Atop an Underwood (33 page)

The waiter placed four glasses and a pitcher of water on the table.

“Sausages tonight,” said the waiter. “And three varieties of vegetable!” He stood by the table with sly anticipation.

“Three!?” blurted one of the R.A.F. men. “Goodness!”

The waiter winked at the American soldier: “That's right. Three! Boiled potatoes, mashed potatoes, and fried potatoes!” He guffawed, slapped the Negro soldier on the shoulder, and went off. The Britishers chuckled, and then one of them turned to the Negro and said: “That's one to take back home with you, isn't it.”

The Negro shook his head in puzzled amazement: “Man, I dunno how you people can stand it. Back home we used to eat five times as much. Evertime I leave camp on a leave, I gets so hungry I cain't see!”

The two R.A.F. men laughed heartily. One of them addressed the white soldier.

“And do you find it the same?”

The white soldier had been looking away, but upon being addressed, turned his head slowly.

“I say, we were just commenting on the food situation here,” prompted the R.A.F. man, “and our friend here informs us that back home in the States you people eat five times as much as we do. Is that literally true, really?”

The white soldier shrugged and said: “I suppose so.”

“Yes,” echoed the Britisher vaguely, glancing at his companion with a small, lost look.

“Quite remarkable,” his companion mumbled. They turned and fixed their attention on the countryside.

“You got small trains here,” spoke the Negro. “Man, I ain't never seen such small engines and boxcars.”

The two R.A.F. men grinned back quickly.

“That's so,” one observed. “But there is a reason for it, you know. England is a relatively tiny country, and our trains have to do a considerable amount of shuttling. Whereas in America, I understand, the distances are so much vaster and the distribution of rail so less complex. Don't you think so?”

“Yeh, I think you're right. Them old freight trains picks up the miles and lays them down, and I ain't kiddin'.”

The two Britishers laughed loudly.

“Tell us,” one continued, “what part of the States are you from.”

“Chicago.”

“Chicago! That's in Illinois, isn't it?”

The Negro grinned. “That's right.”

“And where are
you
from?” inquired the R.A.F. man of the white soldier. Both Britishers awaited his answer with heads tilted identically for intelligent perception of this information.

The white soldier paused.

“I'm from Birmingham, Alabama.”

“Indeed. Alabama. A lovely state, I am told.”

“It's all right.”

The two R.A.F. men glanced quickly out the window. One of them tapped his finger on the tablecloth. Both their faces had suddenly frozen into an inscrutable blankness. Outside, the contours of the purplish landscape moved past majestically, like a gigantic turntable. The sun had disappeared.

“Lucky?”

The colored soldier was holding out a package of Lucky Strikes over the center of the table. First one, then the other R.A.F. man nodded brightly and helped himself, with the one again plunging into his pocket for the lighter.

The Negro offered his pack to the white soldier, but the latter was looking away.

“Cigarette?” prompted the Negro.

The white soldier turned his head slowly, stared first at the pack, then at the Negro soldier, and then shook his head with heavy finality. He looked away again, his lips compressed, his eyes lidded.

The two R.A.F. men glanced at each other for a split second and then looked out the window.

“Light?” The Negro soldier was holding out a burning match.

The R.A.F. men stared dumbly at the unlit lighter in his hand. “Oh, yes. Thanks so much,” he mumbled. The smoke rose from the table in a fragrant puff.

“Wonderful cigarette, Luckies,” said the other R.A.F man.

The Negro soldier grinned proudly.

“Come,” began the other Britisher, brightening up, “tell us about Chicago. It must be a magnificent city!”

 

Jack Kerouac often mentioned his beginnings as a writer. He told us about the nickel-notebook novels he wrote at eleven years old. We are indebted to him for preserving his manuscripts and papers. Of everyone I must thank for help in preparing this book, Kerouac is the first person to acknowledge; it is his book.

Under the guidance of the late Stella (Sampas) Kerouac and now her brother John Sampas, who represents her estate in literary matters, almost as many books by Kerouac have been released as were published in his lifetime. Working with Sterling Lord, Jack Kerouac's literary agent, John Sampas has overseen the publication of many Kerouac books since the early 1990s, a period of renewed critical interest in Kerouac's work. I thank him for welcoming this collaborative project and sharing his knowledge about the Sampas family, young Kerouac, and Lowell's culture. I thank Jim Sampas for his spirited day-to-day work on behalf of Kerouac's art, and I acknowledge the support of the late Mrs. Kerouac. I also thank Anthony M. Sampas for compiling the story of his late uncle Sebastian Sampas.

I am grateful to Sterling Lord for his support and essential advice and to the staff at Sterling Lord Literistic, Inc., for their assistance. I thank editor Paul Slovak of Viking Penguin, whose insight and sure editorial hand were enormously important in bringing this book to the world. Thanks also to the Viking Penguin team for first-rate production and promotion. To editor David Stanford: Thank you for your enthusiasm for this book—and my first literary lunch in Manhattan.

Working with Jack Kerouac's papers was the culmination of my thirty years of involvement with his life and literature. I first heard his name at Dracut High School in 1970 from my friend Paul Brouillette, who had asked his parents about Kerouac after the author's funeral in Lowell in October 1969. In 1954 my parents, the late Marcel and Doris (Roy) Marion, began raising me at 67 Orleans Street, on the hill of Doctor Sax, just a few doors from Kerouac's birthplace, 9 Lupine Road. We were Franco-Americans, French Canadian—Americans, sharing the same parish in the Centralville section of Lowell. My mother and Jean-Louis Kérouac had been classmates at St. Louis de France School, and my father, older than Kerouac, had attended St. Joseph's School at the same time as Jack. My parents would have been pleased to see this book, and I thank them for everything.

Several Kerouac relatives, friends, and associates shared their memories with me, some recently and others long ago: David Amram, James Curtis, Anthony Francisco, Mary Hogan, the late Robert (“Pete”) Houde, Julien Marion, Stanley Polak, Roland Salvas, Demosthenes Samaras, Mary Sampas, and Anthony G. Sampatacacus (Sampas). I also thank two veteran interpreters of Kerouac: Roger Brunelle and Brian Foye.

Special thanks go to Jane Brox, Jack McDonough, and John Suiter for their editorial expertise. For professional and personal support, I thank George Chigas, Susan Kapuscinski Gaylord, Scott Glidden, Jim Higgins, Ruth Page, and Joan Ross. From the University of Massachusetts Lowell, I thank Mary Lou Hubbell and Christine McKenna, as well as faculty members Jay Atkinson, Dean Bergeron, Jim Coates, Joyce Denning, Matt Donahue, Hilary Holladay, and Charles Nikitopoulos.

For various kinds of help, I thank Clementine Alexis, Douglas Brinkley, Maurice Comtois, David Daniel, Doug DeNatale, Tom Gooden, Rev. Seamus Finn, Sister Carmen Foley, Joseph J. Foley, Laura Foley, Susan O‘Brien Lemire, Armand P. Mercier, Helena Minton, Marian O'Brien, Ray and Rosanne Riddick, and the late Senator Paul E. Tsongas. For long-term encouragement, I thank Ro and Lew Corbin-Teich, Bob Dionne, Doug Flaherty, Ray and Bernadette LaPorte, Eric Linder, and Julie and Tom Mofford.

I am grateful for research assistance from the staffs of the City of Lowell's Pollard Memorial Library, the Merseyside Maritime Museum, the Museum of Liverpool Life, the University of Massachusetts Lowell Library, and the Widener Library at Harvard University; Martha Mayo of the Center for Lowell History at the University of Massachusetts Lowell; Renate Olsen of the Regis College Library; and Rodney Phillips, Curator of the Henry W. and Albert A. Berg Collection of English and American Literature of the New York Public Library.

My wife, Rosemary Noon, was a patient listener and an insightful reader throughout. My love and endless gratitude go to Rosemary and our son, Joseph Patrick Marion, for their love and understanding. My brother Richard and his wife, Florence, and my brother David and his wife, Dianne, provided a second tier of strong support. Thanks to Eric Marion, John Marion, Philip Marion, and Stephen Marion as well. I offer special thanks to my wife's parents, Richard and Mary (Foley) Noon, whose encouragement and counsel are invaluable. Thanks also to Lionel and Rolande Patenaude, Roger and Estelle Mann, “Doc” and Rita Michaels, Joan Roy, Tom Brady, Nancy Mann, Rita Marion, and the keeper of Rosemont memories, Florence Y. Marion.

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