Big Sur by Jack Kerouac Read Free Book Online Page B

pick me up or anybody up she wouldn’t let him—But in the two deep backseats are children, children, millions of children, all ages, they’re fighting and screaming over ice cream, they’re spilling vanilla all over the Tartan seatcovers—There’s no room anymore anyway for a hitch hiker, tho conceivably the poor bastard might be allowed to ride like a meek gunman or silent murderer in the very back platform of the wagon, but here no, alas! here is ten thousand racks of drycleaned and perfectly pressed suits and dresses of all sizes for the family to look like millionaires every time they stop at a roadside dive for bacon and eggs—Every time the old man’s trousers start to get creased a little in the front he’s made to take down a fresh pair of slacks from the back rack and go on, like that, bleakly, tho he might have secretly wished just a good oldtime fishing trip alone or with his buddies for this year’s vacation—But the P.T.A. has prevailed over every one of his desires by now, 1960’s, it’s no time for him to yearn for Big Two Hearted River and the old sloppy pants and the string of fish in the tent, or the woodfire with Bourbon at night—It’s time for motels, roadside driveins, bringing napkins to the gang in the car, having the car washed before the return trip—And if he thinks he wants to explore any of the silent secret roads of America it’s no go, the lady in the sneering dark glasses has now become the navigator and sits there sneering over her previously printed blue-lined roadmap distributed by happy executives in neckties to the vacationists of America who would also wear neckties (after having come along so far) but the vacation fashion is sports shirts, long visored hats, dark glasses, pressed slacks and baby’s first shoes dipped in gold oil dangling from the dashboard—So here I am standing in that road with that big woeful rucksack but also probably with that expression of horror on my face after all those nights sitting in the seashore under giant black cliffs, they see in me the very apotheosical opposite of their every vacation dream and of course drive on—That afternoon I say about 5 thousand cars or probably 3 thousand passed me not one of them ever dreamed of stopping—Which didnt bother me anyway because at first seeing that gorgeous long coast up to Monterey I thought “Well I’ll just hike right in, it’s only 14 miles, I oughta do that easy”—And on the way there’s all kindsa interesting things to see anyway like the seals barking on rocks below, or quiet old farms made of logs on the hills across the highway, or sudden upstretches that go along dreamy seaside meadows where cows grace and graze in full sight of endless blue Pacific—But because I’m wearing desert boots with their fairly thin soles, and the sun is beating hot on the tar road, the heat finally gets through the soles and I begin to deliver heat blisters in my sockiboos—I’m limping along wondering what’s the matter with me when I realize I’ve got blisters—I sit by the side of the road and look—I take out my first aid kit from the pack and apply unguents and put on cornpads and carry on—But the combination of the heavy pack and the heat of the road increases the pain of the blisters until finally I realize I’ve got to hitch hike a ride or never make it to Monterey at all.
    But the tourists bless their hearts after all, they couldnt know, only think I’m having a big happy hike with my rucksack and they drive on, even tho I stick out my thumb—I’m in despair because I’m really stranded now, and by the time I’ve walked seven miles I still have seven to go but I cant go on another step—I’m also thirsty and there are absolutely no filling stations or anything along the way—My feet are ruined and burned, it develops now into a day of