Visions of Gerard by Jack Kerouac Page B

except that Manuel’s wife is suddenly exploding into the kitchen with a backward added yell to loverboy: “Aw sure, simpleton, I’ll go tell all this to my mother and make her happy she had a little girl and brought her up to well my goodness Mr. Duluoz is here!”
    My father, eyes to the ceiling, salutes at the side of his head, as if to say “Dont mind me, I’m the court jester.”
    Manuel comes out of his gloomy bridalchamber with a chamberpot in his hand, and slippers on his feet. “Ah—Emil—”
    â€œCome on, Manuel, before Rosie throws you out on your face—”
    â€œI’ll throw him out to the Devil, damn him!” she screams, slamming the door that leads to the parlor which is never used.
    (Sigh) my old man, “At least you dont have any children—Put on your shoes and come on—You got drunk again there yesterday?”
    â€œJust a little nip.”
    â€œPoor Manuel, come on I’ll buy you a little nip—just one hour of work then we’ll go to the club.”
    â€œHow is it at home?”
    â€œWell, there we dont fight, we—” he was about to say “we die” but checked himself.
    Together they leave the tenement and get on Manuel’s motorcycle with the side car, Emil in it, stately with hat-in-hand and goopy look, and off they go put-putting and bouncing over the Aiken Street Bridge—Almost exhilaration sweeps over both of them as the river winds whip their faces, and they both yell and point at the moon, which is rising yellow-huge on the horizon over Pawtucketville—About a mile to the left are the glowing windows of the mills, some windows dye-blue, all reflected on the thrashy waters—About a mile to the right, Pawtucketville’s hill of houses and the moon and one vast darkness cloud burlying over Spring—
    It’s the time of the juices—
    They go careering up Aiken thru the tenement streets of Little Canada and cross the canal bridge and along to the high Medieval granite walls of St. Jean de Baptiste church (where Gerard was baptized), then left on Moody Street along busy storefronts, then right, to Merrimack Street, with its trolleys and busy cars, and down to the bright corner where stands the Jewel Theater, and the Royal Theater—Manuel roars to a stop, they get out like brave mechanics, and toddle off down the alley by the Royal, redbrick, past the fire escape, to the rear—Emil turns on the light—You see the press, the hand presses, the piles of glossy paper, the paper cutter, the roll-trucks, the inky shadows, rolls, rags, cans, inks, the long sad stained planks of the floor leading to the back entrance which fronts Market Street where the Greek coffee shops show dismal cardgames and barbutte dice games going on in green interiors among gloomy men in black, the long lost sad scenes.
    â€œWhat you thinkin, Leo, will we do it before 8 o’clock?” comes the cry now in English from the rhythmic chomping press where inky Manuel (inky from so much) in blue striped scullion’s apron stands feeding sheets between the yawns of inkpan and types, sheketak, sheketoom, shketak, shketoom, and out come orange circulars advertising stores their Spring bargains and Specials:—
    THE MODERN WONDER
    Shoe Sale
MEN’S SHOES
WOMEN’S
BOY’S SCOUT SHOES
$7 or $8 values
$6 low shoes
$2.49
As low as $2.98
Goodyear welt $2.98
    THE MODERN SHOE STORE
    143 Central St    Opp. Talbot’s
    â€”to be delivered door to door by boys on bikes or by Tao hoboes who assemble under the pharting trills of birds at daybreak to receive their day’s bagful of circulars, which will go for booze and beans—
    â€œAll I gotta do, Manuel, is finish this ad and get my foldin done, turn the key on Red Line Taxi and Cantwell optical, be done. Did you finish that new Pollard mat?”
    â€œThe great underpriced basement? All done, Leo, everything twenty-three