Rereading Kerouac
Not long ago I made mention that I wasn't sure if I would want to have a beer with "the girl in Birks" who moved here in 2000. Wild eyed with untamed hair in shades of auburn with blondish highlights, her peasant blouses with tattered jeans, and tanks with long hippie skirts, leather knapsack on her shoulder and gypsy scarf around her neck spoke of her age more than anything else. In college she had read Jack Kerouac's On The Road no less than twenty-five times; always scenting the air with clove cigarettes and littering the desk floor, and any flat surface with beer bottles. Sadly, or maybe aptly, they were not uber cool micro-brews. Back then Miller and Bud Light called to her on Kentucky nights. One of the roommates--Mere--"borrowed" the cherished book, but that should really read she "lost" the novel in the forlorn flat surface with papers, clothes, and trinkets. Most just call it a desk. Shortly before graduation the mysterious flat...