The Cool School (19 page)

With the pad, Leslie took on a roommate, a long, lanky, funny-looking boy named Benny Hudson. Benny’s ears stuck out, and he had a herringbone coat. He smelled of soap and earnestness and other Midwestern virtues, but he had a job and could pay half of the rent—all of it in emergencies—so here he was. He and Leslie were lovers, of sorts. That is, they were making it, and Benny was in love.

As for me, I still clung, out of sentiment and attachment, to the uptown pad. It was my home base, though I slept there seldom now. I had stopped paying rent several months before, but hung on, muttering “Health Department” at the landlord, whenever he muttered “Eviction” at me. We were at an impasse.

Since I wasn’t paying any more rent, the landlord wasn’t making any more repairs, which meant that when the local gang broke the windows they stayed broken, and finally nearly all of them were. The place was breezy, but it was getting warm again, and so it didn’t matter. Then the lights and gas went off; I took to eating out, eating and bathing in other people’s houses, and reading by candlelight, which was scary because of the rats. I didn’t relish the thought of meeting a rat as big as a cat by candlelight in my kitchen. I began to look for someplace else to live.

Memoirs of a Beatnik
, 1969; second edition, 1988

Movie-star handsome and con-man charming, Jack Kerouac was a romantic and contradictory literary pop star. He made a movement, or at least named it; he set out its ground rules and then broke them. Kerouac changed the novel forever, speed-typing madly on rolls of paper. He practiced poetry, fusing haikus with bop and blues. After
On the Road
came out in 1957 and made him overnight into the emblem of a generation, there was no turning back. The underground had gone mainstream, and Kerouac lost his footing in the swirl of adulation, media attention, and self-indulgence. He would be dead at forty-seven, a burned-out hulk—but what a fire he left behind him. Here’s one of several attempts he made to explain the Beat Generation and his role as its prime mover
.

T
HIS
ARTICLE
necessarily’ll have to be about myself. I’m going all out.

That nutty picture of me on the cover of
On the Road
results from the fact that I had just gotten down from a high mountain where I’d been for two months completely alone and usually I was in the habit of combing my hair of course because you have to get rides on the highway and all that and you usually want girls to look at you as though you were a man and not a wild beast but my poet friend Gregory Corso opened his shirt and took out a silver crucifix that was hanging from a chain and said “Wear this and wear it outside your shirt and don’t comb your hair!” so I spent several days around San Francisco going around with him and others like that, to parties, arties, parts, jam sessions, bars, poetry readings, churches, walking talking poetry in the streets, walking talking God in the streets (and
at one point a strange gang of hoodlums got mad and said “What right does he got to wear that?” and my own gang of musicians and poets told them to cool it) and finally on the third day
Mademoiselle
magazine wanted to take pictures of us all so I posed just like that, wild hair, crucifix, and all, with Gregory Corso, Allen Ginsberg and Phil Whalen, and the only publication which later did not erase the crucifix from my breast (from that plaid sleeveless cotton shirt-front) was
The New York Times
, therefore
The New York Times
is as beat as I am, and I’m glad I’ve got a friend. I mean it sincerely, God bless
The New York Times
for not erasing the crucifix from my picture as though it was something distasteful. As a matter of fact, who’s
really
beat around here, I mean if you wanta talk of Beat as “beat down” the people who erased the crucifix are really the “beat down” ones and not
The New York Times,
myself, and Gregory Corso the poet. I am not ashamed to wear the crucifix of my Lord. It is because I am Beat, that is, I believe in beatitude and that God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten son to it. I am sure no priest would’ve condemned me for wearing the crucifix outside my shirt everywhere and
no matter where
I went, even to have my picture taken by
Mademoiselle.
So you people don’t believe in God. So you’re all big smart know-it-all Marxists and Freudians, hey? Why don’t you come back in a million years and tell me all about it, angels?

Recently Ben Hecht said to me on TV “Why are you afraid to speak out your mind, what’s wrong with this country, what is everybody afraid of?” Was he talking to me? And all he wanted me to do was speak out my mind
against
people, he sneeringly brought up Dulles, Eisenhower, the Pope, all kinds of people like that habitually he would sneer at with Drew Pearson,
against
the world he wanted, this is his idea of freedom, he calls it freedom. Who knows, my God, but that the universe is not one vast sea of compassion actually, the veritable holy honey, beneath all this show of personality and cruelty. In fact who knows but that it isn’t the solitude of the oneness of the essence of everything, the solitude of the actual oneness of the unbornness of the unborn essence of everything, nay the true pure foreverhood,
that big blank potential that can ray forth anything it wants from its pure store, that blazing bliss,
Mattivajrakaruna
the Transcendental Diamond Compassion! No, I want to speak
for
things, for the crucifix I speak out, for the Star of Israel I speak out, for the divinest man who ever lived who was a German (Bach) I speak out, for sweet Mohammed I speak out, for Buddha I speak out, for Lao-tse and Chuang-tse I speak out, for D. T. Suzuki I speak out . . . why should I attack what I love out of life. This is Beat. Live your lives out? Naw,
love
your lives out. When they come and stone you at least you won’t have a glass house, just your glassy flesh.

That wild eager picture of me on the cover of
On the Road
where I look so Beat goes back much further than 1948 when John Clellon Holmes (author of
Go
and
The Horn)
and I were sitting around trying to think up the meaning of the Lost Generation and the subsequent Existentialism and I said “You know, this is really a beat generation” and he leapt up and said “That’s it, that’s right!” It goes back to the 1880s when my grandfather Jean-Baptiste Kerouac used to go out on the porch in big thunderstorms and swing his kerosene lamp at the lightning and yell “Go ahead, go, if you’re more powerful than I am strike me and put the light out!” while the mother and the children cowered in the kitchen. And the light never went out. Maybe since I’m supposed to be the spokesman of the Beat Generation (I
am
the originator of the term, and around it the term and the generation have taken shape) it should be pointed out that all this “Beat” guts therefore goes back to my ancestors who were Bretons who were the most independent group of nobles in all old Europe and kept fighting Latin France to the last wall (although a big blond bosun on a merchant ship snorted when I told him my ancestors were Bretons in Cornwall, Brittany, “Why, we Wikings used to swoop down and steal your nets!”) Breton, Wiking, Irishman, Indian, madboy, it doesn’t make any difference, there is no doubt about the Beat Generation, at least the core of it, being a swinging group of new American men intent on joy . . . Irresponsibility? Who wouldn’t help a dying man on an empty road? No and the Beat Generation goes back to the wild parties my father used to have at home in the 1920s and 1930s in New
England that were so fantastically loud nobody could sleep for blocks around and when the cops came they always had a drink. It goes back to the wild and raving childhood of playing the Shadow under windswept trees of New England’s gleeful autumn, and the howl of the Moon Man on the sandbank until we caught him in a tree (he was an “older” guy of 15), the maniacal laugh of certain neighborhood madboys, the furious humor of whole gangs playing basketball till long after dark in the park, it goes back to those crazy days before World War II when teenagers drank beer on Friday nights at Lake ballrooms and worked off their hangovers playing baseball on Saturday afternoon followed by a dive in the brook—and our fathers wore straw hats like W. C. Fields. It goes back to the completely senseless babble of the Three Stooges, the ravings of the Marx Brothers (the tenderness of Angel Harpo at harp, too).

It goes back to the inky ditties of old cartoons (Krazy Kat with the irrational brick)—to Laurel and Hardy in the Foreign Legion—to Count Dracula and his
smile
to Count Dracula shivering and hissing back before the Cross—to the Golem horrifying the persecutors of the Ghetto-to the quiet sage in a movie about India, unconcerned about the plot—to the giggling old Tao Chinaman trotting down the sidewalk of old Clark Gable Shanghai—to the holy old Arab warning the hotbloods that Ramadan is near. To the Werewolf of London a distinguished doctor in his velour smoking jacket smoking his pipe over a lamplit tome on botany and suddenly hairs grown on his hands, his cat hisses, and he slips out into the night with a cape and a slanty cap like the caps of people in breadlines—to Lamont Cranston so cool and sure suddenly becoming the frantic Shadow going mwee hee hee ha ha in the alleys of New York imagination. To Popeye the sailor and the Sea Hag and the meaty gunwales of boats, to Cap’n Easy and Wash Tubbs screaming with ecstasy over canned peaches on a cannibal isle, to Wimpy looking X-eyed for a juicy hamburger such as they make no more. To Jiggs ducking before a household of furniture flying through the air, to Jiggs and the boys at the bar and the corned beef and cabbage of old woodfence noons—to King Kong his eyes looking into the hotel window with tender huge love for Fay Wray—nay
, to Bruce Cabot in mate’s cap leaning over the rail of a fogbound ship saying “Come aboard.” It goes back to when grapefruits were thrown at crooners and harvestworkers at bar-rails slapped burlesque queens on the rump. To when fathers took their sons to the Twi League game. To the days of Babe Callahan on the waterfront, Dick Barthelmess camping under a London streetlamp. To dear old Basil Rathbone looking for the Hound of the Baskervilles (a dog big as the Gray Wolf who will destroy Odin)—to dear old bleary Doctor Watson with a brandy in his hand. To Joan Crawford her raw shanks in the fog, in striped blouse smoking a cigarette at sticky lips in the door of the waterfront dive. To train whistles of steam engines out above the moony pines. To Maw and Paw in the Model A clanking on to get a job in California selling used cars making a whole lotta money. To the glee of America, the honesty of America, the honesty of oldtime grafters in straw hats as well as the honesty of old time waiters in line at the Brooklyn Bridge in
Winterset,
the funny spitelessness of old bigfisted America like Big Boy Williams saying “Hoo? Hee? Huh?” in a movie about Mack Trucks and slidingdoor lunchcarts. To Clark Gable, his certain smile, his confident leer. Like my grandfather this America was invested with wild selfbelieving individuality and this had begun to disappear around the end of World War II with so many great guys dead (I can think of half a dozen from my own boyhood groups) when suddenly it began to emerge again, the hipsters began to appear gliding around saying “Crazy, man.”

When I first saw the hipsters creeping around Times Square in 1944 I didn’t like them either. One of them, Huncke of Chicago, came up to me and said “Man, I’m beat.” I knew right away what he meant somehow. At that time I still didn’t like bop which was then being introduced by Bird Parker and Dizzy Gillespie and Bags Jackson (on vibes), the last of the great swing musicians was Don Byas who went to Spain right after, but then I began . . . but earlier I’d dug all my jazz in the old Minton Playhouse (Lester Young, Ben Webster, Joey Guy, Charlie Christian, others) and when I first heard Bird and Diz in the Three Deuces I knew they were serious musicians playing a
goofy new sound and didn’t care what I thought, or what my friend Seymour thought. In fact I was leaning against the bar with a beer when Dizzy came over for a glass of water from the bartender, put himself right against me and reached both arms around both sides of my head to get the glass and danced away, as though knowing I’d be singing about him someday, or that one of his arrangements would be named after me someday by some goofy circumstance. Charlie Parker was spoken of in Harlem as the greatest new musician since Chu Berry and Louis Armstrong.

Anyway, the hipsters, whose music was bop, they looked like criminals but they kept talking about the same things I liked, long outlines of personal experience and vision, nightlong confessions full of hope that had become illicit and repressed by War, stirrings, rumblings of a new soul (that same old human soul). And so Huncke appeared to us and said “I’m beat” with radiant light shining out of his despairing eyes . . . a word perhaps brought from some midwest carnival or junk cafeteria. It was a new language, actually spade (Negro) jargon but you soon learned it, like “hung up” couldn’t be a more economical term to mean so many things. Some of these hipsters were raving mad and talked continually. It was jazzy. Symphony Sid’s all-night modern jazz and bop show was always on. By 1948 it began to take shape. That was a wild vibrating year when a group of us would walk down the street and yell hello and even stop and talk to anybody that gave us a friendly look. The hipsters had eyes. That was the year I saw Montgomery Clift, unshaven, wearing a sloppy jacket, slouching down Madison Avenue with a companion. It was the year I saw Charley Bird Parker strolling down Eighth Avenue in a black turtleneck sweater with Babs Gonzales and a beautiful girl.

By 1948 the hipsters, or beatsters, were divided into cool and hot. Much of the misunderstanding about hipsters and the Beat Generation in general today derives from the fact that there are two distinct styles of hipsterism: the cool today is your bearded laconic sage, or schlerm, before a hardly touched beer in a beatnik dive, whose speech is low and unfriendly, whose girls say nothing and wear black: the
“hot” today is the crazy talkative shining eyed (often innocent and openhearted) nut who runs from bar to bar, pad to pad looking for everybody, shouting, restless, lushy, trying to “make it” with the subterranean beatniks who ignore him. Most Beat Generation artists belong to the hot school, naturally since that hard gemlike flame needs a little heat. In many cases the mixture is 50-50. It was a hot hipster like myself who finally cooled it in Buddhist meditation, though when I go in a jazz joint I still feel like yelling “Blow baby blow!” to the musicians though nowadays I’d get 86d for this. In 1948 the “hot hipsters” were racing around in cars like in
On the Road
looking for wild bawling jazz like Willis Jackson or Lucky Thompson (the early) or Chubby Jackson’s big band while the “cool hipsters” cooled it in dead silence before formal and excellent musical groups like Lennie Tristano or Miles Davis. It’s still just about the same, except that it has begun to grow into a national generation and the name “Beat” has stuck (though all hipsters hate the word).