On the Road - Jack Kerouac [37]
This surprised me. Remi’s stepfather was a distinguished doctor who had practiced in Vienna, Paris, and London. I said, “You mean to tell me you’re going to spend a hundred dollars on your stepfather? He’s got more money than you’ll ever have! You’ll be in debt, man!”
“That’s all right,” said Remi quietly and with defeat in his voice. “I ask only one last thing of you—that you try at least to make things look all right and try to make a good impression. I love my stepfather and I respect him. He’s coming with his young wife. We must show him every courtesy.” There were times when Remi was really the most gentlemanly person in the world. Lee Ann was impressed, and looked forward to meeting his stepfather; she thought he might be a catch, if his son wasn’t.
Saturday night rolled around. I had already quit my job with the cops, just before being fired for not making enough arrests, and this was going to be my last Saturday night. Remi and Lee Ann went to see his stepfather at the hotel room first; I had traveling money and got crocked in the bar downstairs. Then I went up to join them all, late as hell. His father opened the door, a distinguished tall man in pince-nez. “Ah,” I said on seeing him. “Monsieur Boncœur, how are you? Je suis haut!” I cried, which was intended to mean in French, “I am high, I have been drinking,” but means absolutely nothing in French. The doctor was perplexed. I had already screwed up Remi. He blushed at me.
We all went to a swank restaurant to eat—Alfred‘s, in North Beach, where poor Remi spent a good fifty dollars for the five of us, drinks and all. And now came the worst thing. Who should be sitting at the bar in Alfred’s but my old friend Roland Major! He had just arrived from Denver and got a job on a San Francisco paper. He was crocked. He wasn’t even shaved. He rushed over and slapped me on the back as I lifted a highball to my lips. He threw himself down on the booth beside Dr. Boncœur and leaned over the man’s soup to talk to me. Remi was red as a beet.
“Won’t you introduce your friend, Sal?” he said with a weak smile.
“Roland Major of the San Francisco Argus,” I tried to say with a straight face. Lee Ann was furious at me.
Major began chatting in the monsieur’s ear. “How do you like teaching high-school French?” he yelled.
“Pardon me, but I don’t teach high-school French.”
“Oh, I thought you taught high-school French.” He was being deliberately rude. I remembered the night he wouldn’t let us have our party in Denver; but I forgave him.
I forgave everybody, I gave up, I got drunk. I began talking moonshine and roses to the doctor’s young wife. I drank so much I had to go to the men’s room every two minutes, and to do so I had to hop over Dr. Boncœur’s lap. Everything was falling apart. My stay in San Francisco was coming to an end. Remi would never talk to me again. It was horrible because I really loved Remi and I was one of the very few people in the world who knew what a genuine and grand fellow he was. It would take years for him to get over it. How disastrous all this was compared to what I’d written him from Paterson, planning my red line Route 6 across America. Here I was at the end of America—no more land—and now there was nowhere to go but back. I determined