On The Road: The Original Scroll by Jack Kerouac

First Edition
Book: Fine, DJ: Fine
Viking, 2007
408 Pages

In Howard Cunnell's essay, which starts this publication of Kerouac's On the Road, there's a letter from Kerouac that says that he wrote "the whole thing on a strip of paper 120 feet long . . . just rolled it through the typewriter and in fact no paragraphs . . . rolled it out on the floor and it looked like a road." That's the way it was originally: no breaks, minimal punctuation. Makes Cormac McCarthy look like Henry James. OK, that's really going too far.
Point is, the effect of the original scroll is mind blowing. It's hard to put the book down at night because your reading the accounts of a young man's life without breaks, without pauses, and without anything artificial holding you from the subject. Even the names are the same; Allen Ginsberg is Allen Ginsberg, Neal Cassidy is Neal Cassidy. The relationship between them is unedited by Viking, Scribner, or any other publishing house that's had its hand on the novel.
I'll bet their are traces of amphetamines all over that scroll.
On the Road was my Catcher in the Rye. It was the book that I read at just the right age to send me over the edge, at least until I turned twenty. I dug that book; I "grokked" that book. That book opened my mind to new ideas that were both enticing and dangerous.
I began reading books heavily during my senior year of high school. I didn't think I was going to college; I wasn't into sports, so I spent all of my academic time reading whatever I wanted. With the help of the school librarian, I was soon reading Ferlinghetti, Ginsberg, Gary Schneider, and of course, Kerouac. At the time, On the Road didn't seen that influential, but I think the culminating effects of all those writers changed me into a rebellious yet conscientious young man.
For a graduation present, my sister bought me a one-way ticket to Honolulu leaving from Seattle. I have no idea where she found it as this was before the internet and we both lived in Colorado. Having just finished Kerouac's book, I decided to hitch-hike to Seattle, a naive move on behalf of my then rosy-cheeked, seventeen-year-old self.
One memory from the trip (which was packed full of memories) that I'll share is as follows: On the first day of traveling I was waiting for a ride outside of Parachute, Colorado when this guy comes running down the road yelling, "I'm gonna steal your ride!" He was kidding. He was also hitch-hiking, traveling to San Francisco, having just finished a master's program at the University of Colorado. I'm not sure, but I'm going to guess he was a literature student, because not one ride into our time together he pulled out a copy of On the Road and asked if I'd read it.
He was a great guy, yelling "I have more education than you do!" at every car that passed us. We made it as far as the turn off to Moab on I-70 that night and slept in the dirt about 200 yards into the sagebrush. He kept saying he'd wake me up when a train came by and we'd hop it. I was thankful he fell asleep before I did.
We traveled together until we hit Salt Lake City. He wanted to finally jump a train and I found an on ramp heading north. I've never seen him since.
I've told stories from that trip, which include propositions for sex (I'd be getting to money), a ten-night party in some of the finest houses in Honolulu (no, they didn't involve prostitution), and the eventual highway robbery in rural Nevada. I think I owe these stories to Jack Kerouac, and had I not read his book when I did, I think I wouldn't be the person I am today.
Here's to fifty years.