Described by Kerouac as being about "man's simple revolt from society as it is, with the inequalities, frustration, and self-inflicted agonies", the 158-page handwritten manuscript was Kerouac's first novel, but was not published during his lifetime. He wrote in his notes for the project that the characters were "the vanishing American, the big free by, the American Indian, the last of the pioneers, the last of the hoboes". The novel follows the fortunes of Wesley Martin, a man who Kerouac said "loved the sea with a strange, lonely love; the sea is his brother and sentences. He goes down."
Jack began this work not long after his first tour as a Merchant Marine on the S.S. Dorchester in the late summer of 1942 during which he kept a journal detailing the gritty daily routine of life at sea. Inspired by the trip, which exemplified Jack's love for adventure and the character traits of his fellow shipmates, the journals were spontaneous sketches of those experiences that were woven into a short novel soon after disembarking from the S.S. Dorchester in October of 1942.
chapter one
- The Broken Bottle
A young man, cigarette in mouth and hands in trousers’ pockets, descended a short
flight of brick steps leading to the foyer of an uptown Broadway hotel and turned in the
direction of Riverside Drive, sauntering in a curious, slow shuffle.
It was dusk. The warm July streets, veiled in a mist of sultriness which obscured the
sharp outlines of Broadway, swarmed with a pageant of strollers, colorful fruit stands,
buses, taxis, shiny automobiles, Kosher shops, movie marquees, and all the innumerable
phenomena that make up the brilliant carnival spirit of a midsummer thoroughfare in New
York City.
The young man, clad casually in a white shirt without tie, a worn gabardine green coat,
black trousers, and moccasin shoes, paused in front of a fruit stand and made a survey of
the wares. In his thin hand he beheld what was left of his money – two quarters, a dime,
and a nickel. He purchased an apple and moved along, munching meditatively. He had spent
it all in two weeks; when would he ever learn to be more prudent! Eight hundred dollars in
fifteen days – how? where? and why?
When he threw the apple core away, he still felt the need to satisfy his senses with
some [ ] dawdle or other, so he entered a cigar store and bought himself a cigar. He did
not light it until he had seated himself on a bench on the Drive facing the Hudson River.
It was cool along the river. Behind him, the energetic thrum of New York City sighed
and pulsed as though Manhattan Island itself were an unharmonious wire plucked by the hand
of some brazen and busy demon. The young man turned and swept his dark, curious eyes along
the high rooftops of the city, and down toward the harbor where the island’s chain of
lights curved in a mighty arc, sultry beads in the midsummer mist strung in confused
succession.
His cigar held the bitter taste he had wanted in his mouth; it felt full and ample
between his teeth. On the river, he could distinguish faintly the hulls of the anchored
merchant ships. A small launch, invisible except for its lights, glided a weaving path
alongside the dark freighters and tankers. With quiet astonishment he leaned forward and
watched the floating points of light move slowly downriver in liquid grace, his almost
morbid curiosity fascinated by what might have seemed commonplace to another.
This young man, however, was no ordinary person. He presented a fairly normal
appearance, just above average height, thin, with a hollow countenance notable for its
prominence of chin and upper lip muscles, and expressive mouth lined delicately yet
abundantly from its corners to the thin nose, and a pair of level, sympathetic eyes. But
his demeanor was a strange one. He was accustomed to hold his head high, so that whatever
he observed received a downward scrutiny, an averted mien that possessed a lofty and
inscrutable curiosity.
In this manner, he smoked his cigar and watched the Drive saunterers pass by, for all
outward purposes at peace with the world. But he was broke and he knew it; by tomorrow he
would be penniless. With a shade of a smile, which he accomplished by raising a corner of
his mouth, he tried to recall how he had spent his eight hundred dollars.
The night before, he knew, had cost him his last hundred and fifty dollars. Drunk for
two consecutive weeks, he had finally achieved sobriety in a cheap hotel in Harlem; from
there, he recalled, he had taken a cab to a small restaurant on Lenox Avenue where they
served nothing but spare ribs. It was there he’d met that cute little colored girl who
belonged to the Young Communists League. He remembered they’d taken a taxi down to
Greenwich Village where she wanted to see a certain movie. . . . wasn’t it “Citizen Kane”?
And then, in a bar on MacDougall Street, he lost track of her when he met up with six
sailors who were broke; they were from a destroyer in dry-dock. From then on, he could
remember riding in a taxi with them and singing all kinds of songs and getting off at
Kelly’s Stables on 52nd Street and going in to hear Roy Eldridge and Billie Holliday.
One of the sailors, a husky dark-haired pharmacist’s mate, talked all the time about Roy
Eldridge’s trumpet and why he was ten years ahead of any other jazz musician except
perhaps two others who
jammed Mondays at Minton’s in Harlem, Lester somebody and Ben Webster; and how Roy
Eldridge was really a phenomenal thinker with infinite musical ideas. Then they had all
rode to the
Stork Club, where another sailor had always wanted to go, but they were all too plastered
to be admitted in, so they went to a dime-adance joint where he had bought up a roll of
tickets for the gang. From there they had gone to a place in the East Side where the
Madame sold them three quarts of Scotch, but when they were finished, the Madame refused
to let them all sleep there and kicked them out. They were sick of the place and the girls
anyway, so they rode uptown and west to a Broadway hotel where he paid for a double suite
of rooms and they finished the Scotch and flopped off in chairs, on the floor, and on the
beds. And then, late the next afternoon he woke up and found three of the sailors sprawled
about in a litter of empty bottles, sailor caps, glasses, shoes, and clothing. The other
three had wandered off somewhere, perhaps in search of a bromo seltzer or tomato juice.
Then he had dressed up slowly, after taking a leisurely shower, and strolled off,
leaving the key at the desk and making a request to the hotelkeeper not to disturb his
slumbering buddies.
