Here in America last night, I saw an awful thing which people call a play. It was awful. If that is what the theatre has come to, then there is no hope for anyone except the cigar-smokers. Which brings me to the issue.
Act One: Scene One: (Before the curtain is rung up, the audience should be supplied with good fat five-cent cigars. The women should at least light them and hold them in their hands; but the men
must
smoke them. It is essential.
Because there's something about a cigar. As you shall soon see.)
Ages ago, I used to lay down in the warm sun and close my eyes. It was, of course wonderful. Like the time that I was naked, lying on my back in the grass, feeling the little insects run all over me and listening to the sound of the forest and the river. The forest and the river are just like a good cigar; they don't make any noise to speak of. A turbulent river and a forest in the morning make a lot of noise; so does a loaded cigar. But I'm talking about normal conditions, if there is such a thing.
The scene, then, is as of ages ago, where I used to be a fine poet. The sky is very blue, it is New England, there is a plowed field across the little stream, which slips by like beautiful blue-green oil. You can hear Time march on, not like in the movies, but like Time really does march onâa tremendous muffled roar. The doors in back of the stage should be open to let the sound of Time in on the customers. And it would be an outlet for the cigar smoke. Now we're all set. There is a young fellow in a bathing suit sitting in the grass, smoking a cigar. His hair is wet, and he just got out of the water. He is smoking this cigar and the first thing he says in the play is this:
Young Fellow
: There's something about a cigar . . . .
(The sound of Time, the tremendous muffled roar of it all, is audible to all. If necessary, install a Time machine underneath the stage and let it reverberate in a restrained, powerful monotone. Also a few bird cheeps and lapping water. The sky is blue as hell. It is a New England sky. Blue as
all
hell. Now comes another young man in his swimming regalia. He is walking along the trail which follows the stream, and he approaches the cigar-smoking poet. He knows him. His name is Nick.
Nick
: Where the hell did you get that stogie?
Young Fellow
: At Joe's. I bought a dollar's worthâ20 of them.
Nick
: You did? Well, whaddaya say?
YF:
Help yourself
(He does. He lights the cigar and sits down in the grass
beside YF. He sighs and doesn't say a damned word.
That's the wonderful thing about Nick.)
YF
: That's the wonderful thing about you
Nick
: What is?
YF:
Nothing
(Now comes the third bather. He is
Walter
. His hair is all curled up in wet ringlets on his brow. He strides up to them with his cigarette. He has a white sweat shirt over his bathing suit. He sits down with a contented
Walter
: Aaaah ...
(Offstage we hear the sound of shouting swimmers. They come nearer. Now they are here, two young fellows racing. They are both naked, because they forgot their bathing suits. Anyway, nobody ever goes to this place muchâthat is, girls. They end their race and flop on the grass beside the three smokers.)
YF
: Walter, throw that lousy butt away and have one of my cigars. There's nothing can beat a cigar.
Walter
: Just as you say (The two racers are PAUL and SEBASTIAN)
Sebastian
: Zagg, you're not very polite. Don't you offer
us
a cigar?
YF
: Of course I do. Help yourself. I bought a dollar's worth at Joe's
Paul:
(Lights up his cigar; he is ringing wet.)
Broushâbroush, burp . . . ahem . . . egad ... kapf . . . kaff kaff . . . how does the stock stand today?
Walter
: (Also assuming a business man pose):
Well, it's like this JP. Amalgamated rose two points today, but I'm afraid that Consolidated will go down (Walter does this very well, and he raises his leg to indicate a typical business man fart as he speaks. He is bursting with opulence, power, prestige, and importance. He again raises his leg.)
Nick spits calmly.
YF watches Walter and bursts out laughing. Everyone laughs, in his own way. Sebastian smiles wanly, YF laughs out loud, Paul has a pleasant high-pitched giggle that is not at all silly, and Nick slaps his thigh approvingly.
YF
: You know, I used to smoke cigars and imitate burpers like Mouse just did. But now I've a new perspective. I smoke cigars because there's something about them that gets me. For one thing, it's such a silly goddamn thing to do, that I have to laugh at myself. From there on, the coast is clear.
Sebastian
: Laugh at yourself, and cry too. (He is getting into one of his moods, as he was in my last play. Now he springs to his full six feet and starts shouting at the top of his lungs:
Sunday in Moscow, gray gloomy Sunday in Moscow. Oh, ye bells of Moscow . . . ring . . . ring . . . I must see them. I am going there now. To Moscow . . . . (Sebastian runs off into the woods. In his youth, he read a lot about wood-nymphs and Pucks and stuff. So now he is going out to try it, naked. He is a wood-nymph too, because you can hear him all over the forest, reciting Poe's “Bells” ... or should I say, shouting “Bells”)
YF
: Isn't that marvelous? And to think that the poor bastard has to get up in the morning every day and go to his business, sleepy, grouchy, exhausted, hungry, cold, sick, empty, bleak, disgusted . . .
Walter
: It's a wicked world
YF
: (Taking a luxurious drag from his cigar.)
But, there's something about cigars just the same. Like the time I walked out of a movie in New York and began to walk home along Broadway. I was cold, and shy of the world. Suddenly, I saw a cigar store. I said to myself, “Zagg, you're going to go in there and buy yourself a cigar. What for? I don't know. I'm glad I don't know. I don't want to know. I'll just buy one and smoke it.” So I bought a cigar and lit it and walked out and went right along the street, a new man. I looked at every one with new interest, because the cigar gave me courage. It made me say: “Well, hello there. How the hell are you, you little pavement cipher, you little nameless, faceless cinder of Wolfe? I'm Zagg and I've got a cigar and I don't give a damn for anything, nor do I reject anything. I think that you've an ugly puss, but I like you because you inhabit this earth with me and we're both in the same boat.” And there I was, striding along the street, smoking my fucking stogie, laughing at the rich experience of it all. Nick farts, quietly and unassumingly. There is a tremendous burst of laughter, which drowns out the distant howls of Sebastian, the idealist.
Walter
: (Smoking more appreciatively now)
Well I'll be damned if you're not right, Zagg. There is something about a cigar!
YF
: Well, what the hell do you think I'm telling you. I said so, didn't I? What do you think I am, a scholar? Or a diplomat? Or a bookkeeper? Brother, I say this and I mean it, and I
know
I'm
right
. That's why I'm not worried about world affairs. That's why I
am
worried about the world. But I'm not the first one. As long as we have forests and rivers and grass and cigars and human beings like you and the fellows, it's okay. There's no harm done. World affairs go on and on and solve themselves and then un-solve themselves; but the world itself, she's something to worry about. She's the only thing that we men have. And we can't have her if we don't take time off once in a while to puff on a stogie, let's say, right in a spot like this.
Walter
: I don't know what the hell you are talking about, honest
YF
: I don't myself. I'm trying to say something that's inside of me, that I'm dead sure about, but it doesn't come out in order. Maybe someday I'll be able to do it. That'll be my Big Day
Nick
: Why did you spend a whole buck on these stogies?
YF:
When I have money, it doesn't mean a thing to me. The only time that money means anything to me is when I have it. So I take this buck out of my choked wallet and I buy this batch of cigars. (He takes them out of his pocket, holding his pants up) Look at those babies: 15 sweet little stogies, ready to be smoked. Ready to spread good cheer, good will, and good smoke here and there and everywhere. Poop poop. I'm going in. It's a wicked world, so long babies, goombye, tweet-tweet
(He rises to his feet and hurls the cigar into the water. He is very mad, because he has failed to express himself. He dives into the water, and splashes around. We can still hear Sebastian shouting in the woods. The boys sit and smoke calmly. Suddenly, out of the blue sky, Nick speaks up:
Nick
: You know what I feel like doing with this cigar? I feel like lying right back in the grass, like this (does so); looking up at the sky, smoking on it, like this (does so); laying a fart like this (does so at will); and just staying like this till I kick the goddamn bucket.
Walter
: Yeah, but where does it get you?
Nick:
I don't want to go nowhere
Walter:
Well, brother, I don't want to rot in this little cheese town all my life. I want to go out and make dough and live right. I want to have powerâtremendous power and money and property. With that, I can buy all the cigars in the world
Nick: Sure, but where are you going to smoke them?
Walter:
Anyplace at all. Any place at all.
Nick:
I like this place better. And I like Joe's cigars better than all the cigars in the world.
Walter:
Why?
Nick:
Don't ask me, kid. You know better than that. I don't know, I don't care. I just feel it in my bones. It's a wicked world, but right now it isn't.
(YF comes out of the water, dripping wet. He lights another cigar, puts back the 14 remaining stogies in his pocket, and sits down to smoke. He has given up. He no longer speaks. The play's over. The curtain comes down, this was the only act and the only scene; I'm sure that no one will like this play, but I do. Why? I don't know. I just feel it in my bones. It's a wicked world, but what the hell do I care. I can always light up a cigar and smoke it and say: “So what.”)
As the audience files out of the theatre, Nick will step up to the stage for a few closing words:
Nick
: Don't worry. No harm done. It's okay.
God
Columbia freshman Kerouac lived in Livingston Hall, which offered a view of the Butler Library. Some of the Dharma includes a description that evokes the period: “Evenings after supper in my collegeroom in Livingston Dorm at Columbia, the fragrance of my old taped pipe, the drowsy European momentous sad romance of Sibelius or other classical musics on the scratchy QXR station, my desk before me with its warm lights and studies, my thoughts, self-confidences
â[. . .]”
It is I, speaking to you. I am seated here in my room, at two o'clock in the morning. The page is long, blank, and full of truth. When I am through with it, it shall probably be long, full, and empty with words. It depends on God. He has endowed me with the power; my performance depends upon the extent of his gift.
It is like this.
I am not trying to copy anyone. I am truthful to myself. I shall write as if I had just been born, endowed with words.
As I began to say, it is like this.
Tonight, I wrote a short story for a fellow on this floor. I toiled with it for an hour and a half. I had to make it exciting, fill it with colorful and authentic descriptions, and pound it out into the conventional whole. That is, the wholeness of what is called the common short story. Beginning, middle, and end. It had to introduce, enlarge, burst, and die down. So I plunged into it and finished it. It would net me one dollar.
“With that dollar,” I told myself, “I shall eat.”
I was not proud of the story, called “Black Gold.” The only things about it that were worthy of pride were several descriptions. How bullets “pinged” into iron pipes. How bullets spat into the earth, throwing up little geysers of dirt. I am a very stinted writer. I know I shall have to correct it some day. Cliché is the word. But I had to eat, and I finished the story rapidly. I delivered the story, smoothed out the dollar into my wallet, folded it, thrust it into my back pocket, and went out to eat.
It was warm outside. The air was stifling and aggravating. I made a grimace and walked on, my shoes scuffling on the pavement. My head was slightly dizzy from the session with the typewriter.
“I have ten dollars in my desk,” I said to myself in the street, “but to be frank with you, John, I wrote that story for one reason: with the dollar, I shall squander. I shall eat about 50¢ worth of food, then I shall go to a 50¢ movie. My ten dollars will be intact: it will be as if I had never spent any money, and yet I shall have eaten and seen a movie. It is great to squander, and to [be] able to walk in the street and feel free and easy. In this civilization of ours, money is a great thing.”
Broadway was in a haze. The red lights were dim. There was no acute brightness. The haze of a warm day, at sunset. The air stuffy. From the Hudson, blasts of cooler air.