Atop an Underwood

by Jack Kerouac

  The following Fall, at Columbia, I returned a kickoff against Princeton Frosh 85 yards to the Princeton 5-yard line and was carried off the field with a broken leg. I was actually glad; now I would have all of my time to myself and for studies. I wrote movie reviews for the Columbia Spectator, covered the varsity track team in the winter; ran a one-man typing agency, did some more ghost-writing, was elected Vice-President of the class, tutored French, and worked as private secretary for Prof. Eugene Sheffer of the French department. I helped Prof. Sheffer edit and translate his French textbook, typed out the whole manuscript, and even ventured definitions for his daily Journal-American crossword puzzle. We became fast friends; I wrote voluminously and took all my plays and stories to him. At this time, I had begun to read Thomas Wolfe and would spend entire nights roaming New York until dawn. I wrote and wrote, sending stories to all the better magazines (New Yorker, Esquire, Harper’s, etc.), but without success [....]

  Repulsion May Race Here in Exhibition Feature!! Mighty Kerouac Gelding Would Attract Many Fans; Don Pablo, Mighty 1935 Champion, May Race Repulsion!

  The following is a back-page feature from the Daily Owl of February 6, 1936, a twenty-cent horse racing newspaper from Pawtucket Racetrack created by thirteen-year-old Jack Kerouac. The front of the two-sided, hand-printed sheet is headlined “3 Day Meet Launched at Pawtucket.” The long subhead reads: “Vermont Oval has the Finest Crop of Jockeys, but no High-Class Horses; Col. E. R. Bradley Brings out Six of his 3-yr. old Maidens; Lewis, Morriss, Myet at Track; Kerouac, Tortar Barns Present!” Between 1936 and 1938 Kerouac produced an amazing array of sports news publications filled with reports on real-world and make-believe sporting events and characters. Among these “newspapers” were Romper’s Sheet, Sports: Down Pat, Racing News, the Sportsman, Turf Authority, Jack Lewis’s 1937 Chatterturf, the Daily Ball, Sports of Today, Jack Lewis’s Baseball Chatter, and the Daily Owl. The publications were either carefully printed in pencil or typed as single-spaced sheets (without errors). In them we see the teenaged Kerouac as sports reporter, columnist, and statistician, consumed with the texture of the different contests and colorful personalities. His peppy writing style and intricate records lift these early efforts beyond the hobby-time doodling of a typical boy. Interestingly, some of the publications are long, densely typed sheets filled top to bottom like later manuscripts Kerouac produced.

  Pawtucket Park, Montpelier, Vt.:—Repulsion, mighty son of Khorasan, 1936 Champion candidate, is expected to stop here on his way to Sarah Springs for the distinguished Spring meet and Preakness. Don Pablo, great gigantic 1935 King, may also stop here and Jock Dennis hopes it will be in time for Repulsion’s race. This match would attract at least 16,000 race goers, figures the little owner of Pawtucket.

  Down at Sarah Springs, the colorful scene of fair ladies and rich gentlemen, flying banners and of course the historical Derby, Spotlight and yearly Preakness.

  These three stakes may compare with the Vermont Derby. Although the class is lacking for that race, it is going to be a historical feature.

  Even last year, men were chatting about this time (in February) about the Massachusetts Derby. Well may they talk about the Vermont. Repulsion, widely known as the fastest runner ever put out since racing history began, will attract many. Ranking as the world’s champion, Repulsion should win the small race in which he will race in here but Don Pablo may be on hand, but yet the latter has had a serious leg injury.

  Today, E. R. Bradley’s highly touted Lena Cardoza will start in the Pawtucket Hi-Stakes with Onrush, Brevity, Sisowen and other stars. Rustic Joe, Mac Tortar’s entry for that race and Boake Dobbin’s Blue John are the old boys that will start. Blue John, a clever veteran campaigner can easily beat the field of ten. Rhodius, Mac Tortar’s sensational three yr. old that improves with every start, is making his first start since racing in the Hopeful in December. Boake Dobbin’s Brevity, another highly touted colt, also will have something to say.

  from Football Novella

  The following excerpt carries familiar Kerouac motifs: American road voyager, wayward collegian, and football hero. Kerouac sent the manuscript of this novella (written when he was sixteen years old) to a reader with a note addressed “Dear Margaret,” most likely Margaret Wiley, one of the professors of his friend Sebastian Sampas at Emerson College in Boston. Kerouac explained to Margaret that he stopped writing just before the undefeated State U. team was about to face State College in the climactic Thanksgiving Day game. He then attached to the novella sixteen pages from another story, with the character name changes scratched in, and outlined the climax on another sheet. At this point in the story the coach had moved the main character, Bill Clancy, to a running back position:

  With a great bull-like, madly determined, tormented run Bill Clancy charges down the field with tears of fury in his eyes. He just doesn’t want to be stopped. They hit him several times; he shakes them off. One Trojan tackler gets him by the neck and becomes momentarily his streamer and banner, and drops off. Big State linemen, particularly Bill’s friend George Baker, throw great body-blocks that clear Bill’s path, and he makes it down to the goal-line by crashing over with four men (two from each team), on him and in front of him: they all fall over the goal-line. Touchdown . . . State 12, Trojans 7. The run characterizes Bill’s general determination throughout the story.

  Harrison McCoy himself is so moved that he makes up with Bill in the lockers, so that after the game, amid wild celebration of a great hard victory (as distinguished from all the easy victories heretofore), McCoy himself suggests Bill & Barbara join him and his new girl to the ball. The human solution is everyone forgetting grievances, and rival lovers finding themselves appropriate mates. Which is also the way Clancy wanted it ... because earlier he “doesn’t like to fight with anybody.”

  In a notebook entry from February 15, 1950, Kerouac described the emerging central figure for his novel On the Road as “closer to Bill Clancy, the football-hero-hobo I wrote at sixteen; also closer to Wesley Martin of ‘The Sea is My Brother’ [....]”

  CHAPTER ONE

  Old Chet Hingham was the first to see Bill Clancy. At least, he was the first member of the Brierville township to see him.

  It was a sultry August afternoon, and Old Chet was sitting at his usual post at the railroad crossing, reading the Brierville News. As he remembered it, he also had a copy of the State University Crier with him, which Scotty Cobb had just brought him that morning.

  Way up the tracks, Old Chet could see a tiny speck come crawling along. After a few minutes, he could make out the figure of a young man with a pack on his back, walking the rail like an expert. A few more minutes elapsed, and Old Chet could hear the tune of “My Wild Irish Rose” come drifting over the rails.

  At first, Old Chet had told the story later on, he didn’t pay much attention to this bum. But when he had approached the crossing to such an extent that Old Chet could make out the sun-burnt, clean cut features shaded by an old felt hat . . . . Old Chet took an interest and put down his paper to study him as he passed by.

  But he didn’t have a chance to do it quietly. The young fellow stopped and addressed Old Chet: “How do you do. Could I possibly get a drink of water inside that box of yours?”

  “What box?” asked Old Chet, disturbed.

  “Why that thing you live in, I suppose. It’s right in back of you. Can’t you see it?” And he had the audacity to point out Old Chet’s cherished railroad shack with his finger.

  Now, Old Chet Hingham was pretty particular about his railroad crossing shack. It wasn’t big, nor was it fancy.... but Old Chet had been working in front of that shack for twenty-eight years. And inside, it graced the finest gate-tending equipment in the county. Naturally, Old Chet fumed immediately.

  “Look here, you scoundrel, what makes you think you have the right to call this shack of mine a ‘Box.’ I ought to be several years younger; I’d teach you a lesson or two!”

  The young man had a charming smile, an
d when he turned it on, Old Chet Hingham couldn’t help but like him a little bit despite his disparaging remarks.

  “If you want a drink of water, just wait outside here,” Old Chet finally said. “I’ll get you some.”

  “Thank you very much,” the young man had said, the smile still creasing his bronzed face. “I’ll need it.”

  From inside, while he filled a quart bottle full of water, Old Chet called out: “Where you from?”

  “Nowheres,” had been the calm answer. “I’m just drifting along.”

  Old Chet came out with the bottle of water.

  “You mean to say that you haven’t even got a home!”

  “Well, not exactly,” said the younger, draining the bottle in record time.

  “Well, where is your home?” queried Old Chet suspiciously.

  “I was born in Arkansas,” answered the bedraggled youth. “I left home a couple of years ago to go on my own hook.”

  “What did your Paw say to that?” asked Old Chet, sitting down on his stool in front of the shack.

  “He died before I was born, and my Maw died when I was five years old. Instead of sticking around with my aunt and my sisters, I figgered it would be better for them if I jest drifted off. Nobody even noticed it much.”

  Old Chet got to like the boy from then on. He was interested, and wanted to know more: “What you been doin’?”

  “Well,” smiled the youngster, seating himself on the ground and leaning back on the shack, his eyes pointed to the sky. “I’ve been drifting for four years now. Up in Vermont, I was cuttin’ trees. When I passed through Virginia, I worked on a tobacco farm. I can remember the job I had on a wheat ranch in Kansas. I don’t reckon it would be very interesting listening, all those four years. Except maybe one year.”

  “What was that?” asked Old Chet, carefully studying the youngster.

  The latter took out an old corn-cob pipe and began to fill it.

  “Believe it or not,” he went on, “I went to College.”

  “You don’t say!” ejaculated Old Chet. “Why, we have a college right here in Brierville. State University.”

  “Have you? Well, this college I went to was out in the Middle West. One day I was throwin’ rocks over the river, I forget which one. A whole day I had been standin’ near the highway, tryin’ to get a ride. Well, I took a little rest and got throwin’ rocks for the exercise. A man in a nice coupe stopped and watched me for a while. When I turned around, he offered me a ride. The next day, I was all set for College. He was the baseball coach out there, and he said I had the best throwing arm he had ever seen. I played centerfield in the Spring on the team, and got sick of college in June. I stuck it out till the Freshman year was over, and I took to the road again. I wonder what Coach Billings must of thought of me!”

  “And you didn’t like college?” asked Old Chet.

  “No, not much. I stuck it out for a whole year, and then I hit the road. I travel by hitchhiking and hopping freights.”

  “Must be sort of exciting.”

  “Well,” said Bill Clancy, puffing his corn-cob pipe. “I figger I’ll stick to drifting until I feel like settling down on a permanent job.”

  “How on earth,” asked Old Chet, “do you manage to eat three meals a day?”

  “Sometimes I stop in on a town and wash dishes in a restaurant for a couple of days or so. I get myself up enough money to eat for a few weeks, and leave. I don’t like to stay in the same place long.”

  Up the tracks, the 2:57 was coming, heralded by a long mournful wail which traveled over the rails toward the two men at the crossing. Old Chet got up leisurely and went to work on the controls. The two long poles, striped black and white, dropped down parallel to the rails. For the first time, young Bill Clancy glanced about him and inspected Brierville. The train roared louder and louder until it thundered across the crossing, throwing a wind which knocked Bill’s felt hat from his head.

  When it had disappeared around the bend, Bill got up with his pack in his hands.

  “Thanks a lot for the drink, Mister,” he had said. “Now, if you could tell me where the restaurant is around here, I think I could stand a few days of this little burgh . . . .”

  “Just down the street,” said Old Chet, smiling for the first time. “Good luck to ye!”

  “The same to you,” shot back Bill. According to Old Chet, Bill Clancy had crossed the tracks and headed into the center of Brierville lustily whistling “My Wild Irish Rose.”

  “I swear,” Old Chet had said. “That kid is going to do something big right here in Brierville. I have a feeling he will ....”

  Old Chet swore he’d said that, that very same sultry afternoon.

  [....]

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The day of the Blaine game had arrived. Thousands of cars, down for the game from the big industrial towns up north, were milling about the streets of little Brierville.

  Blaine College, a set-up for the big State juggernaut, had arrived the night before after a trip of 400 miles. The team had stayed at the inn.

  Nesmith Stadium was the scene of excitement. Just before game time, with the gridiron all spick and span, white lines and goal posts intact, the bands began to blare and the crowd began to arrive.

  When State’s brilliant blue and white colors came out on the field, worn by two dozen husky football players, the roar went up from the stands. The cavernous maw which had enveloped the players in practice now seemed to be turbulent with life.

  The starting lineup began to run through their paces, a short signal drill. Then the backs began to punt and pass, and the linemen running about. Bill Clancy, who was to start at right guard, was thoroughly awed by the vastness of the big football scene. His roommate, Manny Martin, ran beside him at right tackle.

  “Wassamatter, Bill? Excited, nervous?” said the rangy tackle. “I dunno,” muttered Bill, running his stubby hand through his brown hair. “It sure is a big crowd.”

  “Wait till the rest of it arrives. As a matter of fact, wait till the big game of the year on Thanksgiving Day!” replied Martin.

  “Who’s the team then?”

  Martin said with a very suggestive expression: “State College!”

  Coach Bob Alexander and Assistant Coach Joe Neal stood nearby, watching their charges dash about. The other team, Blaine, had now come out on the field. The stands continued to fill up, until Bill thought they would burst with corpulence.

  Bill Clancy, however, had little to worry about. Barbara Barnard and he had been seeing plenty of each other in the past week, after that first official meeting at the Town Hall dance. Bill could still remember the dances with her, and the walk home, and the joking about their first meeting.

  And when Bill had met Barbara on the campus, she had greeted him warily. Harrison McCoy, originally known as her beau, had now stepped into the background in favor. And this was known all over the University.

  As a result, the enmity between Bill Clancy and Harrison McCoy—both of them strong candidates for All-America-had become a real feud. Both of them were angling for the same girl—and both of them had disliked each other at the first meeting. The natural result was a seething hatred on the part of McCoy, an uncomfortable dislike on the part of Bill.

  Now, the game was almost ready to begin. George Baker, who had been elected captain of the varsity eleven just a few days previous, was towering over the officials and the Blaine captain out in the middle of the field. A team which has a hugely proportioned captain like George Baker always has a psychological edge over the other team. The coin was tossed, and State was to receive.

  Coach Alexander got the team lined up and sent them through a final short signal drill.

  The moment Bob Alexander’s State eleven began to run through their plays, newspapermen in the stands immediately sensed the odor of champs. The pressbox was afire with excitement. The radio hookup man was excitedly jabbering away.

  “What may prove to be the year’s finest football eleven in co
llege ranks can be seen down on the field this fine afternoon, running through its paces like a perfectly geared machine.”

  The backfield, composed of Felix Henderson at the quarter, who had now forgotten the first day of Bill Clancy’s football career and had become one of Bill’s finest friends; Harrison McCoy, the highly heralded halfback; Ben Barnouw, the passing ace; and Lou Ginelli, the big Italian fullback line-plunger, was called in by Coach Alexander for a final word. The linemen then received their instructions, after which the entire eleven joined hands before going out on the field to receive the kickoff from Blaine.

  Barbara Barnard was seated up in the stands with her father, Professor Barnard, and with Scotty Cobb. She and Scotty had become inseparable, although hardly in an amorous way. Among others in the vast crowd were Big Gertie, Old Chet Hingham, and the faculty of the University. Almost everybody in Brierville was in the stands.

  And then the kickoff. The ball, gyrating end-over-end, came down on State ten yard line, where Big Lou Ginelli picked it up. He returned it to the forty-seven yard line, plunging straight ahead, with the State team blocking beautifully. And so the State football season had begun.

  On the play, Bill Clancy had had a huge lump in his throat just before the kickoff. As soon as he had seen the ball go sailing over his head and beyond him to the State backs, he had sorted out a Blaine man to take out. And this he did. He hit him head on, flattening the unsuspecting Blaine player out on the green, and falling on top of him to hold him intact.

  The game was on. The highly vaunted State University team was ready to show whether or not it was the mighty team it has been predicted to be, even against the weak Blaine eleven.

  On the first play, Harrison McCoy was in the tailback. But the ball was snapped to a short back, Ginelli, and the latter plowed into the Blaine line like an elephant through the jungle grass. He made six yards before crumpling underneath the weight of four men.