I close my eyes, hoping to return to Tindley & Everett’s comfortable chaise lounge.
But that’s not what happens.
Instead, I’m in the backseat of a large Hudson automobile sitting next to Ed Dunkel. He is entranced by motional blur, a gentle passing of scenery on this cold wintry night, somewhere (if I remember correctly from reading Kerouac’s classic) in southern New Jersey.
In the front seat: Sal Paradise and Dean Moriarty with Marylou in between. Dean is drowning out a tenor on a radio crackling with static. "Everything is fine and there's no need in the world to worry, and in fact..." he swings around and sees me. "Whoa! Where the hell did you come from!?"
“I crossed a portal into this book.”
“My book?”
“Not yours. Jack Kerouac’s book”
Dean turns to Marylou. "I don't 'member picking up no hitchhiker."
Marylou shakes her head, dumbfounded. Or maybe she’s just sort of dumb. That’s the way Kerouac crafted her character.
"Where you headed?" he asks me.
I shake my head in wonderment. “I didn’t even know I’d be here.”
"We're going to New Orleans to dig Old Bull Lee," says Dean, turning a knob to raise the radio’s volume. "Damn, this guy's hot!" He plays the steering wheel like bongo drums.
Ed Dunkel continues to stare out his window, hypnotized by the road.
Sal glances at me. “Say, don’t I know you from ‘Frisco?”
I’ve no idea what he’s talking about.
“I know we met somewhere,” he says.
"Take the wheel, Sal." Moriarty winks. "I'm gonna fool around with Marylou." He lunges into Marylou's bountiful breast while Sal tries to steady the fast-moving vehicle with an outstretched arm.
Panicked, I grip the door handle with one hand, and the edge of my seat with the other, until Moriarty retakes the steering wheel and settles into total focus of the road ahead. Meanwhile Sal, Marylou and I fall in and out of slumber.
At dawn the Hudson pulls into Washington D.C. and onto Pennsylvania Avenue, chock-a-block with B-29s, PT boats and artillery vehicles. A sign commemorates Harry S Truman’s inaugural parade. It must be 1948.
"I'll get off here," I say.
Dean shows no sign of fatigue as he screeches the Hudson to a curb. "See ya, buddy."
The moment Moriarty screeches off, I realize I’ve made a big mistake: I am freezing cold—as cold as the cockpit in my uncle’s World War II B-52 Liberator.
“Where’s a clothing store!” I shout at the first passerby.
“Garfinkle’s,” he points. “Fourteenth and F.”
Shivering, I hurry over there.
Inside the eight-story department store, salesmen throw me puzzled glances. I quickly find a double-breasted grey herringbone wool overcoat that will not only keep me warm but also conceal the oddness of my 21st century togs.
“No need to put it in a bag,” I tell the salesman. “I’ll wear it out.”
He eyes my clothing up and down with incredulity. “Do you have an account with us, sir?”
“No,” I say. “American Express.”
“Excuse me?”
“My credit card.”
“Your what?” The salesman peers suspiciously at my green plastic. “I think not.”
“It won’t do nicely?” I crack.
The salesman gestures with his arms that he wants his coat back.
“You prefer cash?” I say.
He retreats. “Yes, sir.”
“How much?”
“Twelve dollars.”
“That’s all?” I chuckle and pluck a Jackson from my wallet.
He looks at the bill and pulls a theatrical double take. He then holds it up for further scrutiny. “Series 1999?”
I snatch it back. “You take gold pieces?”
“Why not? They’re legal tender.”
I reach into my pocket for the twenty-dollar gold piece my father gifted to me with an instruction to use it in an emergency. The possibility of freezing to death seems like one.
The salesman appears satisfied by the date—1924—and he counts out eight dollars in change. I now have some period cash, at least but, more important, a warm coat.
I make my way back to Pennsylvania Avenue and pass The White House. It is barren of gates and security posts. Onward, I marvel at pristine Fords and Chevrolets and Cadillacs on unclogged roads.
By the time I reach Georgetown, I feel hunger pangs so I aim for Billy Martin’s Tavern. The saloon looks warm and cozy from the outside. Inside, it does not disappoint.
The hostess guides me to a small booth by a window looking onto N Street. I scan the menu and, setting it down, notice a lone male diner facing me from the next booth, forking at a piece of pumpkin pie while reading The Washington Post. Where had I seen such slicked-back hair and jowls before?
I catch his eye and wave. “Hi. Uh… Mister…?”
Somewhat gratified to be recognized, he smiles. No one else in the tavern appears to know him.
“Dick Nixon,” he says. “Uh, are you one of my constituents?”
“You’re a congressman!” I say, rising from my booth. “May I join you?”
His smile disappears. “You’re not a lobbyist, are you?”
I shake my head. “No, nothing like that. I’m just happy to meet you.”
Nixon looks bewildered. “Why?” he asks suspiciously.
I sit opposite him and lower my voice. “You may find this hard to believe, but you have one helluva political future ahead of you—with an emphasis on hell.”
Nixon shifts with discomfort. “Is this about my investigation?”
“What investigation?”
Even though he’s still on edge, Nixon relaxes a bit. “My committee is working on a sensitive investigation.”
“Which committee?”
“Un-American activities.” He discerns it does not register with me. “It’s a bigger problem than you think.”
“Ah, the Red Menace.”
“Are you being facetious?” he asks. “This is a very serious threat facing our country.”
“You’re going after Alger Hiss, aren’t you?”
Nixon’s shifty eyes dart this way and that. “How did you know that?” he demands. “Who sent you?” He looks over his shoulder, somewhat alarmed.
“You know Hiss did it but you can’t prove it, right?”
“Are you a reporter? Our investigations are supposed to be confidential.”
I look down at Nixon’s pie.
He follows my gaze. “What?”
“Incriminating microfilm,” I say.
Nixon studies his plate. “I don’t get it.”
“He’s hiding it in a pumpkin patch.”
“How do you know that? Who are you?”
“It’s a career-jumper,” I say. “You owe me.”
With that, I return to my table and order a hearty lunch for under a buck.
Nixon excitedly settles his tab and hurries out.
Another rookie congressman almost immediately occupies his table. No one recognizes him either. He is very lean with a big shock of reddish hair. He orders coffee and disappears into his newspaper.
By the time I work up enough courage to approach him, I’m pre-empted. By a young blonde. This handsome young congressman, with a predator’s skill, effusively welcomes and dotes upon her.
Finishing up, it dawns on me that I need to get back into On The Road. That was my route here. It’s my likely route out.
But how? I cannot buy this book because it won’t be published for another eight years.
Where had Dean Moriarty and Sal Paradise gone next? I need to catch up.
I try to remember the story. I suppose it’s a good thing I’d read it a few times. Let’s see, they were driving south… and it hits me, bang! They were headed to Old Bull Lee’s place in New Orleans. Dean had said so himself when I materialized in the Hudson.
I grab a cab to the Greyhound terminal and catch a bus. It rides all afternoon and night, and into the next day.