Book of Sketches - Jack Kerouac [3]
all the directions — ←
Route 95 2 → US 64
↓ Rocky Mt 3 ↑Sandy
Cross 4 — Paul, hat off,
sleeves rolled, glumly &
absentmindedly pushes at
his work; the motor makes
a drowsy suppertime growl
like the sound of a motor-
boat on some mystic lake
— At the crossroads store
groups of farmers have
gathered & smoke & sit
now. Heavenly mystical
lights have meanwhile
appeared in the sky as
the great machinery
continues in the High.
Intense interest is being
shown in the lawncutter —
Jack himself has just driven
over (on his way to town)
& is parked on lawn’s edge
discussing it with a young
farmer in overalls & white &
green baseball cap who app.
w. to buy it — Little
Paul runs to hear them
talk — At the store
five people are watching
intently. Men are be-
mused by machines. Americans,
by new, efficient
machines; Jack had the
money to buy a deluxe
cutter — 2 Negros
& 2 white farmers stare
intently at Paul in his
lawn, from the store, as
he backs up the car
to get to the grass
underneath it — Not once
has he lookt up & acknowledged
his watchers — works on.
Jack has driven off proudly
— Still another man
joins the watchers — &
now even George steps
out to see — now that
Jack’s driven off to whom
he hasnt spoken in years —
his twin brother. In Southern
accents — “Thats whut
ah think!” — they
discuss that splendid
grasscutter — Cars come
& park, & go — Cars
hurry on the hiway to
home,
“Wait till after
supper,” says Carolyn to
LP, “we’re ready to
eat now — ” as
he complains
“Ah — nao!”
but the complaint’s not
serious & doesnt last
long — And the air
is fragrant from cut
grass. “Come eat!”
And suddenly not a
soul’s at the store as
for other & similar &
just as blank reasons,
they’ve gone to
the silence
the suppers of their own
mystery.
Why should a chair be far
from a book case!
P: “Well that confound
yard is mowed.”
C: “Fi-na-lee.”
P: “Eat some supper
boy.”
C: — “What is it 27
now? 28? It musta
gone up, I thought
it was 26.”
P: (eating) (to LP) Eat
yr. beans, boy.
Better eat up chabeans, —
boy.
But all was not
always so peaceful with
the Blakes
When LP was born & lay
like a little turd in a
rich white basket in the
hospital (& the Grandma
& Uncle of his future peered
at him thru the slot in
the maternity door — &
the young nurse with glupcloth
on her mouth making
smiling eyes — & the
little mother half dead
in her bed. A premature
birth, he weighed 2 lbs.,
like so many links of
sausage or one modest
bologna; the ordeal cost
Paul $1,000 — which he
didnt have — Only a
miracle saved Mother &
Son anyway. The young
doctor said sententiously
“Long before Christ
there was a Greek who
found out why mothers
die from shock — ”
he emphasized “long before
Christ” in this natty
million dollar Duke Medical
Center where the only hint
of Christ lay if any in
the English-style ministers’
dormitory (students
for the ministry played
pingpong with their fiancees
in a fresh painted basement,
the emptiness of
modern Southern & American
life) — “long before Christ”
said the young doctor — as
Carolyn lay in a coma
in the quiet shade drawn
room — & the presence
of his Meek & Sorrowful
Humility hung like
molasses with air —
That was when Paul was
being sent from one town
to the other by the Tel Co
& never had enough money
for all he wanted, they
had a house on the
other side of RM, making
payments at a debilitating
rate of interest that
would eventually force
the house from them —
Paul a veteran of Palau
& Okinawa, an infantry
man of the island jungles,
now being usured & screwed
by nonJew Southern realtors
with bibles on their mantle
shelves & respectable
white shirts — sure, sure, —
the dark rain splattered
on the lonely house as
he waited nights for C
& the baby to come home —
“She can never have another
child — ” & across the
road from the
house, in the thicket
woods, rain, rain of the South
washed the sorrow & the
deep & something mourned
— & something whispered