Frank
Lauria
So here is
my Jack Kerouac story. On weekends from Army basic training i would
race to NY to read poetry at a place called the Seven Arts on 9th Avenue
and 43 St....And one night lo and behold in come the Big Guys (Ginsberg,
Kerouac, Ray Bremser, Corso). A female poet friend (Barbara Moraff)
scooped Jack and whisked him back to Paterson NJ for a night of innocent
debauchery. Problem was come Sunday her parents came back home...so
Barbara foisted Jack off on me for safekeeping. The switch was made
on a street corner and i took Jack back to my house for some Sunday
afternoon dinner. My mom --who fed everybody--made him pasta and chicken
while we talked in the living room about art, poetry and Jack's recent
adventures. My father (who always wore his tie in the house) silently
read his NY Times. At one point he put down the paper, glared at Jack
and said "You know you're a bum?" Undaunted Jack ( Who knew
how to hurt a guy) said "You come on like a bus driver--i made
thirty-five thousand dollars last year." Just then Mom came to
the rescue with food and wine, all of which, (especially the wine) Jack
consumed heartily while complimenting mom on her cooking. My mom told
Jack he should "settle down--you don't find nice girls in coffee
shops" (A line i included in a poem to my mother). Afterwards Jack
and i took the bus to New York and he taught me the fine art of sleeping
on a bus (Wedging your body in the seats so you don't fall off) Just
before boarding the bus we smoked some pot which i had acquired in the
Army (a great source of boo in those barren, conservative times). When
we reached NY Jack claimed the pot was so good he "came in his
pants." We stopped off in a Times Square bar where Jack continued
my crash course in Beat education by pointing out the various pimps,
hustlers and gunmen drinking there (The Terminal Bar on 42nd street)
. From there in search of more booze we went to my army buddy's apt
where i was due to pick up my ride back to Fort Dix and the bleak reality
of Army life. When we arrived Jim was asleep. "I'm here with Jack
Kerouac i whispered excitedly. "Yeah sure," he grumbled, but
broke into a beaming grin when he saw the great Jack sitting in his
living room. Jack proposed we write a poem together. After scouring
the house for a piece of paper we write a three stanza poem
Late night strangers
(Both only a little)
How better, awake!
Palms flip silver
dollars
watching people with
wet coats
Pissing in the
cold
tenement toilet,
I smoke my cigarette.
American
author Frank Lauria
will read at the Kerouac Big Sur Marathon
July 22 in San Francisco's Washington Square Park