Atop an Underwood: Early Stories and Other Writings Page 4

  On the first play, Harrison McCoy was in the tailback. But the ball was snapped to a short back, Ginelli, and the latter plowed into the Blaine line like an elephant through the jungle grass. He made six yards before crumpling underneath the weight of four men.

  Second down and four to go.

  The team came out of its huddle and snapped into its formation with a fancy dancelike step. The glistening white helmets flashed in the September sun. The blue jerseys, with large white numbers and white stripes on the sleeves, lined up in a perfectly geometrical formation. The Bob Alexander shift had a beauty and grace about it that made the team look like a million bucks.

  The brown ball, brand new and just beginning to pick up a little dirt, went spinning back to Harrison McCoy. The guard, Bill Clancy, pulled out. The right side of the line cross-blocked as Bill pulled out, accompanied by Ginelli and Barnouw. The three of them darted toward the Blaine left end, bowled him over, and went on to the close back. Behind this steam-roller blocking pranced Harrison McCoy, his long powerful legs cutting up the gridiron. He swept around the fallen end, past the bewildered close back, and down the sidelines. Right ahead of him ran Bill Clancy. Now, McCoy was on his own, and had already gained 12 yards. He went down the sidelines until almost pushed out of bounds by two pursuing Blaine backs, whence he cut back suddenly and flanked toward the left. One of the Blaine linemen dove frantically and hung on to McCoy’s foot. McCoy stumbled forward, and finally crashed to the ground. Otherwise, he would have scored a touchdown; the field ahead of him had been clear.

  The ball was now on the Blaine 30. First down, and ten yards to go. State again came out of its huddle, and went into their graceful shift. The ball went back to Ben Barnouw, who began to sweep the end. It was the identical play which the varsity had tried out that first day in practice, and which had resulted in a sixty-four yard jaunt on the part of McCoy. Barnouw suddenly faded from his end run, flipped a neat pass to quarterback Henderson, who in turn lateraled to McCoy. The latter had a clear field down the sidelines, and as he dashed down in a straight line, the lane began to narrow with potential tacklers. By the time McCoy had reached the 18 yard line, he was confronted by four Blaine men. With a lightning cut, McCoy veered to the left and flanked the men, heading for the goal-line in a long diagonal sprint. He reached it with plenty to spare, going over standing up.

  State 6, Blaine 0 .... and the game was hardly two minutes old.

  Felix Henderson converted the point, making the score 7—0 in favor of State U.

  The crowd went berserk, and the newspapermen began to typewrite wildly. The radio announcer began to take on an “I told you so” air. Truly, the vaunted greatness of State University had been no exaggeration.

  The afternoon went on, and the gridiron was dug and marred and mauled by the scuffling elevens.

  When the sun was going down in the West, and the football fans all had that tired, happy look in their faces; when the stands were painted by the russet glow of sunset—the score was immense!

  State—54 Blaine—0. And through the keen air of the evening sunset, there was the blast of a gun, ending the game. Seven touchdowns! Seven successful conversions by the drop-kicking Felix Henderson. And out of the seven touchdowns, five were chalked up by the Galloping Ghost of the new season, Harrison McCoy.

  In the chilly locker rooms, Bill Clancy shivered as he hauled off his sticky uniform. His body gave out steam, his feet were cold. His ribs ached with exhaustion, and his head felt hot and stuffy. Under the hot shower, Bill let out a long sigh of relief; the prickly sensation of the water sent waves of comfortable blood through his wiry frame.

  Milling fans filled the locker rooms, talking, gesticulating, watching the State heroes. Bill Clancy paid little attention to them, and turned on the cold water. The invigorating effect made him yelp, and he darted from the showers to his locker where he dried himself vigorously.

  All dressed and with the hair slicked, Bill Clancy began to feel like a human being again. As he was fixing his tie, he nodded and smiled at the people who were surrounding him and talking all at once. He could make nothing out of it, and let them talk on.

  “What tackles you made today, Clancy!” an old grad was saying. “You almost killed the entire Blaine backfield!”

  “Thanks,” Bill mumbled, picking up his canvas bag and hanging it in the locker.

  “You were terrific!” piped someone else.

  “Thank you,” smiled Bill.

  Outside, the sun had gone down and the stadium was literally empty, except for the scattered remains of enthusiastic fans. Bill shuddered as a cold Autumnal blast came down the mussed up gridiron and hit him in the face. There were cuts and bumps here and there on his face, and his shoulders ached. All in all, as Bill walked along toward his dormitory room, he felt somewhat weary, but happy.

  There was to be a victory dance in the evening, and Bill could think of nothing but meeting Barbara there. Wearing a topcoat and felt hat, Bill strode along through the falling leaves and reached the dorm. A big yellow Fall moon was beginning to peep over the little houses of Brierville.

  As Bill was about to enter into the hallway of his dorm, he noticed a figure approaching him from the sidewalk. Bill waited, until he could make out the tall graceful form of Harrison McCoy.

  [....]

  Jack Lewis’s Baseball Chatter

  Baseball Chatter (this is Number Two, U.S. Cop. 1938 Reg. Pat. Off) was one of young Kerouac’s many sports publications. In this write-up, as in stories in his 1938 baseball sheet the Daily Ball, he reports on the doings of the teams in his imaginary league: the Boston Fords, New York Chevvies, St. Louis LaSalles, Pittsburgh Plymouths, Philadelphia Pontiacs, Chicago Nashes, and others. This issue of Baseball Chatter stands out for the slice-of-life reporting by “Jack Lewis,” a departure from the insider talk about standings, trades, star players, and the like. Lewis’s dispatch opens like a short story and develops into a scene with characters, dialogue, and setting.

  Bob Chase was meditatively chewing gum and twirling apple seeds with his thumbs out of his tenth story window, when I came in with a greeting. Genial Bill Mahaffey, who used to sit in Bob’s chair in the Chevvy office, would have been quite a contrast to the heavy browed, fiery eyed, and square jawed young man; Bill is a tender faced, portly person, and very enigmatic. But young Robert of the Janke men sat there and mumbled a greeting, and smiled cynically before beginning his talk.

  “Howaya, Jack,” said he. “I guess us Chevs are confounding you boys, hey?” I [calculated] they were.

  “Well, don’t always be too sure about anything; anything may happen to anything, and that’s pure, common sense.” Bob spat in his golden spittoon, and leisurely went on.

  “Look at those LaSalles of Marty Sloane’s. Now there’s a real strongly loaded club—loaded with hitters and pitchers that are a revelation. But once they go on a losing spree, they’re just like any other club. Take us—we were hot on the trail of the Plymouths, until they beat us the other day. They got hitters and pitchers, but they got the way of winning and they are rolling.”

  I wondered about the Chevs.

  “We were a-rolling when we met the Plyms, but they were too—and they had a better team.” Then Chase sat up in his chair and pointed a thick finger at me, saying: “That boy Pie Tibs is a real hitter—and that goes for Lou Badgurst and that Gavin kid, Tod. And Ed Stone is a better pitcher than he ever was today, and you remember how good he was one season back, with Harry Packfall’s old Buicks. Yup, those Adams boys are going to town, but don’t take your eyes away from my club, either.”

  “Say,” he enthusiastically cried, “I got a pitcher that is a pitcher, and I mean that rookie Maxfield. He’s got speed and control, and boy he’s going to win games for us, and I don’t mean maybe. And look at the way old Ed Steele and old Texas Davidson are macing that apple; and the Kelley boys, and my young catcher McGregor; and my other chuckers, especially old Joe McCann—say, we got a team that will press those Plym
s to death, and don’t be surprised of anything that happens here in New York—anything.” And with a knowing smile, Bob spiraled an apple seed out into the spring air, down to the street where trod hopeful Chevvy fans.

  [One Long Strange Dream]

  In 1939 Kerouac described this dream to his great and good friend from boyhood George J. Apostolos. They had met in Pawtucketville after the Kerouacs moved to that Lowell neighborhood in 1932. Kerouac routinely recorded his dreams, and this appears to be the earliest surviving dream transcription. In 1961 he published Book of Dreams, a singular volume in American literature. In the foreword he writes: “The reader should know that this is just a collection of dreams that I scribbled after I woke up from my sleep—They were all written spontaneously, non-stop, just Like dreams happen, sometimes written before I was even wide awake—[. . . .]”

  George, one hour ago, I woke up from a strange sleep. I had fallen asleep at 6 o‘clock in the evening, following a Sunday afternoon dinner. I slept till 8 o’clock. During this slumber, I had one long strange dream. It was one of the most magnificent dreams a man has ever dreamed, although I hardly recall what it was about. All I do know is that my subconscious mind worked with the outside world while the dream world wove about me in a maze of stunning and mysterious and moving events.

  My writing this brings to mind the time you wrote and told me about a similar situation of yours, when you had slept one day and had awakened, and had gone down to get my letter, and had proceeded to write to me and describe the mysterious mood which occurred.

  This dream of mine contained characters which I am sure included you, and also someone else, and I hope you don’t think this is a joke, but it was Ernie Noval. But the point is this, it was so well-woven together and my sleeping mind told it to my soul as I slept and I distinctly recall noting this as I dreamt. One of the incidents in the dream was that my mother was sick, and that I was hysterical and you were there to comfort me. My explanation for this, however, is the fact that the picture I saw last night called “Andy Hardy and Family” in which Andy’s mother was sick must have caused this event. However, I do remember that there were other events which occurred and which were perfectly Welles in character.

  The main idea of me telling you this is the mood which I was in upon awakening. I sat in my big arm chair and stared at the fireplace and contemplated the most penetrating meditations I had done in a long time, possibly since I sat on your wood pile in Lowell a few weeks ago and studied the board which you pointed out to me and upon which you had told me the white cat had stared at you for nights.

  Slowly, my mind unwound itself from my unearthly thoughts, and I picked up a book which I had given to me yesterday, called “How to Learn.” As I read it, the materialistic world returned to me, and I unconsciously made it known to myself that I would make this book my second bible. My first bible is the Holy Bible, because of the fact that I am about to make a concerted study in religion soon, and put down my conclusions of it along with its effects and consequences. However, back to my mood. As I made my way out of it, I looked at the clock and saw that it was 8 o’clock. I jumped up and put on WABC. On came the music which seemed to fit my mood, and soon, Orson Welles’ tremulous tones came over the ether announcing that he was presenting Jane Eyre. Thus, I enjoyed a program as I haven’t for a long time.

  [....]

  Count Basie’s Band Best in Land; Group Famous for “Solid” Swing

  In addition to publishing short stories in Horace Mann’s quarterly magazine, Kerouac wrote regularly for the campus newspaper, the Horace Mann Record, in 1939—40. He covered the sports teams and contributed articles on music, including pieces on the jazz critic George Avakian (a Horace Mann graduate) and bandleader Glenn Miller.

  “I want guts in my music!” Count Basie once said publicly. “No screaming brass for me,” he had added, “but I do want plenty of guts in my music.”

  And so, without any screaming brass, the Count managed to weld his unit into a terrific gang of soloists and ensemble players. Much to the dismay of most of our present day “swing” bands, they cannot be terrific unless they tear off some deafening brass measures to send the jitterbugs out of the world. Count Basie’s swing arrangements are not blaring, but they contain more drive, more power, and more thrill than the loudest gang of corn artists can acquire by blowing their horns apart.

  Possibly, excepting Duke Ellington, the Basie band is the most underrated and greatest band in the country today. Unlike the vacuous phraseology of pseudo-swing bands, Basie’s stuff means something. As for solo work, there is no greater assortment of soloists to be found on any one band-stand.

  Taking these stars apart, we can well realize why the Basie ensemble is the best in the land. Since the old days in Kansas City, these boys have been jamming together, causing a magnificent blend of musicians familiar with each other’s peculiarities and ideas, and a subsequent precision of play.

  To begin with, the Count has the greatest rhythm section in the history of jazz, and this has helped his other great musicians to improve. The Count himself is an outstanding soloist. He is a thrilling player with tremendous ideas. He ranks at least third among the best pianists of the swing world. The rest of his rhythm section is composed of Jo Jones, Walter Page, and Freddy Green.

  JONES FINISHED DRUMMER

  Jo Jones is the most finished drummer in existence. It is interesting to note how he keeps the beat going when he takes a solo on his hides, unlike the ordinary drummers who stop all activities when they set sail on their riflings. Freddy Green’s steady guitar work has been unparalleled in jazz since the days of the old school guitarists. When Freddy Green starts his rhythm going, in unison with Walter Page’s mighty bass-playing and Jo Jones chimes in on the drums, you have the rhythm section that every maestro dreams of.

  But that is only half of it. The Count’s soloists are all good, especially Lester Young, Dickie Wells, Harry Edison, and Buck Clayton.

  Lester Young, who is now rated along with Coleman Hawkins on the hot tenor, is the Count’s outstanding soloist. Lester uses a different riff on every chorus, and his enormous store of ideas enables him to take an unlimited number of solos. His phrasing on jump numbers is unequaled, while he is highly proficient when it comes to blues. It would be safe to say that Lester Young is actually popularizing the tenor sax, an instrument which the ordinary jitterbug cares little for, because he would prefer a screeching trumpet a la Clyde Hurley. Young’s playing may turn the trend of public interest to the tenor sax, because he is really a master-mind with that horn of his.

  Besides Lester Young, Buddy Tate plays the tenor in the first chair. Tate is a stylist, and has an individual style definitely distinct from Young’s, which adds a touch of variety to the Basie reeds. Earl Warren and Jack Washington are the other two saxists, each of whom are better than average. Lester Young is also a terrific clarinetist, but he rarely plays it except to mess around someone else’s solo in the background. The same for Washington’s alto yet to be heard.

  Harry Edison, a powerhouse trumpeter, with a choice individuality of ideas, is featured in the brass section. His marvelous control, and the thrilling manner in which he delivers his trumpet solos makes him the equal of Buck Clayton, the other trumpet ace.

  CLAYTON RANKS WITH BEST

  Clayton, who has improved a great deal in his long stay with Basie, has beautiful tone and some wonderful ideas. Clayton ranks, in fact, with the greatest trumpeters of all time. Al Killian, who recently joined the band at the Golden Gate Ballroom, has taken Shad Collins’ place as lead trumpeter. Collins had been an amazing high note trumpeter. Ed Louis, a good hot player, occupies the other chair.

  However, the thing which makes Basie’s trumpet section what it is is the definite clash of style, provided by Edison and Clayton.

  Dickie Wells, probably ranking alongside of Higginbotham, Keg Johnsen and all the other great slip-horn men, is the man who provides those stirring trombone passages for the Count Basie orchestr
a. Dickie has a torrid accent on his phrasing, and is purely hot. It was unfortunate that Ben Morton had to leave the Basie band last month, but Wells will carry on. Vic Dickerson replaced Morton. The other trombonist is Dan Minor, the veteran first chair man. Morton had been Basie’s straight player and hot man before leaving.

  One could pick up a dictionary and cast all the superlatives in existence upon the Basie group, but it still wouldn’t suffice. Words cannot explain the meaning of Basie’s music, both to the listener, and to the good name of swing. A marvelous drive, borne by the assurance of over-talented musicians, makes this group what it is—the last word in music.

  Supplied with an amazing group of soloists, Count Basie’s orchestra has all the necessary harmonious technique and life conducive of REAL swing bands—and we do mean Basie.

  (This is the first in a series of articles dealing with the nation’s leading swing orchestras, written by Jack Kerouac and based on theories and opinions derived from Seymour Wyse, Donald Wolf, and the author himself.)

  Go Back

  The next five selections were written by Kerouac in the summer of 1940. In May 1955, working on what became his Buddhist document Some of the Dharma, Kerouac referred to these early pieces: “[...] I should have been told to stay home, in the sandbank, in the woods, praising Nothingness as I had done that Summer layin around the grass with dogs and Walt Whitman and grass ’tween my teeth, and I guarantee you there would have been no torrent of suffering—Everything I did as a kid was instinctively right—[. . . .]”

  One night I sat on the curbstone of a street in the city and looked across the road at a little rose-covered cottage which was rickety, like the fence around it, and it looked old, not Colonial, but old. That’s where I used to live, I said aloud to myself in a tone of yearning. I tried to sigh like they do in plays, but it was a fake one. I didn’t want to sigh, but I tried. The thing I really wanted to do was weep, but I couldn’t do that either.