Oh, Jack Kerouac. St. Pete Literary Legend.
OK, Literary Legend who happened to make his last stop in St. Pete.
A couple of years ago, I crossed paths with Jack Kerouac during a spiritual journey that began after I found myself laying in the ICU of St. Anthony’s Hospital in St. Pete, recovering from a ruptured abdominal aortic aneurysm. In fact, over a period of several months, I found myself in St. Anthony’s three times as I battled serious complications from vascular Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome. Shaken by the realization that the threat of spontaneous arterial rupture was a permanent fixture in my DNA, I started reading an array of spiritual writing including Hermann Hesse’s Siddhartha, Thich Nhat Hanh’s Peace is Every Step, Catholic mystic Thomas Merton’s memoir, and Joseph Campbell’s The Power of Myth. I even read a book by a mother who is convinced that her son is the reincarnation of Lou Gehrig — and it was a strangely compelling story. As I dug more into some of our mid-century spiritual explorers, Jack Kerouac’s work kept coming up. And even though I’m a writer in St. Petersburg, I’d never retraced the Beat writer’s footsteps through what he is said to have dubbed “the town of the newly wed and the living dead." I’d never driven by his house on 10th Ave. N., or darkened the door of the Flamingo Bar, and I’d never read On the Road. Then someone told me that the audiobook, read by character actor Will Patton, was one of the best.
They were right. If you’ve never “read” an audiobook, sign up for Audible, and use your “free” credit to get On the Road, and then don’t forget to cancel before your free trial is up. You will not regret it. I’ve listened to this audiobook three or four times in the last two years. It’s tremendously entertaining and it's easy to understand why this book has inspired so many readers and writers.
Turned on to Kerouac, I went down to Haslam’s Bookstore, where Jack’s spirit is rumored to haunt the stacks by knocking books on the floor and moving his titles to prime locations. I wasn’t there specifically because of Jack’s ghost, but I wanted to say hi to my friend Ray Hinst and talk books. He said, “If you like On the Road you have to read the follow-up, The Dharma Bums.”
So I picked it up and did my best to channel Will Patton while I read it during my own summer long cross-country journey. I enjoyed it almost as much as On the Road. I was drinking the Kerouac kool-aid.
Curious, I read up on his history in St. Petersburg. It’s been written about frequently — although there's little that happened here worth mentioning. He lived in a nondescript house in St. Pete with his wife and mother. He drank a lot here and there. He didn’t write anything noteworthy. He didn’t say anything noteworthy. He was like a guru who disappeared into a cave, and his fans here longed to be part of his story. My interest might have waned, but then I ran across the chilling fact that Jack Kerouac had died from an abdominal hemorrhage at the very place I’d had some of my most harrowing moments: St. Anthony’s Hospital. It’s a spooky coincidence that makes me feel personally connected to Jack — even if I don’t think I’m Jack reincarnate. (Or am I?) [editor's note: you're not]
I can’t claim to know more about Jack than what I’ve gleaned from his writings and handful of web pages. But I was blown away by a YouTube video of an appearance he made on The Steve Allen show in which Allen lays down a little quiet jazz piano while Jack reads from On the Road. He’s at the height of his powers — cool, unassuming, poetic. But the next video YouTube suggested was his participation on William F. Buckley’s panel discussion show, Firing Line (this is the embryonic stage of Fox ’n Friends). Buckley, the Yale elite for whom the word "smug" was invented, leads a conversation on “The Hippies” (seriously, you have to hear Buckley say “hippies” like he smells a dirty sock). Jack's participation frames him as the original Beatnik who served a precursor to the '60s counterculture, but he's not playing along and his wit is lost in his drunken inability to follow the conversation. He died less than a year later.
At their best, Jack and his Beat brethren represented a rejection of conformity and participation in a dehumanized industrial society and at their worst, an embracing of self-centered indulgence often causing pain in the lives of their mothers, wives and children. The positive message to be taken is to follow your dreams, be good to your fellow man, live true to yourself and love. This was particularly absent from Jack’s final years.
I think if we’re to celebrate his time in St. Pete we should learn from the sad tale of his mental illness and addiction. He wasn’t a charming drunk genius sitting at the end of the bar telling tales of Mexico City and peyote. He was cursing Jews and bitterly drinking himself to death. He needed help he didn’t get. He was only 47 years old when his body couldn’t take the punishment any longer. Jack needed to take his own advice — revel in life, revel in love — collect experiences and be beatific. Instead, he became the type of embittered middle-aged man he once poetically rejected.
So, yes, let’s celebrate Jack. Let’s have readings. Let’s name drinks after him. Let’s hang his picture above the bar stool. Let’s talk to his ghost. Turn his house into a writer’s retreat. Part of his myth is his tragic ending, and it's interesting that it happened here. But he can’t be glorified if we don’t learn something. Write like Jack. Live like the younger Jack. Think for yourself. But don’t be like Jack if it means not honoring your own words.
Jonathan Kile lived 42 years in blissful ignorance that he was born with Vascular Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome. His bad genes forced him to give up a life as a traveling salesman. His good genes make him a fine and — some would say handsome — writer. He chronicles his family's van trips at dontmakemeturnthisvanaround.com. (It's just like On The Road, but with kids and without drugs.) His first book, The Grandfather Clock is available on Amazon. The sequel, The Napoleon Bloom, will be ready when it's ready, dammit. Don't miss any event in Tampa Bay — subscribe to our weekly Do This newsletter!
