I'd read On The Road in 1970, after Jack had died. Ever since that warm Nairobi day, though, when I turned the last page as Sal vanishes around the city corner and the world says goodbye to forlorn Dean/Cody/Neal, and the children are sleeping and that blanket which has held so much road and so many people and so much narrative is once again shook out and cleaned for the next 'bo to fill up and trample across and sleep in ... ever since that day I've been waiting at the world's shoulders and entrance ramps, sleeping in ditches, running, hiding from the midnight cruise lights of protective patrols, and waiting waiting waiting for that time when for some unknown reason his spirit would drift down from the celeste, as would one of St. Theresa's petals, and find me on that road heading north to head west.
JSTEDMAN@NMU.EDU