Visions of Gerard by Jack Kerouac Page A

who read Frank Merri-well—Of Emil much later more—
    But his rise from riotous family, to insurance salesman in the “big city” (for Lowell 14 miles downriver) and then to independent businessman with a shop, his waxing and puffing on cigars—His eager bursting out of vests and coats, tortured armpits of suits, quick short heavy steps on our history sidewalks—But a reverend, sensitive, apt-to-understand man, and understand he did, the mournfulness of his vision, the way he shook his head (that little Gerard imitated), the way he sighed—A citizen of the raving world, but eager to be good—Eager to be rich too—But a man endowed with qualities of interested apperception of the nature of things, as would qualify him to be a tragic philosopher—Insights, sadnesses, that leapfrogged his intelligence and came down on the other side and were light—“I see blind light—I see this sad black earth!” might have been one thought he had.
    Here he goes hurrying to Manuel’s for their night’s work—Manuel lives four blocks down near the big corner of Lilley and Aiken—As Emil turns off Beaulieu, which is the little street that bears the great burden of Gerard’s dying, a breeze blows, bringing whiffs of hope, voices, song, it’s a gay Saturday night, but the young father has no primer for that wellknown pump and only slowly ghostly sadly wends his way, thinking, “My father died drunk behind his stove—my mother died in her dishes and poor wash-clothes—father and mother, it happens to all of us one way or the other, we can pray if we want but it wont help—Go on, God, dont call yourself God in my face—Doin business under conditions like that, we’ll never win—”
    Manuel lives in a raucous tenement, first floor, you walk in from the woodporch which has rollers that run the washlines across a tar court to the porch of the other tenements, all closed in, with, on warm Spring Night, all windows open and families airing their rave and grievance—Crash! Old Paquette’s drunk again—Bang! Old lady Pirouette who lost her son in the war is dropping her dishes again—Boom! that damn little Petrie’s poppin off his lastyear’s firecrackers—It swims in thru all windows and revolves around and rumors and runs like a river, voices, language, gossip, crashes, jingles and jangles—“There’s no end to it!”—Whole rant-sentences can be heard in rising and falling snatches of vigorous Canuckois, coming from by old woodstoves in ancient rockingchairs—Sounds for the quick head and trailing robe—Emil walks in to Manuel’s kitchen unannounced, nobody in it, he stands questioning—It doesnt take long for him to realize that Manuel is in the bedroom with his wife having a fight—
    â€œThey always told me not to marry you, you were a drunkard at sixteen— sixteen?!! I bet you was drunk as a hoot-owl at 15, 14—You’re not the man I married but dammit the reason for that is because you were puttin up a front when I married you, crook—”
    â€œAw shut ya big ga dam mouth, it’s only good for blagues —I gave you your money, I’m goin to work, I’ll be gone all night, you oughta be satisfied, ya cow—”
    â€œDont call me a cow, dog—”
    â€œCall yourself what you like, me I’m goin—and if I’m drunk tomorrow morning when I get back we’ll blame it on you”
    â€”“Aw yeah, look for excuses.”
    â€œBein in the same house with a pest like you it’s enough to make a man drink poison!”
    â€œWhy dont you do it then.”
    â€œAnd leave you my insurance that I took out because Emil Duluoz bullshitted my ear in 1920, not a chance—I’ll live and you’ll be poor—Go tell that to your mother.”
    My old man winces in the kitchen and bathetically would tiptoe out