Atop an Underwood

by Jack Kerouac

  The American merchant seaman stood in the middle of the crowd outside Royal Albert Hall in London. It was getting dark fast. Across the street, in Kensington Gardens where he had just been sitting, the September winds drove the leaves scattering. It was getting so dark you could hardly see the leaves fly.

  No lights came on.

  Standing in the middle of the crowd, the American seaman felt lonelier than ever before in his life. He wished that he knew someone, wished that he had a girl on his arm (like the girl he had seen that afternoon on Threadneedle Street), wished that he could jostle around and kid with a bunch of pals. But he was alone, and their strange, swift talk sounded foreign. He lit a cigarette and knew that they could see his face.

  What is it like, he thought, to live around here and come to the symphony on Saturday nights? What kind of apartments do they live in, what books do they read, what do they think about in this neighborhood?

  The crowd surged forward as the doors were swung open.

  The great hall hummed with their quiet talk. The seaman sat down and took off his black leather jacket. He looked at the program. Then he looked around. The Britishers, mostly young men and women, waited patiently with contented decorum, talking now and then in low tones. They seemed to know the value of what they were about to see and hear. The seats filled quickly.

  Then Barbirolli waddled onstage and mounted the podium. After a soft applause, he raised his baton. Everyone was still. The music began, faint and sweet and distant at first, then grave with melancholy and growing louder ...

  The seaman leaned back and thought: Oh music, speak ... Oh I am lonely, Oh I am so far from home, Oh the sea separates me from everything, Oh beautiful music speak to me.

  During the intermission, the American seaman opened a conversation with the British soldier in the next seat. The soldier’s name was John, like the seaman, and he carried a copy of T. S. Eliot’s “East Coker.”

  “What do you think of it?” inquired the American.

  The soldier considered for a moment. “It has fine sentiment, I think. I like it a good deal ...”

  “I do too,” said the American.

  When the crowd surged out of Royal Albert Hall later, the world was darker than darkness. The American seaman blinked, looking around for his new friend. His friend had a small torch. “Here I am,” he called, waving his torch. “Come on. Let’s go to Piccadilly. We’ll have a spot of bitters.”

  “Swell,” said the seaman. “How do we get there?”

  “Oh, we’ll walk. It’s pleasant walking in the blackout, and I know the way well. It’s only a mile or so.”

  They began to stride swiftly through the straggling crowds. Everywhere, small torches flashed on and then off, throwing dances of light all over. People laughed and hummed and talked and whistled and called one another, but all the American could see was darkness and the play of small lights. It smelled like an October night in New England.

  “Say,” he said, “I love blackouts.”

  “So do I,” said the British soldier cheerfully. “We’ve come to love them now, not hate them. I suspect we’ll miss them when the war is over. Rather cheerful in a way, and friendly don’t you think?”

  “That’s just what I was going to say! Friendly ...”

  In a pub on Piccadilly, the seaman and the British soldier met an American soldier downstairs in the latrine. He was from Philadelphia, and very lonely. He had been in England for a year and a half, and he was very glad to meet the American seaman and his British friend. They went upstairs for a spot of bitters.

  The pub was full of American soldiers and a few girls. They had a few glasses of black, lukewarm stout and some bitters, and then left the pub to go out in blacked-out Piccadilly. The soldier from Philadelphia was also called John. The three Johns strolled arm in arm.

  In another pub, they drank Scotch and got drunk. They began to sing and shout and push one another and were gay. They swaggered down the dark, crowded streets pushing everyone and laughing with the crowd. Once, a taxicab fender nudged at the American seaman’s trousers gently before moving on in the darkness. It was as though the machine itself, now that the driver could not see, had taken over in matters of traffic.

  The three Johns strode down the street carrying whiskey glasses filled to the brim. The American seaman sat on a curbstone and drank his Scotch; then he got up and whistled loudly through his fingers. Everybody was talking and laughing in the darkness, flashing their torches about. When you bumped into a small, soft body, it meant a girl; and when you bumped against hard khaki, it meant a soldier. Everybody flashed their torches to see who they had bumped into, and then laughed when they saw who it was. It was wonderful.

  The seaman, arm in arm with the other two Johns, bumped into a small, soft body. The girl flashed her torch in the seaman’s face. He leaned over and kissed the girl and then bit her ear gently.

  “Oh honey,” she said.

  “Ah!” cried John from Philadelphia. There were two girls, arm in arm, the blonde and a brunette. The British soldier grabbed the brunette and kissed her. Everything was fine, and John from Philadelphia began to sing.

  “Let’s all go to bed together,” he cried. “In the same big bed!”

  “In the syme baid!” gasped the blonde, as the American seaman smelled her hair. “Wot’s the idea o’ that?”

  “What the hell!” cried John from Philadelphia. “Why not? We’re all here, ain’t we?”

  “Oi dunno ...” said the blonde.

  “We have money,” said the British soldier.

  “Sure!” cried the American seaman, rifling his pockets. He threw all the tram tickets out of his pocket and pulled out a ten shilling note. “See?”

  “That’s only ten bob,” said the blonde girl.

  “What the hell’s wrong with ten bobs!” howled the seaman. “Ten bobs is ten bobs!”

  John from Philadelphia laughed: “It’s only worth two bucks, Johnny.”

  “Two bucks?”

  “Never mind, I have money. I have eight pounds.”

  “Eight pounds?” echoed the blonde. The brunette hugged the British soldier reassuringly.

  It developed that the girls refused to go to bed with the whole lot of them, in the same big bed. This would not do. The three Johns did not like the idea.

  But the blonde edged over to the American seaman and bit his ear hard. He offered to give her his return trip ticket to Liverpool for a night of love, but it developed that he had thrown the ticket away with the worthless tram tickets a few streets back. He was almost broke, and stranded in London. But he didn’t mind that. He felt wonderful, and he wanted the blonde.

  John from Philadelphia took the American seaman’s hand and put five pound notes in it.

  “Here’s twenty bucks, Johnny. That should be enough.”

  “Wait a minute,” cried the seaman. “What about you, John? And you John?”

  The British soldier put his hand on the seaman’s shoulder: “I don’t like the blonde’s partner,” he whispered. “You go ahead with the blonde.”

  “Wait a minute,” said the seaman. The blonde tugged at his jacket. “What about you?” he cried.

  “That’s all right,” said John from Philadelphia. “It’s not every day I meet a fine buddy like you. Take that money. She’s a lovely little blonde.”

  “But what about you?”

  “I’m glad to do you the favor,” said John. “You have my address, you can send it back some day.”

  “Wait a minute,” said the seaman.

  “Go ahead, Johnny.”

  “But wait ... How can you trust me?”

  “I know I can,” said John from Philadelphia. The brunette took the British soldier’s arm and whispered in his ear. They went off a few yards away toward the alley entrance.

  The seaman tried to look at the money in his hand, but he couldn’t see a thing. “Come on,” whispered the blonde. “Darling, I can’t wyte.”

  Suddenly, John from Philadel
phia was gone off into the blackout.

  The seaman called: “John! Hey John!”

  He wanted to hug John from Philadelphia, but he was gone off alone into the blackout.

  The next morning, the American seaman left the hotel and shuffled toward the American Red Cross in London. His hands were deep in his trouser pockets. He was broke and had a headache.

  He went into the American Bar on Oxford street and bought a glass of cold beer with his last sixpence. The bar was full of American soldiers. They sat ranged along the stools, at the tables, talking quietly.

  The seaman tried to remember what the blonde had looked like, but he couldn’t.

  A soldier was talking nearby.

  “All the way from Southampton riding in the baggage car with a bunch of Aussies. Hell! Seats only in first class ...”

  “That’s the way it is, Mike,” said the other soldier. “But let me tell you one thing. There won’t be no first class in the damned invasion ...

  “That’s the ticket, brother!”

  The seaman got up and left the American Bar. He couldn’t for the life of him remember what the blonde looked like. All he could remember was the face of John from Philadelphia.

  The Two Americans

  When Kerouac sent the following story to a prospective employer in 1943, he attached a note that sheds light on this work. He wrote: “The following short story is not at all the one I had intended to submit to you. The story itself is interesting (and true, by the way: I witnessed such a tableau in an English train), but to my mind it is not as well written as the other. If, by any chance, you are not satisfied with this one, I shall be only too glad to submit the other story, which, is at New Yorker at the moment. I have no duplicate copy of that story, but should hear from New Yorker within four or five days. I wrote the following story on board a Liberty ship on the way back from London. ”

  Living in New York at the time, Kerouac was looking for a job as a script synopsizer in the movie business: “I feel it can give me training to write scripts of my own later, and may, at the same time, give me a sufficient footing with a Hollywood company. The money would keep me going until I should finish the novel.” He was working on Two Worlds for a New One, a “remake” of his eighty-thousand word novel The Sea Is My Brother.

  The train from London to Liverpool rolled along toward Derby across the English countryside. A purplish-red sun sank toward the hills charming the soft green slopes with a strange rose light.

  In the dining car, the waiters cleared away the dishes, brushed off the tablecloths, and set plates and silverware for the last group of diners.

  Two R.A.F. men entered the dining car and sat opposite one another at a table. They gazed for a long while out of the window at the sheep grazing in the fields, at the little villages sliding past with windows aflame and streets shadowed blue, at the narrow rivers idling toward the horizon, and said nothing.

  An American soldier sauntered to their table, nodded, and sat down.

  The waiter placed four napkins on the table and moved on to distribute napkins to the other diners. A London-bound train flared past the window and was suddenly gone. In the brief seconds that had passed, the light in the fields had deepened.

  “Nice sunset,” said the American soldier, rubbing his hands together.

  One of the R.A.F. men leaned over with a look of swift, frantic eagerness: “Pardon?”

  “Nice sunset.”

  “Oh! Yes! Yes indeed!”—smiling warmly, proudly—“By all means, it is.lovely.”

  The other R.A.F. man nodded proudly, smiling.

  The American soldier withdrew a package of Lucky Strikes from his hip pocket and offered them around. Nodding assent, their faces aglow in an almost monotonous cheer, the two Britishers pulled the cigarettes carefully from the package and examined the trademarks with polite curiosity. One of them plunged for his lighter and was offering the American a light before he had had time to place his own cigarette to his mouth.

  “Thanks,” he mumbled, frowning and inhaling deeply.

  “Lucky Strikes,” read one of the R.A.F. men. “That’s America’s largest selling brand, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t really know, but it’s my favorite. How do you like them?”

  “Oh, wonderful!” beamed the Britisher. “You are fortunate in that your cigarette manufacturers buy the best in tobaccos. Absurdly enough, you know, British manufacturers make it a policy to buy the cheapest hodge-podge mixtures available.”

  “Yeh?”

  They all sat back and smoked, watching the sunset in a nervous, tentative silence.

  A colored American soldier was standing next to their table glancing around the dining car, trying to decide where to sit for his dinner. A waiter motioned him to the nearest table. The colored soldier sat down beside the R.A.F. man who faced the other two and straightened his tie with a quick movement of thick brown fingers.

  Again, the two R.A.F. men smiled warmly and eagerly. The Negro grinned around the table, but when his glance met the white soldier’s, the grin faded to a look of casual recognition. Both Americans dropped their eyes, and then simultaneously turned their heads toward the window. The two R.A.F. men were lost in thought.

  The waiter placed four glasses and a pitcher of water on the table.

  “Sausages tonight,” said the waiter. “And three varieties of vegetable!” He stood by the table with sly anticipation.

  “Three!?” blurted one of the R.A.F. men. “Goodness!”

  The waiter winked at the American soldier: “That’s right. Three! Boiled potatoes, mashed potatoes, and fried potatoes!” He guffawed, slapped the Negro soldier on the shoulder, and went off. The Britishers chuckled, and then one of them turned to the Negro and said: “That’s one to take back home with you, isn’t it.”

  The Negro shook his head in puzzled amazement: “Man, I dunno how you people can stand it. Back home we used to eat five times as much. Evertime I leave camp on a leave, I gets so hungry I cain’t see!”

  The two R.A.F. men laughed heartily. One of them addressed the white soldier.

  “And do you find it the same?”

  The white soldier had been looking away, but upon being addressed, turned his head slowly.

  “I say, we were just commenting on the food situation here,” prompted the R.A.F. man, “and our friend here informs us that back home in the States you people eat five times as much as we do. Is that literally true, really?”

  The white soldier shrugged and said: “I suppose so.”

  “Yes,” echoed the Britisher vaguely, glancing at his companion with a small, lost look.

  “Quite remarkable,” his companion mumbled. They turned and fixed their attention on the countryside.

  “You got small trains here,” spoke the Negro. “Man, I ain’t never seen such small engines and boxcars.”

  The two R.A.F. men grinned back quickly.

  “That’s so,” one observed. “But there is a reason for it, you know. England is a relatively tiny country, and our trains have to do a considerable amount of shuttling. Whereas in America, I understand, the distances are so much vaster and the distribution of rail so less complex. Don’t you think so?”

  “Yeh, I think you’re right. Them old freight trains picks up the miles and lays them down, and I ain’t kiddin’.”

  The two Britishers laughed loudly.

  “Tell us,” one continued, “what part of the States are you from.”

  “Chicago.”

  “Chicago! That’s in Illinois, isn’t it?”

  The Negro grinned. “That’s right.”

  “And where are you from?” inquired the R.A.F. man of the white soldier. Both Britishers awaited his answer with heads tilted identically for intelligent perception of this information.

  The white soldier paused.

  “I’m from Birmingham, Alabama.”

  “Indeed. Alabama. A lovely state, I am told.”

  “It’s all right.”

  The two R
.A.F. men glanced quickly out the window. One of them tapped his finger on the tablecloth. Both their faces had suddenly frozen into an inscrutable blankness. Outside, the contours of the purplish landscape moved past majestically, like a gigantic turntable. The sun had disappeared.

  “Lucky?”

  The colored soldier was holding out a package of Lucky Strikes over the center of the table. First one, then the other R.A.F. man nodded brightly and helped himself, with the one again plunging into his pocket for the lighter.

  The Negro offered his pack to the white soldier, but the latter was looking away.

  “Cigarette?” prompted the Negro.

  The white soldier turned his head slowly, stared first at the pack, then at the Negro soldier, and then shook his head with heavy finality. He looked away again, his lips compressed, his eyes lidded.

  The two R.A.F. men glanced at each other for a split second and then looked out the window.

  “Light?” The Negro soldier was holding out a burning match.

  The R.A.F. men stared dumbly at the unlit lighter in his hand. “Oh, yes. Thanks so much,” he mumbled. The smoke rose from the table in a fragrant puff.

  “Wonderful cigarette, Luckies,” said the other R.A.F man.

  The Negro soldier grinned proudly.

  “Come,” began the other Britisher, brightening up, “tell us about Chicago. It must be a magnificent city!”

  • • •

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  Acknowledgments

  Jack Kerouac often mentioned his beginnings as a writer. He told us about the nickel-notebook novels he wrote at eleven years old. We are indebted to him for preserving his manuscripts and papers. Of everyone I must thank for help in preparing this book, Kerouac is the first person to acknowledge; it is his book.