From Newsgroup: alt.buddha.short.fat.guy

Kerouac's lost two pages, from 15 April 1957...

We hit Denver with the gas gauge kissing empty and the Hudson
coughing dust from a thousand desert miles. It was that wild,
holy, and crazy time when Dean and I were inseparable, two halves
of a lost and found coin, and Marylou was with us, a sad-eyed
angel in a too-tight sweater. The money was gone, spent on gas
and cheap wine and a wild night in a Tucson motel that ended with
a fistfight and a sprint to the car. Now we are broke, the sky
was the color of a dirty nickel, and a mean mountain wind cut
down Larimer Street.

"Dig, dig, dig!" yelled Dean, bouncing in the driver's seat, his
eyes scanning the street for a familiar face, a connection, a
sign. "The answer is here, Sal, I can feel it vibrating in the
air! We need bread, we need wine, we need the mad complexity of
a Denver night to set our souls spinning! Whoo!" He slammed the
wheel with open palms, a beatnik drum for the gods of the road.

We found Carlo Marx not in his basement pad but in a dim cafeteria,
hunched over a notebook, a cold cup of coffee his only companion.
He looked up, his eyes like pools in the phosphorescent glow of
the jukebox. "The sorrowful seekers return," he intoned, a ghost
of a smile on his Lips. "The city is dead, the poets are silent,
and the angels have all gone to San Francisco."

"Carlo, my mad genius!" Dean slid into the booth, grabbing Carlo's
shoulders. "We're starved, we're beat, we're at the end of our
rope and it's unraveling fast! You got a dollar? A dime? A single
blessed cigarette for old times that were never as good as right
now?"

Carlo sighed, a sound from the depths. He produced a crumpled
five-dollar bill from his pocket, a king's ransom. "The last of
a dismal inheritance from a phantom uncle. Take it. Fuel for the
fire of your endless quest."

Dean's eyes lit up with a holy fire. "Yes! Yes! A sign! We'll
eat, we'll drink, we'll find the secret heart of this night!"
He was up, a force of nature in scuffed shoes.

The five dollars became a gallon of red wine, a loaf of bread,
and a chunk of yellow cheese. We drove to the edge of the city,
to a hill overlooking the vast, twinkling plain. The lights of
Denver were a promise, a dream, a million separate lives we would
never know. We passed the wine, the bottle glugging in the cold
air.

Marylou sat apart, her knees drawn to her chin, staring at the
city. "What are we doing, Dean?" she asked, her voice small.
"Really doing?"

Dean stopped his manic monologue about the beauty of the Rocky
Mountain night and the meaning of IT. He looked at her, really
looked, and for a second the mask slipped. I saw the tired, scared
kid from the reform school, the ghost in the machine. softening.
"Why, darling," he said, his voice softening. "We're living. That's
all. We're just... living. And when you're living, you're digging
everything there is to dig, because it's all part of the great,
mad, glorious dream. He put his arms around her, and she leaned
into him, a brief tender moment in the long rush.

We drank until the wine was gone and the stars turned into one
smeared light. We talked about everything and nothing, our words
tumbling into the vast American night. We were together, on the
road, broke and free, and for that one moment, on a nameless hill
under a billion stars, it was everything. It was enough. Then
Dean jumped up. "Okay! Now! Let's go find Roy Johnson! He'll be
at the pool hall! The night is young!" And the moment was gone,
shattered by the next frantic impulse, and we piled back into
the car, roaring towards the next thing, always the next thing,
the holy, beat, and crazy next thing.

---

Ned

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From Newsgroup: alt.buddha.short.fat.guy

On Tue, 14 Oct 2025 21:27:29 -0700, Ned Ludd <nedludd@ix.netcom.com>
wrote:

Kerouac's lost two pages, from 15 April 1957...

We hit Denver with the gas gauge kissing empty and the Hudson

A hudson. I wondered, are they actually talking about that huge
lumbering, gas guzzling car? Yes, I guess they are. No wonder they
are out of gas. Even at .25 a gallon.

How many modern readers actually remember the hudson hornet, I wonder?

coughing dust from a thousand desert miles. It was that wild,
holy, and crazy time when Dean and I were inseparable, two halves
of a lost and found coin, and Marylou was with us, a sad-eyed
angel in a too-tight sweater. The money was gone, spent on gas
and cheap wine and a wild night in a Tucson motel that ended with
a fistfight and a sprint to the car. Now we are broke, the sky
was the color of a dirty nickel, and a mean mountain wind cut
down Larimer Street.

"Dig, dig, dig!" yelled Dean, bouncing in the driver's seat, his
eyes scanning the street for a familiar face, a connection, a
sign. "The answer is here, Sal, I can feel it vibrating in the
air! We need bread, we need wine, we need the mad complexity of
a Denver night to set our souls spinning! Whoo!" He slammed the
wheel with open palms, a beatnik drum for the gods of the road.

We found Carlo Marx not in his basement pad but in a dim cafeteria,
hunched over a notebook, a cold cup of coffee his only companion.
He looked up, his eyes like pools in the phosphorescent glow of
the jukebox. "The sorrowful seekers return," he intoned, a ghost
of a smile on his Lips. "The city is dead, the poets are silent,
and the angels have all gone to San Francisco."

"Carlo, my mad genius!" Dean slid into the booth, grabbing Carlo's
shoulders. "We're starved, we're beat, we're at the end of our
rope and it's unraveling fast! You got a dollar? A dime? A single
blessed cigarette for old times that were never as good as right
now?"

Carlo sighed, a sound from the depths. He produced a crumpled
five-dollar bill from his pocket, a king's ransom. "The last of
a dismal inheritance from a phantom uncle. Take it. Fuel for the
fire of your endless quest."

Dean's eyes lit up with a holy fire. "Yes! Yes! A sign! We'll
eat, we'll drink, we'll find the secret heart of this night!"
He was up, a force of nature in scuffed shoes.

The five dollars became a gallon of red wine, a loaf of bread,
and a chunk of yellow cheese. We drove to the edge of the city,
to a hill overlooking the vast, twinkling plain. The lights of
Denver were a promise, a dream, a million separate lives we would
never know. We passed the wine, the bottle glugging in the cold
air.

Marylou sat apart, her knees drawn to her chin, staring at the
city. "What are we doing, Dean?" she asked, her voice small.
"Really doing?"

Dean stopped his manic monologue about the beauty of the Rocky
Mountain night and the meaning of IT. He looked at her, really
looked, and for a second the mask slipped. I saw the tired, scared
kid from the reform school, the ghost in the machine. softening.
"Why, darling," he said, his voice softening. "We're living. That's
all. We're just... living. And when you're living, you're digging
everything there is to dig, because it's all part of the great,
mad, glorious dream. He put his arms around her, and she leaned
into him, a brief tender moment in the long rush.

We drank until the wine was gone and the stars turned into one
smeared light. We talked about everything and nothing, our words
tumbling into the vast American night. We were together, on the
road, broke and free, and for that one moment, on a nameless hill
under a billion stars, it was everything. It was enough. Then
Dean jumped up. "Okay! Now! Let's go find Roy Johnson! He'll be
at the pool hall! The night is young!" And the moment was gone,
shattered by the next frantic impulse, and we piled back into
the car, roaring towards the next thing, always the next thing,
the holy, beat, and crazy next thing.

---

Ned

--
Noah Sombrero mustachioed villain
Don't get political with me young man
or I'll tie you to a railroad track and
<<<talk>>> to <<<YOOooooo>>>
Who dares to talk to El Sombrero?
dares: Ned
does not dare: Julian shrinks in horror and warns others away

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