Doctor Sax - Jack Kerouac [24]
I prefer rivers in my death, or seas, and other continents, but no satin death in Satin Massachusetts Lowell–with the bishop of St. Jean de Baptiste Stone, who baptized Gerard, with a wreath in the rain, beads on his iron nose, “Mama did he baptize me?”
“No he baptized Gerard,” I wished– I was just a little too young to have been baptized by a Saint of the Hero Church, Gerard had, and so baptized, saint did thus die —rain across the Rouault Gray Baroque Strasbourg Cathedral facade Big Minster Face of St. Jean Baptiste church on Merrimac St. at Aiken’s sad end–rising stone heap from the tenements of Moody Street–grooking rivers piled beneath.
Doctor Sax traversed the darknesses between pillars in the church at vespertime.
26
FINALLY VINNY BERGERAC moved to Rosemont–from that tenement on Moody to the swampy interiors and lowlands of Rosemont, a rosecovered cottage flat on the dreaming lurps and purls of the Merrimac… Fact is, they had a swimbeach on that shore, Joe and I went swimming, three times a day in the white sand dumped there–where regularly you saw lumps of human shit floating–I have nightmares of swallowing a cud of crap when I get up on my half rock and point hands to dive, by God I learned to dive by myself by half submerging to my waist–but here’s these turds floating in the river of time and I’m ready to sprowf myself one up, flubadegud– the beach was located in reeds down by the easternmost lost fender of the dump where the rats scurried in a dull gloom of vague smokes smoldering since Xmas week–in the summer mornings of freshness and boyhood we sallied forth into the vast dewy day in a clew pale of happy easters, two kids in a wild swale, having times we’d never forget–I be Buck Jones, you be Buck Jones–all boys want to grow up into hardy weathered characters thin and strong who when they do grow old throw dark seamy faces to the shroud, blot your satin up and roll it away–
Doctor Sax is hiding in the dark room waiting for it to turn from gray afternoon, late, with quiet child singings in the block (on Gershom, Sarah) (as I peek from dark dumb dull drapes of afternoon)— Sax hides in that darkness coming from behind the door, soon it will be night and the shadows will deepen darker and hoo doo you– Gods of the Fellaheen Flagebus level of fly-away dung bottles blue with bags and scrawny cross black striped old Bohemian carpet of the clock-sprale-pot–
We heard the Henry Armstrong fights through roots of broken leaves, we lay on the sofa upside down in dark summer evenings with the window open and only the radio dial for a light, deep brown gloom red glow, Vinny, G.J., Lousy, Scotty, me, Rita (Vinny’s kidsister) and Lou (his kidbrother) and Normie (next oldest brother, blond, nervous)—Mother Charlie and Father Lucky out, she at graveyard shift of mill, he as bouncer in a French Canadian nightclub (full of cowbells)— We in the summer evening indulged ourselves in various listens to the radio (Gang-busters, The Shadow–which is on Sunday afternoon and always dismally short of the mark)—(Orson Welles great-programs of Saturday night, 11 P.M. Witches’ Tales on faint stations—) We all talked of screwing Rita and Charlie, the women in the world were only made to bang– There was an orchard in back, with trees, apples, we kicked among them–
One night we had a juvenile homosexual ball without realizing what it was and Vinny leaped around with a sheet over his head and yelled “Oook!” (the effeminate shrieking ghost as compared to the regular “Aouoool” of the regular virile dumbghosts) (eek, Dizzy); also I remember vaguely G.J.’s and my disgust with the whole thing. It was that madcap Vinny, that’s who it was. A horrible moron by name of Zaza hung around Vinny, he was almost 20, Zaza indeed–that was his real name, it was a regular Arabian country epic–along the dump he’d drooled since childhood, spermatazoing in all directions, jacking off dogs and worst of all sucking off dogs–they’d seen him try it under a porch. Doctor Sax the White-haired Hawk knew these