Kerouac Woke Me up on Sunday

(published: writesidup.net - January, 2006)

Kerouac woke me up on Sunday - rain soaked and unassuming, but of otherwise joyous spirits, the peddler that he was, selling his emotions in small doses - his words, his rhymes, his being. The sound of rain fell in rhythmic patterns on my bedroom window. Rat-a-tat-tat.

He stood above me, hovering in a muddy cloud of smoke and infinite knowledge.

I should clarify. He was not a spirit; at least he did not appear to be. He was flesh and blood, just like me, though his smile was larger than my poor soul could have ever managed.

His cigarette held a single elongated ash attached to a thin filter between his teeth. Raindrops fell against my roof. Rat-a-tat-tat.

The long ash fell on my white bed sheets.

"How big is your soul, brother?" he asked. "How deep does your rabbit hole go?"

"I have no time for riddles." I turned my back on him and proceeded to go back to sleep.

"There is always time for riddles."

The rattle of pots, pans, spoons, saucers and cups emanated from the kitchen. I sat awake, as the percolator was percolating and my eyeballs were eyeballing the corner of my room where his wet jacket hung from my closet doorknob - his muddy shoes placed neatly beneath it on my hardwood floor. I laughed. How can you be mad at the entity that is Jack Kerouac?

I heard him pour a cup of java and disappear into the living room. Moments later, Miles Davis blared from my record player.

"It's a good day to write," I heard him shout from my doorway. "The sun's hiding behind a cloud of rain and there's no where left to go but inside your head."

He lifted his hand and scattered a stack of papers around my room. "Miles is making me feel 'some kind of blue' and I've gotta get the word out." He threw the covers off my bed. "I've got the itch, brother. I haven't involved myself in writing in thirty-four years and I sense inspiration in the air."

"It's Sunday." I uttered the almost inaudible words through a widened yawn. "No one works on Sunday."

Jack opened the window, as the remnant smell of rain seeped in. The raindrops fell on my windowsill. Rat-a-tat-tat.

"There's a higher power that never sleeps, my friend. It keeps your feet planted firmly on the ground." He paused long enough to light another cigarette. "Otherwise, you'd just float right off into that big hole in space and drift away, the helpless soul that you are."

He strolled over to my bookshelf, pulled my tattered copy of On the Road, and slid his finger down its spine. "I'm getting dusty."

I sat up, shaking the exhaustion from my limbs. "I can't read it every day. You understand what that book means to me."

"I wasn't making an accusation - merely an observation." He placed the book neatly back in its place. "Now, how about that inspiration?"

"I'm in no shape to inspire anyone," I said, and with that I sat up against my headboard, arms folded across my chest.

He stared down my challenge with his all-knowing eyes. A smile spread across his face that would have made the devil submit to his devious whims.

He pulled down my old typewriter from the top shelf of my closet; the first typewriter I ever used. With a disconcerting jerk, he tossed it onto my white sheets, and handed me a fresh stack of paper.

"Write," he said.

"I thought I was supposed to inspire you."

"I never said that." He peered over the large cup of coffee. The sound of jazz percussion filled the room.

Rat-a-tat-tat.

"I don't know what to write," I complained. "It's been months."

"Write about whatever moves you. Forget about sentences and paragraphs. Forget about grammar and punctuation. Just write the words, man. Crawl into your rabbit hole and see how far it goes. You might be surprised with what you find."

I opened my mouth to argue, but he was gone. There was no Miles Davis blaring. There was no rainy jacket or muddy shoes. There was no Rat-a-tat-tat. Only my typewriter, with a single piece of paper sticking out of the top with the words, "Kerouac woke me up on Sunday."