Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg by Jack Kerouac Page B

less settled that, and expressed my appreciation of our new life and regard for each other, let me go on to the next “great” thing: (you see, I used “beautiful” and “great” only in quotes now to show you I am conscious of our former hypocrisy)—
    It is this, “dear” Allen . . . (you see? but you don’t have to see any more, we have dead eyes now, we’ll be quiet)—
    Neal is coming to New York.
    Neal is coming to New York.
    Neal is coming to New York for New Year’s Eve.
    Neal is coming to New York for New Year’s Eve.
    Neal is coming to New York for New Year’s Eve in a ’49 Hudson.
    etc. . . . in a ’49 Hudson.
    I have almost real reason to perhaps almost believe that he stole the car, but I don’t know.
    The facts: last Wednesday, Dec. 15, he long-distanced me from San Fran, and I heard his mad Western excited voice over the phone. “Yes, yes, it’s Neal, you see . . . I’m calling you, see. I’ve got a ’49 Hudson.”
    Etc . . . I said: “And what are you going to do?”
    He says “That’s what I was going to say now. To save you the hitch-hiking trip out to the Coast, see, I will break in my new car, drive to New York, test it, see, and we will run back to Frisco as soon as possible, see, and then run back to Arizona to work on the railroads. I have jobs for us, see. Do you hear me, man?”
    â€œI hear you, I hear you, see.”
    â€œSee. Al Hinkle is with me in the phone booth. Al is coming with me, he wants to go to New York. I will need him, see, to help me jack up the car in case I get a flat or in case I get stuck, see, a real helper and pal, see.”
    â€œPerfect,” I said.
    â€œYou remember Al?”
    â€œThe cop’s son? Sure.”
    â€œWho? What’s that Jack?”
    â€œThe cop’s son. The officer’s son.”
    â€œOh yes, Oh yes . . . I see, I see,—the copson. Oh yes. That’s Al, that’s right, you’re perfectly right, that Al, the copson from Denver, that’s right man, see.”
    Confusion.
    Then—“I need money. I owe $200 but if I can hold off the people I owe it to, see, by telling them or perhaps by giving them $10 or so to hold them off. And then I need money for Carolyn to live on while I’m gone, see . . .”
    â€œI can send you fifty bucks,” I said.
    â€œFifteen?”
    â€œNo fifty dollars.”
    â€œAllright allright fine. See.” And so on. “I can use it for Carolyn, and to hold off these people I’m in debt . . . and my landlord. Also I have another week’s work left on the railroad so I’ll make it. It’s perfect see. Reason why I call is because my typewriter broke down, and it’s being traced (sic! I’m only exaggerating here)—and I can’t write letters, so I called.”
    Anyway, how crazy it was. So I agreed to all our new plans, of course; I had been writing him asking him to go to sea, but this is better we both agreed, more pay, too. $350 a month. And Arizona, see. He says he traded in his Ford and all his savings for the ’49 Hudson. That car is the greatest in the country, in case you don’t know. We talked about it more than anything else.
    But come Saturday, and I’m in New York with Pauline my love, and Neal calls up again and beseeches my mother to warn me not to send the money to him in name but in another name he would mail me, and another address. I had, however, already sent the money to him airmail registered . . . but only $10, I couldn’t make my mad happy miscalculation of the phone. My mother’s report included a certain remark he seemed to have made without connection, viz., “I ain’t there.” (?)
    Unless he means 160 Alpine Terrace, or something. 32
    Secondly, when I sent him the $10 I asked him to pick me and my Maw up in North Carolina on his way East, so we could use the money saved to our