Doctor Sax - Jack Kerouac [25]
Ah Zaza indeed–a moronic French Canadian sexfiend, he is now in a madhouse–I saw him masturbate in the livingroom one rainy afternoon, he did it in public to amuse Vinny who watched at his leisure like a Pasha and sometimes gave instructions, and munched on candy–no pariah the schoolboy be–but a Persian super Luminary of the Glittering Courts— “Come on Zaza madman, faster—”
“I go fast I can.”
“Go, Zaza, go-”
The whole gang: “Come on Zaza, corne!”
“Here he comes!’
We all laugh and watch the horrible sight of an idiot youth pumping up his white juices with his jerking fist in a dazzle of frenzies and exhaustion of the spirit… nothing else to resort to. We applaud! “Hooray for Zaza!”
“Thirteen times last Monday–he came each time exactly, no lie–Zaza has an endless supply of come.”
“That’s Zaza the crazy one.”
“He’d rather jerk off than die.”
“Zaza the sex fiend–look! he’s startin again–Gol dang son of a bootch–Zaza’s at it again—”
“Oh his record’s longer than this—”
(To myself: “Quel— what a damn fool.”)
I believe eight-year-old Lou must have seen–no, as Vinny always made sure his kidbrothers weren’t involved in any dirty play … he protected them with sanctimony and gravity.—His sister much less–as primitive people do-
It was later when Vinny moved to Moody Street again, farther downtown, in the humbuzzing around St. Jean de Baptiste that we began to have less childlike pursuits haunted by darkness and goofs– Later we simply forgot dark Saxes and hung ourselves on the kick of sex and adolescent lacerated love … where everafter the fellows disappear. .. There was a great big whore called Sue, 200 pounds, friend of Charlie’s, came calling at Vinny’s, to sit in rockingchair and yak but would sometimes throw her dress up to show us herself when we made cracks from a safe distance. The existence of this huge woman of the world reminded me that I had a father (who visited her purple doorways) and a real world to face in the future —whoo! It snowed on shroudy New Year’s one two three as we laughed about that!
27
SATURDAY NIGHT WAS the time of the balloon in the sky when I’d listen to wayne King, or some of those great Andre Baruch orchestras of the thirties (our first radio had a great shit-colored false-paper-disc speaker round and strange)—sit back, imagine–stoned beyond eternity as I listened to the for-the-first-time-to-me individual pieces of music and instruments,—all of it by the literal flower-vase of the Golden Davenport Thirties when portly Rudy Vallee was a dalliance dawn cuteboy of rosy moon saws by a lake, coo owl–lost in Saturday night reveries, earlier of course it’s always the Hit Parade, fanfare number one song hit, boom, crash, the title? Film Your Eyebrows in my Song, Tear— with an upswing of the band and crash of events as I turn over my page of Saturday night funnies fresh from the wagons of the boys in the exciting Sat night streets in which also I cut along considerably, one night with Bruno Gringas arm in arm wrestling all the way up the bright market of Moody from City Hall to Parent’s meat store (where Ma bought everything)—the butcher himself looked good enough to eat, the store was so rich– Pursy times, when I’d a 20¢ cake splurge, and they were the biggest cakes then–black night shadows of Sat night wound with fiery lights of stores and traffic make a huge arrangement of lacelike blackery to splarse and intersplash the views and heels of spiny real people in clothes interwiling with the wild blue dark, disappear–the mystery of the night, which is a dew of grain-
Great White Sheets of the house being ironed by