Dec, 17, 50

Dear Jack,

To hell with the dirty lousy shit, I’ve had enough horseshit. I got my own pure little bangtail mind and the confines of its binding please me yet. I wake to more horrors than Celine, not a vain statement for now I’ve passed thru just repetitious shudderings and nightmare twitches. I have discovered new sure doom, but this is my secret, and if I’m to find the pleasure of its deviousness in recognizable form I must tighten my grip while abiding the weight of years. The exquisite twists of this self-wrought terror rival Fleur de Mal in that they are hopeless. Aha! I am well beyond help, though, and my helplessness has only tiny Action to dominate. I am fettered by cobwebs, countless fine creases in­delibly etched on the brain. There are no unexplored paths in my mind and few that are not entangled in the weave of my misery mists. It is but gentle fog thru which I navigate and make friendly by constant intimate communion. Within the hour from arising from the suffer-couch, each sleep I’ve gained anew the daily grease for the bearings on which I roll. I embrace to its exhaus­tion the night’s gleanings with the sure calm now maintained by my dry brittle soul. This calls for strength, you bums, all jump off the gravy-train of stupidi­ty. Fall to the game of your inheritance and shove to the hilt for salvation. I’m within my rights, for deep are the roots and deeper its nourishment. Lovely life, where is thy sting?

                 Dark facts I put to you; I’ve been cut off. I had to go to San Luis 0. for the last 10 days. I earned but 180 bucks in the last 5 weeks. The fixing of the car for east trip is proving well nigh impossible. If I must travel by train, transportation of tape recorder big problem, but on the soul of death I vow to have you and this fragile instrument wedded within the month. I must tomorrow find job here in SF to get money for trip. Carolyn is about to starve, as is Diana. Poverty looms big, to be even solvent by May will entail huge effort and larger luck. If I can’t have car in NY for our winter tour of sad Galloway I shall surely shed tears for first time since mother’s death in 1936. There are 27 separate items I must attend before Jan.1, this is but SF, too, Booming south may prove neces­sary with loss of time and more of plans, there is yet hope all can be made well, actually the whole thing hinges on car and money. So, bah!

    Enfolded in bleak Obispo and blank Hinkle’s household for the second time in less than 2 months, 3 weeks and 10 days respectively, I had nothing to blast but Melville and Celine. In one sitting (poor ass) of 30 hours I took between my ears Moby Dick from end to end, while forcing into my belly—where it settled so sour—the inanely sick dialogue of Helen and Al. This copy of Herman’s Hanker­ing was a magnificent Modern Library gi­ant with great pen-and-ink illustrations. Of course, I was inclined no to enthuse over the old boy too much and certainly picked him up offhandedly for I’d read it all long ago. Then too, the new school hangup (remember a certain lecture we attended on MD?) and all the hustlebus­tle of his recent rediscovery made me pretty sure I wouldn’t find another mys­tery to delve, and I didn’t. I simply had a nice ordinary period of reading except that as I read I replaced certain words, admired others, and all in all went thru the thing as one author digging anoth­er for help, yet critically. One new im­pression, especially when compared to long-ago reading; he is simple, writes so simple and is very simple to understand. It’s wonderful that he is so, would that I was as clear, would too that I had his strength as I have his philosophy and death knowledge. Celine too, I knew again, hasn’t got it like good ole Tommy boy, yet Ferdy is purty and his humor’s a zoomer. Naturally, there is nothing I can tell you about this trio (long torn, big torn, lunging plunging gaping gulping grasping gone gurgleboy torn, but best ; Tasty Tommy. Dirty Ferdy, filthy ferdy,

lousy louie, looney louie, lecherous louie, lazy louie, lucky louie, blue Lou, limpin’ lou, ad infinitum or ad nauseum or et al or etc or on and on and so forth about C. Huge herman, hallelujah her-man, spermy hermie, Hammy herman, holy herman—dammit, I saved the best name for Melville until last, and in fact got the idea for this whole parentheses from it, now what? I just forgot it com­pletely that’s all, fapdratit).

– that’s a period, whazza matter. You can’t see or sumpin? (flap for flappy}

          Less than 5 years ago I met my true love. The winter of 1945 had already buffeted Denver for a considerable time when this momentous event occurred. Still retaining the shreds of the impos­ing position held some years before un­ceasing philosophating, I was engaged in stretching the rags of my regal robes over the remnants of old pupils. This I did to exist. Those young hoodlums to whom I’d once been master had turned to other things, and it was a hard task to convert their weakened concern into crumbs of refuge. Now the juice of preachery was withered into dry appeals for generosity. The weather forced morn­ings in the library, afternoons in the poolroom, evenings at the bar. Copious with words and hunger I would leave the readingroom’s quietude and hurry three short blocks to the poolhall. Here I lolled on the hard onlooker’s bench, waiting for a mark. When an approach­able one did show, and I succeeded, I would prolong the meal he bought me. Otherwise, and also, I subsisted on stolen candy bars and an occasional free pop. Come evetide I attached myself to the first available group touring the tav­erns—preferably in a car. It so happened that the week or so prior to meeting my oneheart I was sleeping in the begrudged sanctuary of a former student’s automo­bile. On the morning of The Day I awoke in a particularly frigid state cramped upon the backseat of the unheated car. This, and the stress of previous months of such existence, almost made me de­cide to take off my hairshirt for awhile. Lying there, I contemplated for a bit the possibilities of so doing. Then this image on my mind’s surface led me to recall that the day held a major event. It was a semi-permanent setup I had with my younger Bloodbrother, an almost week­ly change of clothes. I quickly unhinged myself and made for his home. Winter stillness froze my ears and sharp rari­fied air burned my throat as I pounded the pathway of the skeletonized public park bordering on the benefactor’s. En­tering the house in the usual fashion via a third story attic window I had to again prove my unusual skill at climbing. As a boy in eastside Denver I bettered every tree that I saw was worth conquering, save one old giant which resisted by ef­forts for years, until one fine night when I was well past the tree-climbing age—but, that is another tale to be told at another time. Kneeling in the garret dust and restraining my quickened breath as best I could to prevent detection by the jazzy woman he called mother, or the bull-necked liquor salesman stepfather, I rapped a soft signal over my clothes agent’s bedroom. He came up shortly and soon I was inside the too-big trou­sers and supplementary equipment he’d brought. Once again he marveled in un­dertones that I’d achieved my difficult route made now impossible, he reasoned by the wet snow clinging to my narrow clutchholds. Pleased, I departed with care to avoid excessive strain to my bor­rowed finery. The toll of my improvised ladder was not too high and I found it exacted but a few small damp spots after dropping to the ground from the last of the useable building ornaments.

        Now, on the preceding evening I had been occupying the rumble seat of a friend’s roadster as he eased along downtown streets, in second gear, look­ing for a pickup. Driving slowly around the corner of 15’h and Tremont Sts., we spied a likely blonde swishing across the intersection. Robert Parlez parled to the lovely and she bounced in at once. Off we flew to the outskirts and a particular field just beyond the city limits. I got the broad’s phone number and then played the stranger so if Bob’s hasty, and usu­ally undenied, assault failed I wouldn’t be too fouled up when I called her later. Well, he more or less made out and we all drove back to town in half-amiable spirits. Before we dropped her at a hotel in the 1300 block on Broadway she had laid down a sloppy story about losing her purse and being completely broke. Bob wouldn’t part with a sous and I had none, so it did her no good to babble on. I decided to fall by her hotel room the next day if there was nothing better to do at that time.

         And I did. After leaving the clothes-hound I started for Broadway. Nearing the hotel I realized I was almost beside the Emily Griffith Opportunity school where a certain friend I had made while attending classes last year was about to break from a class. I thought it bet­ter to bypass Broadway for the moment and lounge in front of the school on the chance I might see him and get some coffee. I rounded the corner and saw my friend at once. He was leaning into the window of a 1940 Chevrolet sedan parked at the curb.

I was introduced to the soldier behind the wheel who was the car’s sole occu­pant. His name was Kenneth Collins, a stocky tough looking little guy who had known my friend for years. He was on a 10-day pass and looking for women. I told him I was on my way to a girl’s room and said he could come along and take over if he wanted to. He liked the idea and we drove to her place, went up the stairs and knocked on her door. At first she told me to go away and refused to open, but I talked for a few minutes and she gave in.

    I walked into the room and saw a vision. A perfect beauty of such loveli­ness that I forgot everything else and immediately swore to forego all my or­dinary pursuits until I made her. Desire intensely burned from my stunned eyes when I met her first glance from those light brown cowpools. Then I knew who she was, Jennifer Jones, only much more voluptuous with full tits and rounded ass. Amazing! A perfect real reproduction of Jennifer Jones on the edge of the bed. Oh Jack, everything went along so nicely, as I think of it I just bubble. What I mean is that the other babe, whom I’d met the night be­fore, and Kenny hit it off great right from the start and this left me free to devote my whole mind to Jennifer. In fact so powerfully did I make myself felt that all four of us soon knew there was to be lit­tle bullshit between us and instinctively we all tried to cure our souls by a pure affair. JJones name was Joan Anderson, she came from a small midwestern town some weeks before on the first trip she’d ever made. She was approaching 20 and very innocent. The virginity of her entire nature shone thru to me as clearly as a virtue, although I saw she was nearly 5 months in pregnancy.

         Within an hour this incredibly shy creature was bashfully installed beside me in the booth of a jumping joint. While Kenny and his box danced, Joan unlim­bered to my massage and as she floated on her gentle comedown I was bursting to blow. We soon left the bar and slipped into K’s snug Hotel where they at once retired to bed with a bottle. I was com­missioned to take K’s car back to his brother’s and Joan accompanied me. My excitement as I drove penetrated Joan’s belly and she began to approach the peak I was on. The long return walk con­tained all the combination of illusions that makes young blood so prone to boil. One of those rare periods of sensation everyone has felt, the air, the girl, the hope. She put me straight on her con­dition; usual stuff, hi-school boy she’d known for years, first time, left home because it started to show, etc. Sad and weeping for so long, her eyes had disre­membered sparkle. The talksure knowl­edge vowed of our eternal union made but sparks of splintered joy come out of her twin suffered flintholes.

       Back at the hotel we walked into a bounding bed on which Kenny and his partner were going at it in a big way. They didn’t pause for greeting or in any way acknowledging our presence, just kept ripping away at 60 per. I was twitching with eagerness as Joan and I snuck into the offside of the double bed. I didn’t rush, didn’t push, (much) didn’t force and only held her in firm tender caress. With one hand gently clasping her bottom and the other supporting her back I kissed the sweet face and lips then progressed my mouth into the heavy breasts, while my enormous cock slid under the silk slip and pounded against the soft belly pressed under me. She was still so young the couple beside us bothered her, so I did not fuck then, but kept at what I was doing for an hour or so. Finally K and his left us to go eat and we are alone, yet I wisely contained myself from all-out attack for we had been tense for so long and the edge of the thrill worn off just enough so that to do it now would not please her perfectly. I pointed this out and she agreed, later that night would indeed be wonderfully right, K and girlie came back and we all
went jumping on his money, Joan and I were in fine accord and her eyes were
now shining full with joyous love. We planned and planned, there was no limit all we had to do was begin.

      The next morning, after a night of licking the platter clean, K decided held had enough of his lovely and abruptly kicked her out. I could have stayed on with him for the few days before he went back to camp and I sadly needed a roof for each transient night, but Joan must stay with her friend until she was settled and, not to leave my mate, I followed the girls into the icy streets.

     Neither of them knew a connection for some loot and mine had been pushed to the limit where they would have guf­fawed loudly at my asking for an actual cash dollar, especially for a silly waste like a hotel room. We walked for some time, then, offhand, Joan mentioned a cab driver who’d tried to father her some weeks before. She recalled his name and I got her right on the ball. Making con­tact by cab phone she arranged to meet him at 4 o’clock when he got off duty. We passed the time until then 3 or 4 hours) in Kenny’s hotel lobby, and when Joan left to make the meet, her buddy and I stayed there to be out of the cold. Our most optimistic wishes were more than confirmed as my beauty returned in good time with money in her purse and supper in her mixer. The old boy (about 50} was really fatherly alright, happily married and with an amount of dough, he just gushed with pity at my poor innocent’s plight and his wallet was touched, too. Knowing I could sneak in and out at any hour in my old haunt, (one of many such) the Denver hotel, I told the girls to rent the cheapest weeldy room there. Then began the tragedy.

      Purposely I have not said much about Joan’s girlfriend, the one I’d met first you understand. Alai she wouldn’t give out with it on the initial night, the next day her high nasal twang proclaimed the name of Mary Lou Berle. I had spent the winter of 1942 in the Ozarks and knew her hometown of Big Springs, Mo. and without another ear to bend that was familiar with that sec­tion of the country, her homesick mind really poured the blurb to me. A couple of years before, at 16, she’d left home and hitchhiked to Springfield Mo. and got a job on the local radio station singing those horrible hillbilly songs every 6 A.M. This didn’t last too long and she’d tramped here and there in the Midwest until she met Joan and together they had Greyhound together to Denver. Let me tell you, boy, I know there is noth­ing like a fine old mountain ballad, but when Mary Lou got drunk (nightly) and began « The Maple on the Hill » in yo­deling screech, as her frosty blue eyes wept buckets, my cringing belly would curl into a genuine Gordon Knot. Not that she wasn’t a lovely; blonde hair well bleached, smooth facial features, al­though pancake madeup skin was much too dry, 5’2″ figure, but the too-small breasts were more than compensated by the oversize ass so her weight, I judge, while just outside 123 3/4 lbs. did not yet, I suspect, approach 125 lbs., unless of course my hasty estimate is inaccu­rate, then naturally I allow, nay, urge, that you draw your own conclusions about her avoir du pois. Amen, and may god rest ye merry gentlemen. Speaking of Miss Berle’s behind I must say here that the one quality of it, indeed, the sole property by which I remember her whole body, was an exquisite overfleshiness that is not too often found. The tempting jelly of her physical self paralleled her entire spiritual being in that the exces­sive soft mass made for too much matter thru which to wade, and this adequate defense defeated my most wonderfully casual attack; since I was not a perfect fool. We became buddies with our guard up.

       Installed in the Denver hotel Joan and I continued our bliss for the first few days. We planned a highway walk soon to Ft. Collins where I was to drive truck and she would work at some little avail­able thing. Able to move in in my hat, I had quickly gotten my gear together, Joan washed her few clothes, packed them in her one suitcase and we decid­ed we were ready. Nonetheless, since we still had 3 or 4 days of free rent left, we continued in much the same routine. Joan was quietly content to stay in the hotel room most of the time, she sewed baby clothes and read a bit from the books I had. Mary Lou was quite another way, early in the day she left and made the bars looking for men. I followed my usual habits, poolhall; occasional chise­led meal, drink, car ride, show, snooker game. Going about this business I began a depression which sharply contrasted with the Joan idyl. This, intrinsically, was to be expected, only perhaps not so soon. I knew, intuitively, I was not the one for her, not now anyhow. She was too good for me of course, but all that sort of thing means nothing, and besides, depends on the way one looks at it. My particular viewpoint opposed the warp in both of us, the shame was, being young and hard, I could become unmitigatingly brutal while morbidly suffering my love’s pathos.

      Quickly it happened, and so power­fully that after I broke the opening dike there seemed no way to plug the gap and I was helplessly embroiled and car­ried away by the plunging torrent from a bursted dam. Seldom have I experi­enced more emotion and never have I witnessed a girl’s heart being broken so completely.

      I had returned from the poolhall about 7 PM. Entering the girls’ fifth floor room (top floors of hotels are al­ways best) I found Joan, Mary Lou and a tough young sailor she had picked up. Mary L. was half-drunk, the navyman slightly, and Joan not at all. (as I re­call J. neither smoked nor drank, being a lady she didn’t cuss either.) I called my love aside and out of the blue told her I’d been thinking it over and may­be it would be better if she went to Fort Collins alone when the rent came due tomorrow. Straight off her complexion changed, pale lips quivered, then gri­maced as tears sprung. From out of in­credulous eyes came stricken disbelief. I decided to take a bath. I had barely gotten in the hot tub when Mary Lou stormed along the short hallway and pounded on the bathroom door, yelling to be let in at once. I opened to her and without preamble she tore into me at a furious rate. « Joan just told me you were leaving her and she’s sittin’ in there cry­ing fit to die. You son-of-a-bitch. I knew you had a dirty look in your eye when you called her out in the hall. You god­damn bastard, get up out of that tub and go in there and tell her you didn’t mean it, you lousy cock-sucking prick, or else beat the shit out of you, and if I can’t do it I’ll get my boyfriend in there to help me and we’ll pound your face in together, you motherfuckin’ cheap­skate. » She went on and on, getting hot­ter every minute and coming up with a really fine collection of words, a string of names for me poured from her angry red mouth that still tingle the brain. At first I tried to reason with her, then I got a little mad and asked her by what manner of presumption did a stupid whore like herself justify preaching to me, especially in such bitchy threats? This almost did me in good; I saw at once I’d made a mistake. She bellowed out, « right? threat? Why you stinking bum, I see the way you’re treating that fine girl and you expect me to just stand there? It doesn’t matter what I am, you chickenshit little yellowbellied bastard, but, by god, show you who I am ! » And with this she pounced on me. Standing in the slippery tub, 1 had difficulty hold­ing her off right away. As she scratched my nude body while struggling to get her hands free from my grip, I kept worry­ing that she would take it in her head to give me the knee, She didn’t, just shoved her beet face up to mine and sputtered, ‘threats? », over and over. l had her un­der control soon enough, but daren’t let go; at one point she did manage to break away for a moment by biting my shoulder and then suddenly lowering her head to deliver a strong butt to my midriff. I « ooffed », but caught her again before she could get the door unlocked. Finally she tired and I said I’d let her go if she promised to sit down and talk sensibly. The little spit fire agreed and sank to the stool (not the toilet, you sil­ly ass Mr. Kerouac, but a simple small wooden three legged stool, 13 inches high; milkmaids made them famous in the 18’h century and many cheap hotels place them in their bathrooms to have the guests put all their cloths and bath paraphernalia in a proper heap; accom­modations!) with exhausted murder burning from her disdainful eyes. Well, you can wager your ass I talked fast. I could see my ittzy-bittzy lovespat might begin to assume monstrous proportions, not only would M.L. and her sailorboy be happy to give me a working over, but it could even happen that I’d be kicked out in the cold Denver night. Foolish boy that I was, these were the simple fears in my mind as I dressed and returned to the room with Mary Lou to put out the fire. Little did I guess that the night was to gallop from this small flareup onward until at the darkest hour we would all be engulfed in hellfire and when dim dawn first declared itself, singed to doom, I was to be scourged by nightmares of my clinker soul.

Joan seemed too easy to placate. I was suspicious and tho nothing but romance had passed between us before, thus giv­ing me no previous ground upon which to base a judgement of her natural re­action to harshness, my rebuttal had hurt her too much for the present calm to be genuine. Before I began blurting a mealy-mouthed apology, before, in fact,

I had hardly opened my blubber-blab­bers she stopped me with, « it’s alright, honey, I’ve forgotten everything already. » I did, however, mumble through a nice cozy job of « forgive me. » The whole thing was too easy, as I said, and being leery of her quietude, I felt further explosions beneath her outward composure. I only wished, a vain punk that she would content herself with a martyr attitude so that I might be spared the bickering of an emotional young girl. Had I not avoid­ed her pain-filled eyes perhaps I would not have been guilty of such a gross un­derestimation of this woman’s character.

       Joan urged me to go back and finish my bath and I did, While washing I re­alized even more fully how I’d put my foot in it and dreaded to face her when I returned to the room. that she came to face me, that is, as I was dressing af­ter the bath she knocked on the door, Her haggard features were in strained repose as she entered and 1 saw that she was about to break down again. She began quietly enough, asking what was going to do now and if I’d come to Fort Collins and see her sometime. I protested that I’d go there with her, or whatever she wanted, but it was no good, she read the lie in my eye. Slowly she wept, deeply she wept, long lashes could not contain the eyes’ lament. Even were I nice enough to stay with her she told me, she knew why I didn’t love her. I was too good for her and she wasn’t good enough for me. (all right now, you sloppy critic Jack, stop reading. That last sentence was to put you in the know and set the matter straight so you can intelligently point your finger at it and giggle like a silly French fool—you better have orgasms reading this, or bawl like a baby—is the crux of the whole thing, Yessir, she thought I was too good for her and believed it so strongly that all the subsequent happenings follow from this single idea. Remembrance of my Joan’s thinking she wasn’t good enough for me—so stupidly juvenile, hopelessly

romantic, intellectually blind and such a preposterous untruth that I’m convinced it will save her soul—is the reason I write you this,)

I was stunned, even shocked! I knew she must be joshing, but I saw no joke in her eye. ‘What? » 1 said, « you’re kid­ding, you don’t know what you’re say­ing, I’m a full bastard not a half-breed. Where are your eyes? your mind? can’t you guess what a filthy rat I am? Don’t be silly, look at yourself, you’re won­derful, perfect and so good it amounts to dumbness. Stop this hogwash, sheer nonsense, why, a hundred of you couldn’t hold a candle to my evil. »

You get the idea, Jackieboy, I put it on thick because I was really surprised. It all did no good, she clung with stubborn perversity to the « no good » theme in one form or the other. Becoming more deadly serious, as more than an hour steamed by in that overheated bath, her intensity at last gave me the clue for which I had been groping since she’d first uttered that emotionbacked statement. I’d obvi­ously disregarded all preceding hints by her embarrassed and retiring manner as simply the ordinary guilt suffered by an introverted girl experiencing her first wrong. One could clearly see the effects of her pregnancy had made her a fright­ened lonely little girl who fairly melted with shame. Noindeedy, there was no doubt as to the true nature of her flaw, a schoolboy would even sense it, and although I’d known she felt guilty above all else, I hadn’t much bothered about it. After all, one sees young ladies (not used advisedly; the word ladies I mean, you drunken headed ignoramus.) like that daily and it is the accepted—demanded, by golly—normal way for them to feel and act when in Joan’s position. (everyone applaud Dr. Cassady.) It was just that I hadn’t guessed the enormity of her guilt-feeling. The immensity of it struck home with all its glory. Suddenly, as I sat there, (me on the stool and her perched on the toilet cover; got that this time?) listening to this beautiful young female tear her sweet heart to ribbons because her gentle mind could not cope with the overwhelming fear that disgrace had brought to her, I knew she was lost. All had come about when a sallow kid’s cock dribbled 2 seconds of sperm, which she hadn’t enjoyed, into her spicy nest—the fragrance of which I was smelling at that moment. As she droned on, almost oblivious to me now, I stared into her soul. My Joan would never know peace again, the germ of the present insurmountable preoccupation with self-de-basement planted in her by unwitting parents had blossomed into the bloom that splits the mind. I bemoaned the loss of this child.

Abruptly, Joan said, « I love you, Neal, goodbye » and dashed out the bathrm. I stayed in my stooled position, cramped with a vision of unnecessary waste. Ab­sorbed in vacantheaded digestion of the sad sickness in her mind, I failed, at first, to hear the scream. Then I heard two anguished wails, « Neal, Neal. » I jumped up and opened the door with real terror encased in my bowels. It was Mary Lou, tears gushing down her cher­ry chipmunk cheeks smeared her horri­bly thick face powder. I saw the ghastly stain of death shoot out from stricken sockets, puffed lids enclosed beady eyes of accusation. « What have you done to her? Why did you do it? What did you say, what did you say? » She raved on, standing there in the hall, her unbelieva­bly blownup face now bent into the quiv­ering palms of dirt-black hands. She was this silly cunt would become so scared just because, as I suspected, Joan had gathered her things and left. For a min­ute or two I was able to get no coherency from her, she threw herself on the filthy floor carpet all in pieces. As I dropped her and started for the room she rose up to screech, « She’s dead, she’s dead, and you killed her, » then fell back to her sob­bing.

I didn’t hurry, there seemed no need to. Walking the short corridor my thought was, « why aren’t there any peo­ple? With all this noise there should be heads out every door making a hellofa racket themselves just finding out what the fuss is about. » So Joan has killed herself; I opened the door calmly. There was the sailor, leaning out the window, breathing hard. No words were spoken, I started toward him and then saw he had Joan’s feet in his hands. I hurried to help and together we pulled her back into the room, her dress was over her head and I looked at her damp crotch, so dark and tempting, as I tugged on her delicious legs. The sailor stared, too, but was somewhat embarrassed I do believe, We laid her on the bed and smoothed her garments. Green foam was on her lips, her eyes were closed, she was lying motionless,

Now, as I told you earlier, Mr, JLK, the blonde Mary Lott was that way only by regular dousing with bleach. The sailor no name) said that my raven-haired Joan, really most deeply black, had come into the room and evidenced an interest in 141..-B’s bleach bottles, reading the labels, asking if they were indeed poisonous, etc, There were two bottles, one, hydrogen peroxide, and the other, spirits of Ammonia. They both, natu­rally, were ones of danger, and altho she gulped of both bottles, she drank mostly of the Ammonia, Gasping from the effects of her stark cocktail, and already vomiting out her stomach’s contents, she pretended to let the sailor and Mary Lou help her. As soon as Joan was seated Mary Lou had rushed out to announce her death. Taking ad­vantage of this momentary diverting of the sailor’s attention, Joan had jumped up and scrambled for the window de­termined to throw herself out Needless to say the sailor seized her number sevens, lucky size, as they were disap­pearing from view and managed to hold on until I arrived. By the narrowest of margins he had saved her, by the mer­est or coincidences he was in the room at all, and now by the slightest of signs watched her return to life. She stirred, moaned, and was soon puking again, all over the bed, herself and the Boor. We were easing her wretching as best we could when the door opened and in walked swollen Mary and two big men. They were the night manager and his assistant, whom M.Lou had summoned

when she had finished mopping the hall floor with herself. To my surprise neither of them were gruff or threatening at all, instead they tried to soothe everything over as if it was their fault Joan had at­tempted suicide. The room was a mess, everything topsy-turvy, and these big lummoxes must not have known there were hotel maids every morning, for they began hustling about, picking up things and cleaning in a frenzy_ The sailor and pitched in to help them, as Mary Lou patted Joan’s sunken countenance. Bustling around straightening rum­pled rugs, righting overturned chairs, emptying ashtrays and the like, I kept thinking how strange this was. Surely 1 could be doing something more produc­tive than wasting time stumbling about a room that would be taken care of in a few hours anyhow by women hired for just such a purpose. I began to work up a little fantasy that I shouldn’t be doing this; what would the union say, putting a poor n*****r [ publisher4] out of a job. I must em­phasize how really friendly these hotel men were; even if we didn’t have any money we could stay on after tomorrow if Joan was too sick to move, they would call a doctor if we liked, told us not to worry about the disturbance we’d made, etc. They didn’t quiz the sailor and my-self being in the girls’ room at midnight, didn’t mention suicide and acted as tho Joan had just fallen ill from something she ate, and in fact, soon left us to our own devices as they bowed and smiled out the door.

Sometime before the December events I’m reciting—in the late spring of

1944, May and June to be exact—I drove a truck delivering laundry supplies. My employers, the Carmen distributing Co., had large barrels of Ammonia. One of these I spilled while handling one day. A., but perhaps not had your nostrils exposed to a large amount of it all at once. The considerable quantity of ammonia that gurgled out of the barrel, even tho I wiped up most of it, made me sick as hell as I worked over the puddle all day. Being so conditioned, when I entered Joan’s follyroom I found it honest torture to endure its potent aroma. Don’t think I’m one to give out with a lot of bullshit about a smell, although I wish, of course, that I could blow about one for 20 pages like Proust did. But I got to tell you that second only to the “no good” speech of Joan’s this ammonia kick is the closest to my remembrance. From the first whiff my head ached, ears pounded, my eyes burned, my heart banged against a heaving chest. And it grew worse the longer I lingered in that accursed room.

Meantime, Joan was very sick; the weak angel muttered constantly and was not entirely conscious. We debated getting her to a hospital, but didn’t, we argued over giving her an antidote, but didn’t; we discussed how badly ammonia poisoning might affect one who had survived more than an hour and were optimistic that she had been regurgitating steadily. Never having heard of anyone dying from consuming “more than half a qt. bottle”(as Mary claimed) of spirits of A., I talked us all into a more hopeful idea that she would just be sickashell for a while; placing much emphasis on the fine puke job Joan was doing. So happy did they become, except, of course, my stupored Joan, that the quiet sailor said he may as well go out and get another bottle of whiskey. All my body hated to leave the heated building at 2 AM, but I knew I’d combated that damn deathag­ent, Spirit of Ammonia, long enough (incidentally, the smell didn’t seem to bother the other two much) and besides, this was my best chance of breaking away from the hasslebeast Mary Lou. I reasoned Joan wouldn’t be good for an­ything the rest of the night and if I felt it was necessary I could always come back later to help her get treatment at Den­ver General Hosp. So I told the sailor I’d accompany him on his errand, since I needed some air. He said OK, Mary Lou didn’t seem to mind, and so I left my limp lover laid low.

       Once outside, I let the sailor know I’d see him later, if he was still in the room that night, and took off up the morning streets. In the back of my mind I had been bickering with the idea of busting in on Kenny Collins’ sister. I couldn’t bring myself to wake her at this hour until after I’d tramped the cold for quite a while. The poolhall and bars were closed, but I easily might have found some warm spot to lounge in, apt. hous­es, etc., if it hadn’t been that I was hold­ing out for a bed to flop on; especially with the outside hope of a girl in it. The trouble was I only knew her casually, I met her when, a few days before, Ken­neth stopped by to feed both of us at the restaurant where she was a waitress. I knew her address, it was the same ho­tel Ken had stayed in; I even knew her room, number 313. There was no diffi­culty getting in the hotel and there was only a night clerk. I found her door and knocked carefully, she opened without even asking who was there. Seeing she recognized me, (I had been afraid she wouldn’t, since she wore very thick-lensed glasses) I started an exciting tale of drink and suicide to get her interest­ed. Ending with big complaints about my horrible ammonia illness, having no money, etc., I asked to sleep on her floor. She was amiable enough, but to allay the fisheye I thought I glimpsed under her hairless brows, I gave quick promis­es to try no tricks in the dark. This must have pleased her and she said sure, only come on to the bed, « because I have no blankets for the floor and I can take care of myself if you pull anything funny ». Ordinarily I am not one to diddle away much time under these circumstances and I lay it to them right away, and this one was so easy too, but better than miscue, I protected my interests by go­ing to sleep. We got up about noon and I walked her to the café, and my interest paid off, she bought breakfast. We jawed a bit, then I sauntered to the poolhall.

When I checked in some of the boys asked what was new, I said nothing and held my peace. I’d buttoned my lip be­cause I wanted to mull over the whole last 24 hours. This sort of thing was habit, I often spent entire PM’s sitting there, and while watching the finesse of the billiard players, the cash of the pool players bashing into their game and the cautious click of the red balls the snooker players favored, mused. All the games going at once nagged for my at­tention so that my distracted brain had developed the practice of escaping into the oblivion of ponder. Faroff wonderings at life to contrast with nearby obvious enchantment at display of skill. Vague fancies gave complicated angle-shots off my skull, as plain spheres get questick banked off the green-clothed hard rub­ber. I decided to return to the Denver hotel.

On the way up to my room the night manager stopped me to say my friends had left that noon. They were gone. I questioned him; Joan had been hauled away in an ambulance about 10 AM, he didn’t know who called it or from what hospital it was, and Mary Lou had de­parted shortly after. The sailor wasn’t mentioned. I thanked him and went back to the poolhall, it was now about 7 PM and I had to start conning a place to sleep. There were no prospects, so I left to get to KCollins sister by 10, the time she got off work. I spent that, and several succeeding nights with her and didn’t goofoff this time, but went right to it. Altho she was a pure Okie her ‘ charms were very real and we got along OK. There was no fumbling, she fed me when I walked her to work each 2PM and again when I met her at 10; between these hours I haunted the poolhall.

One freezing afternoon, about a week after my new routine had begun, a tax­icab doubleparked and its short driver pushed into the place. I saw this uni­formed midget talk with the proprietor then walk straight for me. He asked if I was Cassady and said he had a message for me, « Joan Anderson is in room 9 at St. Luke’s hospital and wants you to visit her. » He turned and left before I could thank him. Because I’d been lucky enough to get inside the pants of a few St. Luke nurses (this before the Gul­lions, too) I happened to know that hos­pital’s visiting hours; so saved a nickel, or a walk. I knew it was too late to go that day and decided to go the next, but hungup in the poolhall the next day, I didn’t go. Nor did I make it the following afternoon; I kept hoping for a huddle with a car to be available about 2:30 when I showed up at the PH, and there was never one there before visiting hours were over—about 3:30 or 4, I forget now. The walk was only about a half mile, but I keep thinking maybe a car would turn up in a day or two so I could avoid the cold. Well, a car never came and I was reduced to saying to myself, « I’ll go to­morrow anyhow ». But I never did until-

Goddammybloodysoul, Jack, I just this very second remember something. Every incident in this pricky tearjerk­er (for he who is dammed because he’s such an awful bastard) is exactly true as I’m writing it; except one thing: What I now recall too late to rewrite is that when I went back to the Denver hotel that next afternoon the three of them were still in the room all right, but a few minutes after I got there Joan was taken to St. Lukes in an ambulance and theman who’d arranged and paid the bill for everything was that fatherly cabdriver, the midget I speak of above. He drove M.Lou and myself to the hospital in his taxi, following the ambulance. We waited an hour or so while Joan was being ad­mitted – I never saw her, save for those few minutes in the hospital room – then, we all left and he dropped us down­town. The point is I knew where she was all the time I was going thru the above poolhall paragraph. Now go on with this nonsense, if you’ve got the strength to, you must; after all you’re the poor suck­er who asked for it. (here comes the part where Joan’s cabby comes to the pool-hall to get me, the message was, « get your ass up there and see that sick girl, she’s crying for you and if you don’t get off your lazy butt and go yourself I’ll be in here in a day or two and drag you there myself’.) – So I went to see her. TO MAKE THIS SOMEWHAT CLEARER: only one message—the latter—and PH, 26 lines above, means poolhall. Please figure it out if you can, buddy, I’m going on.