Kerouac Fifty Years Down The Road
Soon-to-be-step-son Sam was home this summer between his sophomore and junior years of college. Like most at his time of life, he slipped in and out like a cat burglar, giving up little. Wouldn’t want the adults around to have a clue, you understand.
One morning, out of the blue, he mumbled something about going to New York with pals. He offered no details. His buddy Colin was more forthcoming. The plan of course was a might edgy, just what parental units love to hear.
The trip’s excuse was to catch some Japanese band playing in a Mexican club in Brooklyn. A threesome was driving up in Alexia’s car, staying in the Bronx. It was Sunday. They’d be back on Wednesday.
Ah yes, it’s the rite of passage, the manifest destiny of American youth. Road Trip!!!!
Anxiously waiting to get going, Sam was pumped. Leafing through a road atlas, he waxed on about various cross-country drives he’d made. A couple journeys to and from his second school on the left coast were quite long. He smiled at the expanse of memories. The trio finally hit the road about eight at night. Colin had to make an obligatory appearance at his sister’s wedding shower, so they couldn’t leave at a reasonable hour. Being young, adventurous and immortal, they’d drive through the dark of night.
Mom was relieved the next day. Mum wasn’t the word. Sam checked in. Gotta run, ma, see you in a couple days.
Such wanderlust has been requisite for a half century now. Americans kicked butt in WWII, spread their wings. Youth grabbed its own music and culture — thanks to the transistor radio. We asphalted a way around the land, adhered to Madison Avenue’s siren call, “See the U.S.A. in your Chevrolet.”
Jack Kerouac drew the road map.
Fifty years ago “On the Road” trumpeted reveille. Head out on the highway, look for adventure. Even with the sad demise of Route 66, the road to adulthood remains two lane blacktop.
Sam will have tales. You’ve got yours. I’ve got some.
Try finding a motel room in the middle of the night in Daytona during the spring vacation crush after you’ve driven straight through, five in a VW Beetle.
Once the Mailman — the highway spawns nicknames — and I headed northeast in search of music. Sound familiar? Along the way, we hooked up with some ramblers from California. Among the lot were Hitchhiker Al and Basic Bob. Discovering the rock festival we all were chasing had been moved to a speedway near Toronto, we spent the night on a beach in New Brunswick. We chatted up a most lenient Mountie. After that psychedelic nocturne in the sand, we breakfasted at the Hub Grill.
“We specialize in Elmer’s Pizza” it said on the back of the check. We remember such minutiae because the clang of freedom’s chimes is indelible. The trip’s the deal, regardless of destination.
Considering the nature of some of our cargo, we wished only the encounters with Customs that were absolutely necessary. We caravanned through Canada around Maine down the St. Lawrence Seaway in pursuit of Sly & the Family Stone.
Kerouac had Neal Cassady. He became the author’s muse, his alter ego, his passport to a vast world west of birthplace Lowell, Mass.; west of New York where they hooked up with the Beats and caught the spirit.
Kerouac — his name is iconic, a symbol of adventure simply for the sake of it. The writer typed his manifesto in a burst of passion on scrolls of paper he then taped together.
I read “On the Road” back when. Like “Catcher in the Rye,” it was de rigeur in the day.
Now I’ve started reading the unexpurgated original scroll edition. It’s just been published for the first time to commemorate the 50th anniversary of the first issuance of the author’s edited version.
Taking the advice of a pal with more than a few of Neal Cassady’s character traits — Thad’s worked crab fishing boats in the Bering Sea — I put the book in the throne room to read piecemeal. Better to slowly savor Kerouac’s passionate homage to living the life, carpe diem, jumping from the cliff instead of simply peering over the edge.
And to be reminded at a time when life’s more settled that there’s nothing quite like fresh escapade, some wacky band in a faraway bar or a slice of Elmer’s pizza served by a rosey-cheeked Canadian grandma at 7:00 in the morning.
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