THE MAGIC SHOES: 16) SAN FRAN

Monster Monday Madness

Startled, I fumble for the rare first edition of On the Road, which had been lying open across my chest.

“Sorry,” I say to Tindley or Everett as I sit up and rescue the book from hitting the ground.

Unfortunately, page 77 flashes in my face…

Then I went 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 Boncoeur, 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!

And me.

I am sitting at the bar in Alfred’s.

Roland Major is crocked. Uninvited, he ambles to Sal’s booth, plops down and leans over Dr. Boncoeur’s soup to chat with his old buddy Sal. Then he turns to the doctor and rudely asks, “How do you like teaching high school French?”

Now Remi blushes purple with half embarrassment and half-rage.

“I don’t teach high school French,” retorts Dr. Boncoeur.

“Sorry, you look like you teach high school French.”

To make matters worse, a drunken Sal flirts with the doctor’s young wife while Major continues with his insults. He does this loudly, causing diners nearby to complain. When a waiter intervenes, Major profanely bellows about where this “penguin” can park his broomstick and the manager stomps over and orders Major out.

“Why don’t you join your friend?” Remi hisses at Sal.

Sal attempts to apologize, slurring his words. Seeing humor in his predicament, he giggles and scampers out after Major.

I follow them out and around the corner to the Iron Pot. They take a table; I grab a stool at the bar.

Major addresses Sal while looking at me. “Sal, I don’t like that fairy at the bar.”

I look up and down the bar but I’m the only one sitting. Major is referencing me. I’m guessing my futuristic clothes render me, in Major’s eyes, somewhat gay.

“Sam,” he says, “I think I’ll get up and conk him.”

“No, Jake,” says Sal. “Just aim from here and see what happens.”

They laugh, throw back their drinks and depart. I stick with them from a discreet distance. It’s bad enough that the homophobic Major thinks I’m gay—but also stalking them? That would be worse.

We are on Columbus and heading north toward Broadway to a bar called Vesuvio. It’s a bustling beehive of bohemians this Saturday evening.

Major bullies his way to the bar a la Hemingway while the slender Sal fills his wake.

I brush past assorted beatniks and hipsters and squeeze myself a space the other end of the long bar. I catch the barkeep’s eye first, order a beer and instruct him to offer Sal and Major a drink on me. I reason this would either get me clobbered—or an entrée into their reverie. From this distance, I am willing to take a gamble.

The bartender serves them, refuses their money and points at me. Major glares across the bar. Then he motions me over with his hand.

I make my way through the throng.

“You following us?” Major shouts as I approach.

“Just studying the habits of good writers,” I say, loud enough to be heard over bar chatter.

“How do you know we’re writers?” asks Sal. He speaks slow and serious.

“Your book,” I say.

“But nobody’s seen my manuscript yet.”

“I’m not talking about The Town and the City. I’m talking about the one you’re going to write after that, about what you’re doing right now.”

“What am I doing right now?”

“Living life on the road.”

Sal nods, cocks his head. “On the road? On the Road! Live, travel, adventure, bless and don’t be sorry. The road is life. But I have nothing to offer anyone except my own confusion.”

“You kidding?” I swig beer from the bottle. “You did it, man. You do it.”

“Do what?”

“The great American novel. Your writing of life on the road will impact a whole generation.”

“I don’t know, I don’t care.” Sal smirks. “It doesn’t make any difference.”

“Trust me, it will.”

Sidetracked by the possibility of a brawl, Major had inched away clearly thinking he and not Sal Paradise, his sidekick, should be the center of anyone’s attention.

“You are going to be famous,” I add.

Sal looks at me, bewildered. “There are worse things than being mad.”

I’m not should if he is assigning this condition of madness onto me.

“Are you some kind of prophet?” he asks, one-eyeing me.

I shake my head. “I’m here because of you. I fell into your book about life on the road.”

Now Sal squints both eyes. “Man, you’ve been drinking too much. That’s cool. Drinking is the only thing worth doing. Ecstasy of the mind.”

I swig another gulp of beer. “This isn’t about drink. Tell me, what does it take to be a writer?”

Sal firms his jaw, gathering thoughts. “Scribble secret notebooks and wild typewritten pages for your own joy,” he finally says. “Write in recollection and amazement of yourself. Write for the world to read and see your exact picture of it.” He pauses. “And stick to it like a benni addict. My witness is the empty sky.”

Major rebounds to take command of our conversation. “I love this city, but the villains are wrecking it before our eyes.”

“What villains?” I ask.

“Real estate sharks, construction unions—and most especially the architects.” He turns and shouts down the bar, “Any architects here?”

A few barflies stop talking long enough to glance nervously at him.

“Well, if any of you are hiding your sorry selves—and I don’t blame you for that, I wouldn’t own up to it either—I just want you to know you’re full of schlock, dreck, schmaltz and shit. Anyone disagree?”

No one does.

“I thought not.” Major snorts with bravado.

“Books don’t have a future.” Sal resumes his discussion with me. “Unless you write a bookmovie, the new visual American form. You’re the writer and director of your own earthly movie, angel-ed from heaven.”

“Sal, you’re always so goddamned serious,” says Major. “And making up words that don’t exist.”

“That’s right, Roland. Ya gotta remove literary, grammatical and syntactical inhibition and not yield to trends and fads and popular opinion.” Sal shakes his head sadly. “I really disappointed Remi on his big night. He really is the most gentlemanly person in the world and all he wanted was my help to impress his stepfather. I’m gonna have to go back to his place in Sausalito, grab my things and hit the road before he wakes up. I’m really ashamed.”

“No shame, no gain,” Major blusters.

With the evening winding down, my concern turns to my own predicament, stuck in a book with no William Burroughs around to give me yage/ayahuasca. So I want to stick with Sal Paradise. But he wants to get moving—and provides some advice upon parting: Blaze your own trail.

So I blaze up Adler Alley into Chinatown. The aromas are Peking duck and other delicacies dangling in window displays. Onward, I make my way to Union Square, where World War II vets are drinking out of brown paper bags, providing poignant meaning to Kerouac’s depiction of a beat generation.

Feeling beat myself, I join them. I’ve given up any hope of ever getting out of this mind-warp and I’m too tired to care. I’m also struck by a vague notion that maybe I’ll seek out William Burroughs—or wait until January 1948 in New Orleans.

I drift off into slumber on a bench beneath a starry sky.

And awaken on Tindley & Everett’s chaise lounge.