INTRODUCTION TO JACK’S BOOK, 2nd ed. (1994)

ON MAY 30, 1936, in a letter to Arnold Zweig, Sigmund Freud wrote: “To be a biographer, you must tie yourself up in lies, concealments, hypocrisies, false colorings, and even in hiding a lack of understanding, for biographical truth is not to be had, and if it were to be had, we could not use it . . . truth is not feasible, mankind doesn’t deserve it . . . ”

Heeding Freud’s admonition, Larry Lee and I chose the rather unorthodox (for that time, 1975) method of “oral history” to capture on record the brief life of Jack Kerouac. Larry called it “a rather more immediate form of biography”; the idea being that since most of Kerouac’s cronies and family members were still alive (he having died of alcoholism at the early age of forty-seven), if we could find and then persuade them to talk candidly about the subject, it would be left to us—and the reader—to sort through the revisionism and decide whose versions most closely approximated the ineluctable “truth.” It was Jack’s long-time cohort, the poet Allen Ginsberg, who pronounced, upon completion of his reading of the uncorrected galleys of the book: “My god, it’s just like Rashomon—everybody lies and the truth comes out!” Allen’s words are branded in my memory; I am not paraphrasing.

It was Allen’s well-meaning desire to see Kerouac presented in the “best” light, owing, no doubt, to the disrespect and disservice that Jack—and Allen, among other contemporaries—had received from critics and the news media during the heyday of the “Beat Generation.” Though Jack’s Book surely presents Kerouac warts and all, it was Larry Lee’s and my intention to get people busy reading J.K.’s eleven mostly ignored novels and other works. When we began our research for this biography, only three of Kerouac’s books were in print: On the Road, The Dharma Bums, and Book of Dreams. By 1980, two years after the publication of Jack’s Book, at least eight titles were available. In 1994, virtually all of Kerouac’s work can be found in new editions.

Larry and I did not intend that Jack’s Book be a “definitive” study. We assumed that more scholarly approaches would follow ours—“Après moi,” wrote J.K., “le deluge”—and, true enough, that avalanche fell in short order. In fact, it’s still falling. We wanted to create a conversational, novelistic (in terms of dialogue) reckoning of this man’s life. We wanted the people he knew and loved and hated, and who knew and loved and hated him, to say whatever they had to say without being given too much time, too many years, to think about it. In most cases, these people had not yet spoken on the record about Jack Kerouac. Their thoughts were fresh—they didn’t know what they thought until they’d told us, until they’d said it out loud. One reviewer declared, “If you’re interested in listening to what the talk of the fifties sounded like, and if you believe that literature may just have something to do with life, then read this book.” That was what we were after, the talk.

The novelist and journalist Dan Wakefield, later himself to chronicle the period in his memoir, New York in the 50s, magnanimously described our effort as “a fascinating literary and historical document, the most insightful look at the beat generation.” The key word there, for us, is document. Jack’s Book is constructed like a documentary, what Kerouac, in his novel Doctor Sax, called a “bookmovie.” Others of Mr. Wakefield’s generation decried the new attention being paid to Kerouac; they had disliked him and/or his work then, and they disliked him and it—and, by association, Larry Lee and me—now. That was all right with us; we, who cared enough about his writing to devote two years of our lives in an effort to get the Kerouac ball rolling again, expected as much.

We knew that just the mention of the name Jack Kerouac was enough to aggravate some people. We also knew that his novels had inspired thousands and thousands of readers—especially youthful readers—to get the hell out of whatever boring or dead-end situation they were in and take a chance with their lives. I’ll always respect the writer Thomas McGuane for going on record about J.K., saying in an essay that he, McGuane, never wanted to hear a word against Kerouac because Jack had indeed worked a kind of salutary magic on more than a few. “He trained us in the epic idea that . . . you didn’t necessarily have to take it in Dipstick, Ohio, forever,” McGuane wrote. “Kerouac set me out there with my own key to the highway.” Kerouac’s literary standing aside, the man had the power to move others.

Jack Kerouac was no avatar and Jack’s Book was not meant as hagiography. This book—biography, reportage, collage, holy mosaic, unholy mess, however it’s been and will be characterized—contains some extremely emotional, confessional material; it’s not dull. Dr. Freud notwithstanding, there is at least a sort of truth to be found here. The book belongs to those persons who bared their souls in conversations with us about their dead friend or adversary. Therefore, it belongs to Kerouac, which is why I titled it Jack’s Book. These are letters to a dead man from people who for one reason or another didn’t tell him what they really thought of and about him while he was alive. It was Larry’s and my pleasure to provide them the belated opportunity.

I’ll never forget sitting with Jimmy Holmes, the hunchbacked pool-shark of Denver, in the stuffy parlor of his elderly aunt’s apartment, where he lived, and him saying to me, after I’d read aloud a lyrical passage from Visions of Cody that Kerouac had based on his life, and which Holmes had never read, “I didn’t know Jack cared about me that way. He really cared, didn’t he?” Or stumbling drunkenly along the Bowery in the wee hours one frozen February morning with Lucien Carr, who kept repeating, “I loved that man. I loved Jack, goddam it, and I never told him!”

**BLACKOUT from HOTEL ROOM TRILOGY (1995)**

CHARACTERS

DANNY, a man in his late thirties.

DIANE, Danny’s wife; she is in her mid-thirties.

SETTING: a hotel room in New York City. Mid-summer.

[In the original production, the play was set in the year 1936.]

Darkness. We see nothing but pitch black.

We hear voices, feet on stairs. Suddenly, a beam of light coming from a stairwell off what we can barely discern as an empty hotel corridor. Now there are two beams of light streaming into the corridor as the voices grow louder and the steps are more audible. The shapes of two men, both holding flashlights, one of them carrying a bag in one arm, enter the corridor from the stairwell. Their flashlight beams precede them as they turn and walk toward us down the corridor.

Watch out, for the carpet here. The edge of it. Don’t get your toe caught under the edge. The toe of your boot, I mean.

DANNY (Laughs)

Thanks, I won’t. I been walkin’ in boots since I was born, practically.

BELLBOY (Stops in front of door to room number 603.)

You’re from where? Nebraska?

No. Oklahoma. My wife and me are from Big Eagle, Oklahoma. Outside Tulsa.

You get blackouts in Big Angle? Electrical blackouts like this?

Big Eagle. No, not really. Not too many lights to begin with. Not in Big Eagle. Tulsa’s a big town, though. Ever been there?

No, sir. Farthest west I’ve been’s Jersey City. That’s in New Jersey, just across the Hudson River.

Do you mind opening the door for me? With this bag of food and the torch, it’s tough to get at my key.

BELLBOY (Quickly takes out his master key.)

Oh, sure, yes sir. Sorry. (He unlocks the door and stands aside.) There you are, sir.

DANNY enters the room, followed by the BELLBOY. Lightning flashes outside the window, followed by a crash of thunder. This continues intermittently throughout.

Hey, darlin’. You in here somewhere?

Both DANNY and the BELLBOY wave their flashlights around until they locate DIANE, who is sitting on a couch in the dark. The lights circle and blind DIANE momentarily. She puts one hand up and covers her eyes. DANNY puts the bag down on a table, then switches off his flashlight. He sits next to his wife while the BELLBOY begins lighting candles all around the room.

Sweetheart, you okay? I got us some Chinese for supper. Good Chinese.

BELLBOY (Strategically setting up the candlestick holders.)

The best. Low Fon’s the best around here. New York’s got the best Chinese food in the world. Better than in China. At least that’s what our Chinese guests tell me. I was never actually in China. But I guess the Chinese should know.

DANNY has one arm around DIANE as they sit together on the couch. She still has one hand over her eyes. The BELLBOY finishes arranging the candles and stands in front of the open room door, holding his flashlight.

I’m sure they’ll get the lights fixed soon. The candles should last until they do. There’re more candles in the cabinet there, under the window, if you need ’em. The phones are working—at least they were a few minutes ago. If you need anything else, just call down. I’d recommend, though, that you stay in the room until the power comes on again. New York’s not Oklahoma, you know. There’re plenty of people take advantage of a situation like this. You know what I’m talking about.

Thanks. We’ll be all right. Can I keep this? (He holds up the flashlight.)

Oh, sure, no problem. Listen, they’ll have this fixed before you finish your dinner.

Come back get the torch, you need it or someone else does.

We got plenty, don’t worry. Enjoy your dinner now, folks.

The BELLBOY leaves, closing the door behind him. The candlelight bathes the room in a warm, rose-colored glow. DANNY takes DIANE’S hand from her eyes, kisses it, and holds it. She sits still with her eyes closed.

You can open ’em, honey. Come on, open up your eyes.

DIANE opens her eyes, blinks a few times. She looks around without moving her head.

It’s like being inside a Christmas tree, isn’t it? Like sitting on one of the branches, surrounded by ornaments.

DANNY (Laughs.)

Yeah, yeah. I see what you mean. This is somethin’, though, isn’t it? We come all the way to New York, the city of lights, and there ain’t none. Hold it, maybe that’s Paris is the city of lights. But Broadway, anyway. The Great White Way, only now it’s black. Or is it London has the Great White Way? Well, let me tell you, sweetheart, when I was out gettin’ the Chinese? People are bumpin’ into one another, runnin’ to get home. Lucky thing I got into the Chinese restaurant when I did, too. Soon as the lights quit, those guys ran and locked the front door. Then they brought out big sheets of plywood and stuck ’em up by the windows. Those Chinese fellas weren’t takin’ no chances. They were real polite to me, though. Apologized for takin’ a little longer than they said was ordinary for my order. Didn’t charge me no tax. At least they said they wasn’t. Man unlocked the door to let me out, said, You be careful, sir. Hurry, be careful.

Danny, we’re not in China.

No, honey. New York. We’re in New York.

Why did you speak Chinese to that man?

The doctor who was here before.

Diane, that was the bellboy. We’re going to see the doctor tomorrow, remember? And you know I can’t speak Chinese. I barely get by in American.

Don’t be so modest. You know Spanish, too.

Just about twenty-five words, maybe. Like, huevos rancheros, and buena suerte.

Si todo sigue igual.

DANNY (Laughs.)

What’s that? What’s that mean?

All things being equal. It’s an expression. You know what an expression is, Danny. Don’t try to fool me.

DANNY (Hugging her.)

The last thing I’d ever do is try to fool you, sweetheart. You know I care more for you than anything in the world. There’s foolin’ around and then there’s tryin’ to fool. Foolin’ around is what we always done best, Di, don’t you think? You still like to fool around with your old Danny, don’t you? Even after all these years?

It has been a long time, Danny, hasn’t it?

Almost seventeen years. Since I got out of the service.

DANNY stands up, wipes his forehead, his cheeks. He takes a napkin from the bag and wipes his hands.

Lord, it’s warm. I don’t mind the dark, but I could do with some air-coolin’.

He walks over to the windows, which are open. He leans out, trying to catch a breeze. There is none, so he comes back in.

Could we’d be on Lake Osage this evenin’, we were back home. Canoein’. Wouldn’t you like that, darlin’, if we were lyin’ in a canoe lookin’ up at the stars, driftin’ on Lake Osage?

Is it a Chinese doctor? The one I’m seeing tomorrow? He’s Chinese?

DANNY comes back over to DIANE, kneels in front of her, taking her hands in his.

Diane, listen. Forget this Chinese. The only thing is Chinese is the food that’s waitin’ for us to eat it in the bag there. The spring rolls and shrimp with lobster sauce and sweet and sour pork and chicken fried rice. All your favorites. The doctor’s name is Smith, Hershel Smith. He’s a specialist, honey. He’ll know what to do. It’s all been arranged by the clinic in Tulsa, remember? They said Dr. Smith is the best there is. He’s expectin’ us tomorrow.

When, honey? When was I away?

I’m not sure. You were, though. Away in the Sea of Red.

The Red Sea. When I was in the navy, you mean?

Oh, of course. When you said Lake Osage, I thought of it. I took a walk and everything was just like this. There were lights on in the dark, just small ones, shimmering lights.

Lights on in the houses around the lake.

I saw you on the other side and I shouted, Danny! Danny! But it wasn’t you at all.

DANNY rests his head on DIANE’S lap. She strokes his hair gently.

What kind of fish?

A Chinese fish.

How could you tell it was Chinese?

Because it told my fortune.

You sure this was at Lake Osage?

It jumped straight up out of the black water and spoke to me.

You never told me this before.

You’d just think I was crazier than I already am. That’s why.

I don’t think you’re crazy, sweetheart. I don’t know what to call it, but it’s not crazy. Maybe Dr. Smith has a name for it.

A fish by any other name is still a fish.

Even if it’s Chinese?

Definitely if it’s Chinese.

So what did the fish tell you?

About the children.

DANNY (He is looking up at her now.)

What about them?

All about them. Their names, their hair color, the shapes of their noses.

What children, Diane?

Ours. Yours and mine, Danny. All of them.

How many were there?

Six. Six altogether. Do you really want to know?

I got no place to go, honey. Not without you, anyway.

Danny, you were always the sweetest child.

You didn’t meet me until I was twenty, Di. How do you know I was a sweet child?

You were one of them.

The six children.

Wait up. The Chinese fish told you about them?

You were first, the largest, with red hair and blue eyes.

Doesn’t sound like me.

The rest were girls. Five perfect girls.

Did they have red hair and blue eyes, too?

No. Each one of them had brown hair, brown eyes and brown skin. They looked like fawns.

You saw them? I thought this was just a fortune the fish told you.

Danny, these are our children! Don’t you recognize them?

DANNY (Sits next to her again.)

Di, I love you. (He kisses her.) I’ve loved you since I was twenty and you were eighteen. Seventeen years and I love you more than ever.

We did have a child. Danny, Junior.

That’s right, Di. Dan-Bug. We called him Dan-Bug. Do you remember what happened to Dan-Bug, Di?

Yes, you do. Come on.

How old is he now?

Two. He can’t get any older, Di.

He might have gone in the navy, Danny, like you did.

I wouldn’t have wanted him to go sailing in the Sea of Red. Sailors don’t come back from there sometimes.

I came back, Di. I’m here.

Dan-Bug’s not.

That’s right, Dan-Bug’s gone, baby.

He drowned in the Sea of Red.

He drowned in Lake Osage.

The five fawns are fine.

That’s a pretty sentence, Di. The five fawns are fine.

The Chinese fish was right about them.

I suppose he ain’t half-wrong most of the time.

I’m dealing with it, Danny. I am. It hasn’t been that long.

Twelve years, Di. How long is long?

I know this isn’t China, Danny. I think I’d like to go there, though.

That’s not impossible. We can see about it. You ready to eat yet?

Remember Rinky Dink, Dan? What happened to him?

The woman who was driving never looked in her sideview, she said, just the rearview mirror. Knocked him sideways off his motorcycle into the road in the path of oncoming traffic. Patrolman said Rinky Dink’s head hit the ground an instant before that Buick run over his back.

He was an okay boy, okay.

He wasn’t very big, and he had a three-inch scar on his forehead that filled with red whenever he laughed or was angry. Remember? The car that crushed him didn’t leave a mark. There was only a light bruise on his temple that would never heal. When Bonnie saw him in the coffin, she said, Why he looks cuter now than ever.

When I got out of the navy, before I came back to Oklahoma, I went to visit a guy I’d met in boot camp. We’d kept a correspondence goin’, and he was livin’ in New Mexico, in the foothills of the Sangre de Cristo range of mountains. His name was Famine McCoy. He reminded me of Rinky Dink. Or Rinky Dink reminded me of him, I forget which.

Anyway, we were ridin’ in his truck on some backroad, and we got stuck in a rut. We looked around for some timber, somethin’ to get some traction from, but there was nothin’ except a petrified stiff dead dog in a ditch on the other side. So we took it and shoved it under the wheel and rocked right out of there. Later we got down to the town and Famine mentioned to a fella he knew what happened and said how he felt a little guilty about abusin’ that dog’s body and all. Don’t worry about it, the guy told him, that’s what it’s there for. People use it all the time.

What kind of a name is that, Famine?

I asked him about it. His real name was Dave, I think. He said that before he went in the navy, he became famous for showin’ up on people’s doorsteps just at suppertime. Every evenin’, he said, he’d go out sniffin’. Just like a dog casin’ garbage cans, he’d prowl the neighborhood with his nose up to smell out who was cookin’ what. He got to know everybody around where he was livin’ and walked the streets until he found a smell he liked, so he knew what they were havin’ for dinner. He’d knock on the door, make out like he was just visiting, and don’t-mind-if-I-do’d his way to a free meal.

It was his neighbors nicknamed him Famine. They got hip to him and didn’t answer their doors until they’d finished eating. Forced him to get a regular job as a carpenter so he could afford to pay for his meals in restaurants. Got himself a hog Lincoln and kept all his tools in it. Told me he didn’t have a muffler on it, and he’d drive up and down the streets at suppertime, real slow, gunnin’ the motor real loud, so everybody’d know he was out there and that he knew they were eatin’, tryin’ to make ’em all feel guilty about not invitin’ him in anymore.

We wrote to each other for a while after that visit. He told me he lost an eye in some work-related accident and got permanent disability payments from the government and a load of insurance money from the outfit he was carpentryin’ for. He moved down to Florida, where he bought himself a piece of land, got married and had a kid or two. He was eatin’ steady, I guess. Then I had a letter from his wife, tellin’ me Famine was dead.

Seems he was out takin’ a dump in the palmettos and felt a sharp jab in his butt. He felt around but couldn’t find nothin’ wrong, so he just zipped up and didn’t think any more about it. That night he started feelin’ real bad and actin’ strange, so his wife took him to the hospital. The doctor couldn’t find anything wrong with him and sent him home. Two hours later, he was dead.

Turned out a snake bit him while he was in the bushes. If he’d told the doctor at the hospital about that jab he’d felt they could have saved him, but it didn’t occur to Famine until right before he faded out that it wasn’t just a palmetto leaf that stuck him. Poor Famine, just when it looked like things were goin’ good, too. Makes me hungry sometimes to think about him.

There is a bright flash in the room, followed by an extremely loud clap of thunder.

My mother closed the bedroom door.

What? What door?

My door. That’s what it sounded like when she closed it. Like thunder that’s so close. I’d never allow her to put Dan-Bug to bed. I didn’t want him to be frightened that way.

Dan-Bug could sleep through anything, even a thunderstorm. He liked to watch the lightning with me, the double bolts of ground lightning like we get in Oklahoma. Did you know, Di, that a channel of lightning has a width of only about an inch?

DANNY stands up, takes out a handkerchief from his back pocket and wipes the sweat off of his face and neck. He goes over to the window again.

Too hot to eat, I guess.

DIANE stands and picks up one of the lit candles. She dances around the room, slowly, whirling gracefully. DANNY turns and watches her. She sees that he is watching and she moves gradually in his direction, writhing now, Salome-like, coming closer. Suddenly, the candle she is holding goes out. DIANE stops dancing and stands still for a moment, then her knees buckle and she collapses to the floor. DANNY rushes over and lifts her back onto the couch. She has not lost consciousness, but seems stunned and disoriented. DANNY sits next to her.

Hey, baby, you all right? Come on, now, talk to me. Talk to me, Di.

DIANE (Very woozy.)

I am not drunk, Dan. I haven’t had a drink since you’ve been away. Not one. It was Bonnie who made me, wanted me to go out. But I just watched ’em. Cranberry juice and soda water, that’s all I had. We were at the Cherokee and there was a good band. Played a lot of old stuff, made me cry ’cause you were away. I was sittin’ on the toilet after I peed, cryin’ ’cause I missed you, and Bonnie was in there with Rinky Dink doin’ lines. They offered me some but you know me and drugs is not on friendly terms, so I declined. All it took was that woman’s small miscalculation and Rink was dust.

I wasn’t anywhere, Di. I wasn’t away.

Oh, you were, you were. Off sailing in the Sea of Red. Do you know how it hurts your eyes to stare at the horizon? If you stare at the horizon for too long all you can see is fire. The entire line of the horizon is burning. Fires as far as the eyes can see.

Come back, Diane. I’m here, it’s okay. You don’t have to pretend now.

Danny, Danny. Can you keep a secret?

When we go to see this doctor—what’s his name?

Dr. Smith, you mean? Hershel Smith?

When we go to see Dr. Smith. Don’t tell him about Dan-Bug, okay? Can we forget about Dan-Bug?

I think Dr. Smith already knows about Dan-Bug, sweetheart. He’s spoken to the people at the Tulsa clinic. They sent your medical records to him. That’s how come he agreed to see you, see what he could do. I told you that, honey. I told you before we left home.

Gee, Danny, it’s so dark here. It’s so hot, and there isn’t any moon.

There’s a power failure, Di. The lights are out all over New York City. AC’s out, too. At least in this hotel they got windows can open. Some places they’re sealed shut.

It’s kind of beautiful, though, the dark. Don’t you think, Dan? I could get used to this.

The telephone rings so loudly that it startles both DANNY and DIANE. DANNY is about to pick up the receiver but it does not ring a second time. He waits, staring at the phone, but nothing happens.

Now that’s spooky.

The telephone. It rang once, then quit.

Maybe it was a signal.

What kind of a signal?

Nobody knows we’re here, Di. I mean, nobody knows what hotel we’re staying at. I didn’t tell anyone. Somebody rang the wrong room, that’s all.

The telephone rings again. DANNY looks at it and lets it ring a second time, then a third. After the fourth ring, he picks it up.

He listens for a few moments, starts to speak, then stops and listens again. DANNY hangs up. A few moments pass in silence. The telephone rings again. On the second ring, DANNY picks it up.

DANNY listens for a moment, then hands the receiver to DIANE, who looks at him but does not talk into the phone.

He asked for you.

DIANE (Lifts the receiver to her ear and mouth.)

Hello? Yes, yes it is. Thank you. It is dark, yes, very dark. We have candles. Uh huh. I’m sure it’s not. No, I never have. Yes, Danny went out and got Chinese. You’re very kind. I hope so. Yes. Yes. Thank you. We will. Bye.

DIANE hands the receiver to DANNY and he hangs it up.

Dr. Smith. He was very sweet.

The clinic must have told him where we were staying. What did he say?

He just wanted to make sure that we were all right during the blackout. That we were comfortable and had food.

That must have been him the first time, too. When the line was messed up. Someone was talking but I couldn’t understand him. The connection was bad, full of static.

He wanted to assure me, he said, that he was looking forward to our visit tomorrow. He has a nice voice, Danny, you know? A good voice.

I’m going to tell him about Dan-Bug.

I know, Di. You have to.

I couldn’t live without you, Danny. I really couldn’t.

DIANE puts her head on DANNY’S shoulder. His arm embraces her.

Jesus, honey, you’re burnin’ up.

DANNY gets up and goes into the bathroom. He comes out with a wet washcloth, sits down next to DIANE, and uses it to wipe perspiration from her face. Then he folds it and presses it against her forehead.

Danny, I didn’t tell you everything about the fawns.

You know, the five fawns.

DANNY (Removes the washcloth and wipes his own face with it.)

What about the fawns, honey?

They have names.

Did you name them?

Of course. Don’t pretend you don’t know.

DANNY (Laughs.)

Me? I ain’t pretendin’, sweetheart. What are they?

Thumb, Index, Middle, Third and Pinkie. Pinkie’s my favorite.

Diane, you’re the one and only, that’s for sure.

Dan-Bug drowned, didn’t he, Danny?

Yes, honey, he did.

Do you recall how it happened?

You and me was makin’ love down on the shore of Lake Osage. We thought the boy was asleep on his blanket, but he woke up and walked into the water without makin’ no noise we could hear. By the time we found him, he was gone.

It was a long time ago, Danny.

Twelve years, Di, like I said. Not so long. It’s good you can talk about it, though. If you didn’t, I’d probably lose you, too.

Me and the five fawns, you mean.

Yeah. Them, also.

That night I was in the Cherokee, the night Rinky Dink was killed, Bonnie said somethin’.

Oh, she was wasted, I guess. But I heard her say to Peggy Worth how it was some people don’t deserve to have kids, anyway.

And you figured she was meanin’ you?

Uh huh. I didn’t take it to heart right away, but then after it turned out I couldn’t get pregnant again, I started in on it meanin’ somethin’. There was no way I could get it out of my head. It just stuck in my brain like a knife. It got so bad that I asked ’em at the Tulsa clinic could they just do an operation pull out that knife.

It ain’t been easy on me, neither, Di. You driftin’ in and out, though, I suppose give me a purpose in life since the accident. Needed to keep you from gettin’ away from yourself altogether.

Driftin’ so far out into the Sea of Red I couldn’t get back, you mean.

DANNY (Looking at her.)

I have to admit there been times lately I been feelin’ a little desperate. I’m a pretty good hand, they tell me, but it comes to bakin’ cakes I’m clutterin’ up the kitchen. It’s a damn hard thing to take, feelin’ useless.

You don’t have a useless bone in your body, Danny. I’ll tell everyone we know.

DANNY (Moves closer to her.)

If it weren’t so damn hot, I’d kiss you.

Kiss me anyway.

As they kiss, the lights suddenly go on in the room, as does the air-conditioning. DANNY gets up and goes to the window.

Look at this, Di. The whole city’s lit up!

DIANE joins him at the window and they stare at the magnificent sight. They embrace and kiss tenderly.

Honey, what would you say to some Chinese food?

from LOST HIGHWAY A SCREENPLAY (1997) WITH DAVID LYNCH

INT. THE MADISON HOUSE. LIVING ROOM. DAY

Two men in suits, the Detectives, Ed and Al, are seated on the couch, watching the last part of the second videotape. The screen turns to snow and stays that way for several moments, until FRED shuts it off.

Let’s have a look at the hallway outside the bedroom.

INT. THE MADISON HOUSE. HALLWAY. DAY

All four of them go to the hallway, where Ed and Al look around, especially up toward the ceiling.

The angle. The high angle shot on the tape.

How’d the camera get so high like that?

And smooth . . . Almost no movement—back and forth, I mean.

Like you’d get if it was hand-held.

Right—This just glided along.

INT. THE MADISON HOUSE. BEDROOM. DAY

The Detectives enter the bedroom. Fred and Renee follow.

This is the bedroom.

The Detectives look around without touching anything.

Do you always sleep here? . . . In this room? . . . Both of you?

This is our bedroom.

There’s no other bedroom?

No . . . There is, I mean, I use it as a practice room . . . It’s sound-proofed.

You’re a musician?

Yes, I thought my wife . . .

What’s your axe?

Tenor . . . Tenor saxophone. Do you . . . ?

ED (shakes his head)

AL (to Renee)

Do you own a video camera?

No. Fred hates them.

The Detectives both look at Fred.

I like to remember things my own way.

What do you mean by that?

How I remember them. Not necessarily the way they happened.

Do you have an alarm system?

Yes, actually we do . . . but we haven’t been using it.

It kept going off for some reason. False alarms.

Might be a good time to try using it again.

Anybody else have a key to the house?

Maid? Relative?

No, one of us is always here to let the maid in. Nobody else has a key.

Let’s check the doors and windows . . . See if there’s been a break-in.

They all leave the bedroom.

INT. THE MADISON HOUSE. FRONT DOOR. DAY

Ed is checking the door for marks.

INT. THE MADISON HOUSE. LIVING ROOM. DAY

Fred’s POV: he’s watching Ed and Al with Renee who are outside the house, walking around the property, checking it out.

Fred looks up through the skylight and sees Al on the roof looking down.

EXT. THE MADISON HOUSE. DRIVEWAY. DAY

Ed and Al are standing by an unmarked police car with Fred and Renee. The Detectives are about to depart.

We’ll keep a watch on the house.

As best we can.

If anything else happens, you’ll call us?

Al hands Fred a card. Ed hands Renee a card.

It’s what we do.

Ed and Al get into the car and drive off. Renee and Fred look at each other, warily, then go back into the house. The camera slowly pans over the front of the house as in the videotape.

031

INT. DAYTON HOUSE. NIGHT

MR EDDY (phone voice)

Hey, Pete . . . How ya doin’?

You know who it is.

Bill and Candace have stopped in the living room—watching Pete. Pete is going crazy with Mr Eddy on one end, and his parents staring at him on the other. He waves his parents away, but they leave slowly and reluctantly.

Yeah . . . How ya doin’, Pete?

You’re doin’ okay? That’s good, Pete.

Look . . . It’s late, Mr Eddy . . . I . . .

I’m really glad you’re doin’ okay, Pete.

Pete doesn’t know what to say.

You sure you’re doin’ okay? Everything all right?

That’s good, Pete. Hey . . . I want you to talk to a friend of mine.

Pete can hear the phone being handed over to someone. There is a long silence. Pete can hear breathing.

We’ve met before, haven’t we?

Pete freezes. His mind is scrambling.

I don’t think so. Where was it that you think we’ve met?

At your house. Don’t you remember?

No. No, I don’t.

We just killed a couple of people . . .

Pete can hear Mr Eddy laugh in the background.

You heard me . . . We thought we’d come over and tell you about it.

Pete is becoming pale with fear.

What’s goin’ on?

Great question! In the East . . . the Far East . . . When a person is sentenced to death . . . they’re sent to a place where they can’t escape . . . never knowing when an executioner will step up behind them and fire a bullet into the back of their head . . . It could be days . . . weeks . . . or even years after the death sentence has been pronounced . . . This uncertainty adds an exquisite element of torture to the situation, don’t you think? It’s been a pleasure talking to you.

Pete can hear the phone being passed again.

Pete . . . I just wanted to jump on and tell you I’m really glad you’re doin’ okay.

The phone goes dead and Pete sits—fearfully pondering his fate. He hears a noise and turns.

Down at the far end of the hall he sees his parents staring at him.

CLOSE UP: parents staring in the direction of the living room as if sensing something, but not seeing.

Parents’ POV: the hall and living room beyond. There is no one there.

032

Line drawing by Barry Gifford from Wyoming.

from WYOMING (2000)

SOUL TALK

“MOM, WHEN BIRDS DIE, what happens to their souls?”

“What made you think of that, Roy?”

“I was watching a couple of crows fly by.”

“You think birds have souls?”

“That’s what Nanny says.”

“What do you think the soul is, baby?”

“Something inside a person.”

“Where inside?”

“Around the middle.”

“You mean by the heart?”

“I don’t know. Someplace deep. Can a doctor see it on an X-ray?”

“No, baby, nobody can see it. Sometimes you can feel your soul yourself. It’s just a feeling. Not everybody has one.”

“Some people don’t have a soul?”

“I don’t know, Roy, but there are more than a few I’ll bet have never been in touch with theirs. Or who’d recognize it if it glowed in the dark.”

“Can you see your soul in the dark if you take off all your clothes and look in the mirror?”

“Only if your eyes are closed.”

“Mom, that doesn’t make sense.”

“I hate to tell you this, baby, but the older you get and the more you figure things should make sense, they more than sometimes don’t.”

“Your soul flies away like a crow when you die and hides in a cloud. When it rains that means the clouds are full of souls and some of ’em are squeezed out. Rain is the dead souls there’s no more room for in heaven.”

“Did Nanny tell you this, Roy?”

“No, it’s just something I thought.”

“Baby, there’s no way I’ll ever think about rain the same way again.”

WYOMING

“WHAT’S YOUR FAVORITE PLACE, Mom?”

“Oh, I have a lot of favorite places, Roy. Cuba, Jamaica, Mexico.”

“Is there a place that’s really perfect? Somewhere you’d go if you had to spend the rest of your life there and didn’t want anyone to find you?”

“How do you know that, baby?”

“Know what?”

“That sometimes I think about going someplace where nobody can find me.”

“No, honey, not you. We’d be together, wherever it might be.”

“How about Wyoming?”

“Have you ever been there?”

“Your dad and I were in Sun Valley once, but that’s in Idaho. No, Roy, I don’t think so. Why?”

“It’s really big there, with lots of room to run. I looked on a map. Wyoming’s probably a good place to have a dog.”

“I’m sure it is, baby. You’d like to have a dog, huh?”

“It wouldn’t have to be a big dog, Mom. Even a medium-size or small dog would be okay.”

“When I was a little girl we had a chow named Toy, a big black Chinese dog with a long purple tongue. Toy loved everyone in the family, especially me, and he would have defended us to the death. He was dangerous to anyone outside the house, and not only to people.

“One day Nanny found two dead cats hanging over the back fence in our yard. She didn’t know where they came from, and she buried them. The next day or the day after that, she found two or three more dead cats hanging over the fence. It turned out that Toy was killing the neighborhood cats and draping them over the fence to show us. After that, he had to wear a muzzle.”

“What’s a muzzle?”

“A mask over his mouth, so he couldn’t bite. He was a great dog, though, to me. Toy loved the snow when we lived in Illinois. He loved to roll in it and sleep outside on the front porch in the winter. His long fur coat kept him warm.”

“What happened to Toy?”

“He ran after a milk truck one day and was hit by a car and killed. This happened just after I went away to school. The deliveryman said that Toy was trying to bite him through the muzzle.”

“Does it snow in Wyoming?”

“Oh, yes, baby, it snows a lot in Wyoming. It gets very cold there.”

“Toy would have liked it.”

“I’m sure he would.”

“Mom, can we drive to Wyoming?”

“You mean now?”

“Uh-huh. Is it far?”

“Very far. We’re almost to Georgia.”

“Can we go someday?”

“Sure, Roy, we’ll go.”

“We won’t tell anyone, right, Mom?”

“No, baby, nobody will know where we are.”

“And we’ll have a dog.”

“I don’t see why not.”

“From now on when anything bad happens, I’m going to think about Wyoming. Running with my dog.”

“It’s a good thing, baby. Everybody needs Wyoming.”

THE UP AND UP

“WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME dad was going to die?”

“Oh, baby, I didn’t know he would die. I mean, everyone dies sooner or later, but we couldn’t know he would die this soon.”

“Dad wasn’t old.”

“No, Roy, he was forty-eight. Too young.”

“I didn’t know he was in the hospital again.”

“We talked to him just after he went back in, don’t you remember?”

“I forgot.”

“Your dad really loved you, Roy, more than anything.”

“He didn’t sound sick, that’s why I didn’t remember he was in the hospital.”

“It’s a shame he died, baby, really a shame.”

“After he came home from the hospital the first time, after his operation, Phil Sharky told me Dad was too tough to die.”

“Phil Sharky’s not a person worth listening to about anything. I’m sure he meant well telling you that, but he’s the kind of man who if you ask him to turn off a light only knows how to break the lamp.”

“What does that mean, Mom?”

“I mean Phil Sharky can’t be trusted. You can’t believe a word he says. If he says it’s Tuesday, you can get fat betting it’s Friday. Phil Sharky’s a crooked cop who doesn’t play straight with anyone.”

“I thought he was Dad’s friend.”

“Look how dark the sky’s getting, Roy, and it’s only two o’clock. If we’re lucky, we’ll make it to Asheville before the rain hits. I thought we’d stay at the Dixieland Hotel. It has the prettiest views of the Smokies.”

“Phil Sharky gave me his gun to hold once. It was really heavy. He said to be careful because it was loaded.”

“Was your dad there?”

“No, he went out with Dummy Fish and left me at the store. He told me he’d be right back. I asked Phil if the gun wouldn’t weigh so much if there weren’t any bullets in it and he said if they went where they were supposed to it wouldn’t.”

“Baby, you won’t ever see Phil Sharky again if I have anything to do with it. Did you tell your dad about this? That Phil let you handle his gun?”

“Dad didn’t get back for a long time and I fell asleep on the newspaper bundles. When I woke up, Phil was gone and Dad and Dummy and I went to Charmette’s for pancakes. I remember because Solly Banks was there and he came over to our table and said I was a lucky kid to have the kind of father who’d take me out for pancakes at four in the morning.”

“Suitcase Solly, another character who couldn’t tell the up and up if it bit him. So your dad didn’t know Sharky showed you the gun?”

“Phil told me not to say anything to Dad, in case he wouldn’t like the idea, so I didn’t.”

“We’re not gonna beat the rain, baby, but we’ll get there while there’s still light. Tomorrow we’ll fly to Chicago. The funeral’s on Sunday.”

“Will everyone be there?”

“I don’t know about everyone, but your dad knew a lot of people. Most of the ones who come will want to talk to you.”

“Even people I don’t know?”

“Probably. All you have to do is thank them for paying their respects to your father.”

“What if I cry?”

“It’s normal to cry at a funeral, Roy. Don’t worry about it.”

“Mom, what was the last thing Dad said before he died?”

“Gee, baby, I really don’t know. I think when the nurse came to give him a shot for the pain, he’d already died in his sleep. There was nobody in the room.”

“Do you remember the last thing he said to you?”

“Oh, I think it was just to not worry, that he’d be okay.”

“I bet Dad knew he was dying and he didn’t want to tell us.”

“Maybe so.”

“What if he got scared just before he died? Nobody was there for him to talk to.”

“Don’t think about it, Roy. Your dad didn’t live very long, but he enjoyed himself.”

“Dad was on the up and up, wasn’t he, Mom?”

“Your dad did things his own way, but the important thing to remember, baby, is that he knew the difference.”