’s department store nights; crazy Ray Rawlins called him up there from a bar, getting janitors to run after Carlo with a story that somebody had died. Carlo immediately thought it was me who had died. And Rawlins said over the phone, “Sal’s in Denver,” and gave him my address and phone.
“And where is Dean?”
“Dean is in Denver. Let me tell you.” And he told me that Dean was making love to two girls at the same time, they being Marylou, his first wife, who waited for him in a hotel room, and Camille, a new girl, who waited for him in a hotel room. “Between the two of them he rushes to me for our own unfinished business.”
“And what business is that?”
“Dean and I are embarked on a tremendous season together. We’re trying to communicate with absolute honesty and absolute completeness everything on our minds. We’ve had to take benzedrine. We sit on the bed, crosslegged, facing each other. I have finally taught Dean that he can do anything he wants, become mayor of Denver, marry a millionairess, or become the greatest poet since Rimbaud. But he keeps rushing out to see the midget auto races. I go with him. He jumps and yells, excited. You know, Sal, Dean is really hung-up on things like that.” Marx said “Hmm” in his soul and thought about this..
“What’s the schedule?” I said. There was always a schedule in Dean’s life.
“The schedule is this: I came off work a half-hour ago. In that time Dean is balling Marylou at the hotel and gives me time to change and dress. At one sharp he rushes from Marylou to Camitle—of course neither one of them knows what’s going on—and bangs her once, giving me time to arrive at one-thirty. Then he comes out with me—first he has to beg with Camille, who’s already started hating me—and we come here to talk till six in the morning. We usually spend more time than that, but it’s getting awfully complicated and he’s pressed for time. Then at six he goes back to Marylou—and he’s going to spend all day tomorrow running around to get the necessary papers for their divorce. Marylou’s all for it, but she insists on banging in the interim. She says she loves him—so does Camille.”
Then he told me how Dean had met Camille. Roy Johnson, the poolhall boy, had found her in a bar and took her to a hotel; pride taking over his sense, he invited the whole gang to come up and see her. Everybody sat around talking with Camille. Dean did nothing but look out the window. Then when everybody left, Dean merely looked at Camille, pointed at his wrist, made the sign “four” (meaning he’d be back at four), and went out. At three the door was locked to Roy Johnson. At four it was opened to Dean. I wanted to go right out and see the madman. Also he had promised to fix me up; he knew all the girls in Denver.
Carlo and I went through rickety streets in the Denver night. The air was soft, the stars so fine, the promise of every cobbled alley so great, that I thought I was in a dream. We came to the rooming house where Dean haggled with Camille. It was an old red-brick building surrounded by wooden garages and old trees that stuck up from behind fences. We went up carpeted stairs. Carlo knocked; then he darted to the back to hide; he didn’t want Camille to see him. I stood in the door. Dean opened it stark naked. I saw a brunette on the bed, one beautiful creamy thigh covered with black lace, look up with mild wonder.
“Why, Sa-a-al!” said Dean. “Well now—ah—ahem—yes, of course, you’ve arrived—you old sonumbitch you finally got on that old road. Well, now, look here—we must—yes, yes, at once—we must, we really must! Now Camille—” And he swirled on her. “Sal is here, this is my old buddy from New Yor-r-k, this is his first night in Denver and it’s absolutely necessary for me to take him out and fix him up with a girl.”
“But what time will you be back?”
“It is now” (looking at his watch) “exactly one-fourteen. I shall be back at exactly three-fourteen, for our hour of reverie together, real sweet reverie, darling, and then, as you know, as I told you and as we agreed, I have to go and see the one-legged lawyer about those papers—in the middle of the night, strange as it seems and as I tho-ro-ly explained.” (This was a coverup for his rendezvous with Carlo, who was still hiding.) “So now in this exact minute I must dress, put on my pants, go back to life, that is to outside life, streets and what not, as we agreed, it is now one-fifteen and time’s running, running—”
“Well, all right, Dean, but please be sure and be back at three.”
“Just as I said, darling, and remember not three but three-fourteen. Are we straight in the deepest and most wonderful depths of our souls, dear darling?” And he went over and kissed her several times. On the wall was a nude drawing of Dean, enormous dangle and all, done by Camille. I was amazed. Everything was so crazy.
Off we rushed into the night; Carlo joined us in an alley. And we proceeded down the narrowest, strangest, and most crooked little city street I’ve ever seen, deep in the heart of Denver Mexican-town. We talked in loud voices in the sleeping stillness. “Sal,” said Dean, “I have just the girl waiting for you at this very minute—if she’s off duty” (looking at his watch). “A waitress, Rita Bettencourt, fine chick, slightly hung-up on a few sexual difficulties which I’ve tried to straighten up and I think you can manage, you fine gone daddy you. So we’ll go there at once—we must bring beer, no, they have some themselves, and damn!” he said socking his palm. “I’ve just got to get into her sister Mary tonight. ”
“What?” said Carlo. “I thought we were going to talk.”
“Yes, yes, after.”
“Oh, these Denver doldrums!” yelled Carlo to the sky.
“Isn’t he the finest sweetest fel-low in the world?” said Dean, punching me in the ribs. “Look at him. Look at him!” And Carlo began his monkey dance in the streets of life as I’d seen him do so many times everywhere in New York.
And all I could say was, “Well, what the hell are we doing in Denver?”
“Tomorrow, Sal, I know where I can find you a job,” said Dean, reverting to businesslike tones. “So I’ll call on you, soon as I have an hour off from Marylou, and cut right into that apartment of yours, say hello to Major, and take you on a trolley (damn, I’ve no car) to the Camargo markets, where you can begin working at once and collect a paycheck come Friday. We’re really all of us bottomly broke. I haven’t had time to work in weeks. Friday night beyond all doubt the three of us—the old threesome of Carlo, Dean, and Sal—must go to the midget auto races, and for that I can get us a ride from a guy downtown I know....” And on and on into the night.
We got to the house where the waitress sisters lived. The one for me was still working; the sister that Dean wanted was in. We sat down on her couch. I was scheduled at this time to call Ray Rawlins. I did. He came over at once. Coming into the door, he took off his shirt and undershirt and began hugging the absolute stranger, Mary Bettencourt. Bottles rolled on the floor. Three o‘clock came. Dean rushed off for his hour of reverie with Camille. He was back on time. The other sister showed up. We all needed a car now, and we were making too much noise. Ray Rawlins called up a buddy with a car. He came. We all piled in; Carlo was trying to conduct his scheduled talk with Dean in the back seat, but there was too much confusion. “Let’s all go to my apartment!” I shouted. We did; the moment the car stopped there I jumped out and stood on my head in the grass. All my keys fell out; I never found them. We ran, shouting, into the building. Roland Major stood barring our way in his silk dressing gown.
“I’ll have no goings-on like this in Tim Gray’s apartment!”
“What?” we all shouted. There was confusion. Rawlins was rolling in the grass with one of the waitresses. Major wouldn’t let us in. We swore to call Tim Gray and confirm the party and also invite him. Instead we all rushed back to the Denver downtown hangouts. I suddenly found myself alone in the street with no money. My last dollar was gone.
I walked five miles up Colfax to my comfortable bed in the apartment. Major had to let me in. I wondered if Dean and Carlo were having their heart-to-heart. I would find out later. The nights in Denver are cool, and I slept like a log.
8
Then everybody began planning a tremendous trek to the mountains. This started in the morning, together with a phone call that complicated matters—my old road friend Eddie, who took a blind chance and called; he remembered some of the names I had mentioned. Now I had the opportunity to get my shirt back. Eddie was with his girl in a house off Colfax. He wanted to know if I knew where to find work, and I told him to come over, figuring Dean would know. Dean arrived, hurrying, while Major and I were having a hasty breakfast. Dean wouldn’t even sit down. “I have a thousand things to do, in fact hardly any time to take you down Camargo, but let’s go, man.”
“Wait for my road buddy Eddie.”
Major found our hurrying troubles amusing. He’d come to Denver to write leisurely. He treated Dean with extreme deference. Dean paid no attention. Major talked to Dean like this; “Moriarty, what’s this I hear about you sleeping with three girls at the same time?” And Dean shuffled on the rug and said, “Oh yes, oh yes, that’s the way it goes,” and looked at his watch, and Major snuffed down his nose. I felt sheepish rushing off with Dean—Major insisted he was a moron and a fool. Of course he wasn‘t, and I wanted to prove it to everybody somehow.
We met Eddie. Dean paid no attention to him either, and off we went in a trolley across the hot Denver noon to find the jobs. I hated the thought of it. Eddie talked and talked the way he always did. We found a man in the markets who agreed to hire both of us; work started at four o‘clock in the morning and went till six P.M. The man said, “I like boys who like to work.”
“You’ve got your man,” said Eddie, but I wasn’t so sure about myself. “I just won’t sleep,” I decided. There were so many other interesting things to do.
Eddie showed up the next morning; I didn’t. I had a bed, and Major bought food for the icebox, and in exchange for that I cooked and washed the dishes. Meantime I got all involved in everything. A big party took place at the Rawlinses’ one night. The Rawlins mother was gone on a trip. Ray Rawlins called everybody he knew and told them to bring whisky; then he went through his address book for girls. He made me do most of the talking. A whole bunch of girls showed up. I phoned Carlo to find out what Dean was doing now. Dean was coming to Carlo’s at three in the morning. I went there after the party.
Carlo’s basement apartment was on Grant Street in an old red-brick rooming house near a church. You went down an alley, down some stone steps, opened an old raw door, and went through a kind of cellar till you came to his board door. It was like the room of a Russian saint: one bed, a candle burning, stone walls that oozed moisture, and a crazy makeshift ikon of some kind that he had made. He read me his poetry. It was called “Denver Doldrums.” Carlo woke up in the morning and heard the “vulgar pigeons” yakking in the street outside his cell; he saw the “sad nightingales” nodding on the branches and they reminded him of his mother. A gray shroud fell over the city. The mountains, the magnificent Rockies that you can see to the west from any part of town, were “papier-mâché.” The whole universe was crazy and cock-eyed and extremely strange. He wrote of Dean as a “child of the rainbow” who bore his torment in his agonized pria- pus. He referred to him as “Oedipus Eddie” who had to “scrape bubble gum off windowpanes.” He brooded in his basement over a huge journal in which he was keeping track of everything that happened every day—everything Dean did and said.
Dean came on schedule. “Everything’s straight,” he announced. “I’m going to divorce Marylou and marry Camille and go live with her in San Francisco. But this is only after you and I, dear Carlo, go to Texas, dig Old Bull Lee, that gone cat I’ve never met and both of you’ve told me so much about, and then I’ll go to San Fran.”
Then they got down to business. They sat on the bed crosslegged and looked straight at each other. I slouched in a nearby chair and saw all of it. They began with an abstract thought, discussed it; reminded each other of another abstract point forgotten in the rush of events; Dean apologized but promised he could get back to it and manage it fine, bringing up illustrations.
Carlo said, “And just as we were crossing Wazee I wanted to tell you about how I felt of your frenzy with the midgets and it was just then, remember, you pointed out that old bum with the baggy pants and said he looked just like your father?”
“Yes, yes, of course I remember; and not only that, but it started a train of my own, something real wild that I had to tell you, I’d forgotten it, now you just reminded me of it ...” and two new points were born. They hashed these over. Then Carlo asked Dean if he was honest and specifically if he was being honest with him in the bottom of his soul.
“Why do you bring that up again?”
“There’s one last thing I want to know—”
“But, dear Sal, you’re listening, you’re sitting there, we’ll ask Sal. What would he say?”
And I said, “That last thing is what you can’t get, Carlo. Nobody can get to that last thing. We keep on living in hopes of catching it once for all.”
“No, no, no, you’re talking absolute bullshit and Wolfean romantic posh!” said Carlo.
And Dean said, “I didn’t mean that at all, but we’ll let Sal have his own mind, and in fact, don’t you think, Carlo, there’s a kind of a dignity in the way he’s sitting there and digging us, crazy cat came all the way across the country—old Sal won’t tell, old Sal won’t tell.”
“It isn’t that I won’t tell,” I protested. “I just don’t know what you’re both driving at or trying to get at. I know it’s too much for anybody.”
“Everything you say is negative.”
“Then what is it you’re trying to do?”
“Tell him.”
“No, you tell him.”
“There’s nothing to tell,” I said and laughed. I had on Carlo’s hat. I pulled it down over my eyes. “I want to sleep,” I said.
“Poor Sal always wants to sleep.” I kept quiet. They started in again. “When you borrowed that nickel to make up the check for the chicken-fried steaks—”
“No, man, the chili! Remember, the Texas Star?”
“I was mixing it with Tuesday. When you borrowed that nickel you said, now listen, you said, ‘Carlo, this is the last time I’ll impose on you,’ as if, and really, you meant that I had agreed with you about no more imposing.”
“No, no, no, I didn’t mean that—you harken back now if you will, my dear fellow, to the night Marylou was crying in the room, and when, turning to you and indicating by my extra added sincerity of tone which we both knew was contrived but had its intention, that is, by my play-acting I showed that—But wait, that isn’t it.”
“Of course that isn’t it! Because you forget that—But I’ll stop accusing you. Yes is what I said ...” And on, on into the night they talked like this. At dawn I looked up. They were tying up the last of the morning’s matters. “When I said to you that I had to sleep because of Marylou, that is, seeing her this morning at ten, I didn’t bring my peremptory tone to bear in regard to what you’d just said about the unnecessariness of sleep but only, only, mind you, because of the fact that I absolutely, simply, purely and without any whatevers have to sleep now, I mean, man, my eyes are closing, they’re redhot, sore, tired, beat ...”
“Ah, child,” said Carlo.
“We’ll just have to sleep now. Let’s stop the machine.”
“You can’t stop the machine!” yelled Carlo at the top of his voice. The first birds sang.
“Now, when I raise my hand,” said Dean, “we’ll stop talking, we’ll both understand purely and without any hassle that we are simply stopping talking, and we’ll just sleep.”
“You can’t stop the machine like that.”
“Stop the machine,” I said. They looked at me.
“He’s been awake all this time, listening. What were you thinking, Sal?” I told them that I was thinking they were very amazing maniacs and that I had spent the whole night listening to them like a man watching the mechanism of a watch that reached clear to the top of Berthoud Pass and yet was made with the smallest works of the most delicate watch in the world. They smiled. I pointed my finger at them and said, “If you keep this up you’ll both go crazy, but let me know what happens as you go along.”
I walked out and took a trolley to my apartment, and Carlo Marx’s papier-mâçhé mountains grew red as the great sun rose from the eastward plains.