by Jack Kerouac
After months at sea Peter was only too pleased to supply the necessary fuel for Levinsky’s talk. “I’ve been to Kenny’s house only once and I met his father and great-grandmother. The old lady is close to a hundred years old and she still remembers old Abilene—”
“What is that?” demanded Levinsky, impatient and curious.
“That’s where they made their fortune, way back. It’s an old cow-town in Kansas … it was very wild in those days.”
“Oh, never mind that nonsense. I want to know about them—I want something intelligent—”
“I’m telling you! His father is a handsome sort of man-about-town who’s in some business on Wall Street. His mother’s divorced and remarried to an Austrian count. How’s that?”
“Hmm,” mused Levinsky. “Then they still have money. Where do they live, what kind of a place is it?”
“It’s an apartment towers on the East River, swanky as hell.”
“What’s his father like? What does he think?”
“How should I know!”
“The grandmother, the grandmother!” cried Levinsky—“what’s her value, what’s her vision, give me information!”
“Man, how annoying you do get!” spoke up Junkey suddenly with an earnest glance at Levinsky. “Give him a chance to get his bearings, the guy’s been at sea, he’s trying to relax and enjoy himself, ever since we’ve been sitting here you’ve been telling him what’s wrong with him”—and with this Junkey returned his agonized gaze to the window.
“That’s true,” admitted Levinsky, deeply absorbed, “but it’s somehow beside the point.” And he suddenly giggled again, but in a moment fixed Peter with his beady glittering eyes. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of Waldo Meister?”
“A little … not much.”
“Waldo Meister is a dilettante. It seems that he is a friend of Kenneth’s family, a friend of his father’s through some old business matters. They’re all rich, don’t you see!”
“Who?”
“Kenny and his family, Waldo Meister, and, of course, Dennison—all these evil figures of decayed families.”
“What’s evil about them?”
“I shall tell you, but first:—it seems that Waldo is a rare and curious person. He has only one arm. He’s ugly, quite horrible, but impressive sort of. That is, impressive to everyone but Kenny Wood, who is eviler than Waldo somehow.”
“What are you raving about!” cried Peter, frowning. “I shipped out with Kenny Wood, he’s just a happy-go-lucky kid. What are you trying to say?”
“Don’t give me that simple stuff. Nothing is simple, everything is complex and evil and audacious too … and that goes for your Kenny Wood. And let’s not start arguing about simple normal happy-go-lucky Americans. Let me talk. Waldo is an execrable man straight out of some fin-de-siècle romance, a decaying Dorian Gray, a monster, and finally, a magician of darkness.—I’m using these symbols in a poem incidentally—an evil magician surrounded by the decline of the West on all sides … despised like Philoctetes, avoided, yet hypnotic and compelling … a doctor of horror, an organ-grinder of the angels surrounded by the vulgar pigeons of the West.”
“What’s all this?”
“I’m just amusing myself. To continue: out of the pure madness of his position in the world, this amazing Waldo Meister has turned right around to foist an even greater madness upon the world. There being only one person in the world who openly berates him for his physical disability, who openly despises him, mocks him, taunts him—your so-called simple-kid Kenny Wood—Waldo turns right around and refuses the company of anyone else but Kenny himself. A really sordid yet angelic situation. Strange angels.”
“Kenny wouldn’t mock a cripple. Who is this man?”
“I was coming to that. Before Waldo lost his arm in an automobile crackup, he was a close friend of Dennison’s, they went to the same private school together, later to Princeton, they knew Kenny through his father, who was a gay blade and was everywhere, and when Kenny began drinking as a youngster he went out on binges with them. He was driving the car one night drunk, only about fourteen years old, and cracked it up somewhere in Long Island, and one of the girls in the party almost died from injuries.”
“I never knew about that crackup. I knew Kenny was a wild guy but I never knew about this Waldo guy,” uttered Peter vaguely.
“Can’t you see what an amazing situation it is?—Kenny is responsible for Waldo’s physical defect, and he mocks him for it, and Waldo accepts his mockery with gratitude almost. It’s the most evil and symbolic and decadent situation!—amazing! But I have a million other things to tell you, it all fits into the picture, a great canvas of disintegration and sheer horror. Right across the street from here there’s an amusement center—see it there?” he pointed eagerly. “It’s called the Nickel-O, see the big sign?—and there you have, at around four in the morning, the final scenes of disintegrative decay: old drunks, whores, queers, all kinds of characters, hoods, junkies, all the castoffs of bourgeois society milling in there, with nothing to do really but just stay there, sheltered from the darkness as it were.
“You see how bright the lights are?—they have those horrible bluish neons that illuminate every pore of your skin, your whole soul finally, and when you go in there among all the children of the sad American paradise, you can only stare at them, in a Benzedrine depression, don’t you see, or with that sightless stare that comes from too much horror. All faces are blue and greenish and sickly livid. In the end, everyone looks like a Zombie, you realize that everyone is dead, locked up in the sad psychoses of themselves. It goes on all night, everyone milling around uncertainly among the ruins of bourgeois civilization, seeking each other, don’t you see, but so stultified by their upbringings somehow, or by the disease of the age, that they can only stumble about and stare indignantly at one another.”
“A mad description of the Nickel-O if I ever heard one,” remarked Junkey with approval.
“But there’s more to it than that!” cried Levinsky, almost jumping up and down. “Under the bluish lights you’re able to see all the defects of the skin, they all look as though they’re falling apart.” He giggled here. “Really! You see monstrous blemishes or great hairs sticking out of moles or peeling scars—they take on a greenish tint under the lights and look really frightful. Everybody looks like a geek!”
“A geek?”
“The drunkards or addicts or whatnot who eat the heads off live chickens at carnivals … didn’t you ever hear about geeks? Oh, the whole point’s there!” he cried happily. “Everybody in the world has come to feel like a geek … can’t you see it? Can’t you sense what’s going on around you? All the neurosis and the restrictive morality and the scatological repressions and the suppressed aggressiveness has finally gained the upper hand on humanity—everyone is becoming a geek! Everyone feels like a Zombie, and somewhere at the ends of the night, the great magician, the great Dracula-figure of modern disintegration and madness, the wise genius behind it all, the Devil if you will, is running the whole thing with his string of oaths and his hexes.”
“I don’t know,” said Peter. “I don’t believe I feel like a geek yet. I don’t think I’ll buy that.”
“Oh, come, come! Then why do you have to mention it, why do you have to deny it?” grinned Levinsky slyly. “Really, now, I know you, I can tell that you have horrible guilt-feelings, it’s written all over you, and you’re confused by it, you don’t know what it is. Admit it at least. As a matter of fact you told me once yourself.”
“Admit what?”
“That you feel guilty of something, you feel unclean, almost diseased, you have nightmares, you have occasional visions of horror, feelings of spiritual geekishness—Don’t you see, everybody feels like that now.”
“I have a feeling like that,” stammered Peter, almost blushing, “that is … of being guilty, but I don’t know, it’s the war and everything, I think, the guys I knew who got killed, things like that. And well, h
ell!—things aren’t like they used to be before the war.” For a moment he was almost afraid that there was some truth in Levinsky’s insane idea, certainly he had never felt so useless and foolish and sorrowful before in his life.
“It’s more than that,” pursued Levinsky with a long, indulgent, sarcastic smile. “You yourself have just admitted it now. I’ve been making a little research of my own, I find that everybody has it. Some hate to admit it, but they finally reveal that they have it. He-he! And it’s amazing who discovered this disease—”
“What disease?”
At this, Levinsky and Junkey exchanged secret smiles, and turned them upon the bewildered Peter. “It’s the great molecular comedown. Of course that’s only my own whimsical name for it at the moment. It’s really an atomic disease, you see. But I’ll have to explain it to you so you’ll know, at least. It’s death finally reclaiming life, the scurvy of the soul at last, a kind of universal cancer. It’s got a real medieval ghastliness, like the plague, only this time it will ruin everything, don’t you see?”
“No, I don’t see.”
“You will eventually. Everybody is going to fall apart, disintegrate, all character-structures based on tradition and uprightness and so-called morality will slowly rot away, people will get the hives right on their hearts, great crabs will cling to their brains … their lungs will crumble. But now we only have the early symptoms, the disease isn’t really underway yet—virus X only.”
“Are you serious?” laughed Peter.
“Perfectly serious. I’m positive about the disease, the real physical disease. We all have it!”
“Who’s we?”
“Everybody—Junkey and me, and all the cats, more than that, everybody, you, Kenny, Waldo, Dennison. Listen! You know about molecules, they’re made up according to a number of atoms arranged just so around a proton or something. Well, the ‘just-so’ is falling apart. The molecule will suddenly collapse, leaving just atoms, smashed atoms of people, nothing at all … as it all was in the beginning of the world. Don’t you see, it’s just the beginning of the end of the Geneseean world. It’s certainly the beginning of the end of the world as we know it now, and then there’ll be a non-Geneseean world without all that truck about sin and the sweat of your brow. He-he! It’s great! Whatever it is, I’m all for it. It may be a carnival of horror at first—but something strange will come of it, I’m convinced. But these are my own ideas and I’m deviating from the conception we’ve all reached about the atomic disease.” He mused with perfect seriousness.
“Listen, Leon, why don’t you go back to becoming a radical labor leader,” laughed Peter.
“Oh, it all ties in. But wait, I wasn’t finished. The Nickel-O has become a great symbol among all of us, it’s the place where the atomic disease was first noticed and from which it will spread, slowly and insidiously, that place there across the street!” he cried gleefully. “You’ll see great tycoons of industry suddenly falling apart and going mad, you’ll see preachers at the pulpit suddenly exploding—there’ll be marijuana fumes seeping out of the Stock Exchange. College professors will suddenly go cross-eyed and start showing their behinds to one another. I’m not explaining it properly … but that doesn’t matter, you’ll begin to see it yourself, now that you’re back. And now,” he resumed gravely, “I wanted to tell you about Dennison. Incidentally he wants to see you, he heard your ship was back, go see him tomorrow. Dennison, I must tell you, has dropped his old habits of going to a psychoanalyst and idly biding his time learning jiu-jitsu and so on, and has begun an active participation in the phantasmagoria of modern life.”
“What’s he done?”
“He’s got a morphine habit. He’s moved to a new apartment now, down on Henry Street, right under the Manhattan bridge, a dirty old cold water flat with peeling disintegrating walls. His sister Mary’s there with him taking care of the baby. Junkey sometimes lives there too”—and he bowed to Junkey graciously—“and the whole place is mad day and night, overrun with people who dash about getting morphine prescriptions from dishonest doctors. Mary takes Benzedrine, there’s a mad character called Clint who comes around all the time with marijuana, and the whole place is a madhouse. You’ve got to see it—especially Dennison with his baby son in one hand and a hypo needle in the other, a marvelous sight.”
“You don’t really think it’s marvelous. Incidentally, how’s Dennison’s wife coming along?”
“No—it’s more than marvelous, really, and besides I’ve been talking to you almost maliciously all this time, insincerely in a way, of course. Oh, his wife’s supposed to be dying now … she’s still in that sanitarium in California or someplace. We’ve got to have a long serious talk, alone. That’s another thing. Where are you going now, what are you going to do tonight?” Levinsky demanded eagerly.
“I’m going right up to Judie’s.”
“But we must talk. When? when?—and remember, I want to meet your family. Can’t I go to dinner there sometime? There are so many things to settle, everything’s happening, everything’s changing—and also I want you to read some of my new poetry, and I want you to come in the Nickel-O with me some night so I can point everything out to you in its proper order.”
“Well, all right,” agreed the amenable Peter. He got up to go, but Levinsky jumped up solicitously.
“You’re not leaving now, are you?” he cried.
“Yeah, I’m going to see my gal now.…”
“Ah! I knew something like that was coming, something about peace and normalcy and whatever else you may call it.…”
Peter looked gravely at him.
“Oh, never mind,” snickered Levinsky. “So you’re going to see Judie and forget all about the atomic disease in her arms. Actually, don’t you see, I’m all in favor of it, I still believe in human love at the ends of the night. But may I ride on the subway with you?” he asked.
“It’s okay with me,” said Peter, who was growing more and more sullen at these sly manipulations. On the other hand, Levinsky had been like this ever since Peter had known him, and he understood somehow.
“You do feel like a geek, don’t you?” Peter smiled. “But you know all the things you’re talking about, people don’t want them! They want peace and quiet … even if those things don’t exist. Everybody’s trying to be decent, that’s all.”
Levinsky was aroused with interest. “Let them try!” he brought out with an imitation of a snarl, and a malicious-looking smile—a smile he had learned from Dennison.
“There you go imitating Will Dennison again!” Peter taunted.
“Nonsense, my days of sitting at Dennison’s feet are over—the position is almost reversed, in a sense. He listens to my ideas now with great respect, where it used to be just the other way around. Pete,” said Levinsky eagerly, “wait for me just a minute while I make a phone call. I’ll ride on the subway with you for a very specific reason—I want to prove to you that everyone is mad on the subway. Everybody’s radioactive and don’t know it.” And with this he rushed off eagerly.
At that moment someone went by on the sidewalk. Junkey, starting with a jump, suddenly vanished from the cafeteria, almost before Peter noticed it.
The young hoodlum Jack leaned forward to Peter confidentially. “Junkey’s connection just went by outside, the guy he buys the dope from. I don’t go for that stuff, it costs too much, you get all hung up on it, then you’re sick all the time when you can’t get it.” There was almost a note of conspiracy in these words, the first he had spoken all night. Now that they were alone at the table, the young hoodlum had grown quite voluble. “I tried it once, it gave me a good kick, but then I got sick and I puked. I like to drink myself, to get lushed … don’t you?” he demanded anxiously, peering at Peter blankly. “Listen, you know? I got something on the fire that if it comes out right I’ll never have to worry about money again, I’ll be all set, man. A plan, you know?”
“Uh-huh,” said Peter vaguely.
Jack gave him a significa
nt look, paused awhile looking over his shoulder. Then he leaned forward, almost whispering. “I know a guy, see, and, well, last week I picked up on a sap from him, a blackjack unnerstand? So then I—well, you know what these guys are always talking about, that kid Levinsky, that’s all right, you know?—sit around and talk and pass the time of day. But I believe in doin’ something, you know? Action! They talk all the time, him and Junkey. But I met this guy in a bar, this is the plan I’m telling you, and this guy claims he’s got all his money stashed in his room up in the Bronx, money and lots of suits and shoes and everything. The guy was drunk, and he’s from out of town, lonesome, a shipyard worker, all that. Shipyard workers are always lonesome,” he added vaguely. “I used to work in a shipyard myself, but I don’t like to work, you know?… I don’t dig guys tellin’ me what to do all the time. I told him, this shipyard worker, I could fix him up with girls, see?” He paused significantly.
“Can you?” grinned Peter—who had never seen him with a girl. He was always standing around the street ruefully looking at girls swinging by under the lights.
“Well, sure, man—I know hundreds of ’em,” Jack cried almost resentfully. “Girls! I know a guy who’s got a way with ’em, you know?—a pimp the guy is. Well, on Saturday night I’m gonna go up there to this shipyard worker’s house, with a girl I know, and beat him up and walk out with all his money and clothes. I won’t even bring the blackjack, I’ll just crack him a couple with my fists”—and he bared his fists from under the table and showed them to Peter. “That’s all, man, that’s the way I’ll do it, I’ll belt him a couple! wham! wham! I got it all figured out, one in the solar plexus, one on the point of the chin. Then I can kick him in the neck too … that knocks out a guy, you know?” he whispered earnestly. Then, confidentially: “Did you ever fight a guy? Did you ever knock out a guy? My brother’s a great fighter, you know? How about comin’ up there with me tomorrow night?” he concluded nervously, looking around the cafeteria over his shoulder.