On the Skids

All I was doing was minding my own damn business. Standing on the sidewalk outside the office, having a smoke before walking to the deli for a sandwich. There were two guys standing across the sidewalk by the fire hydrant, but I barely noticed them. When I turned my head again, though, they were standing in front of me. One was shorter. He had white hair and wore shades. The other was younger and taller.

"Can we talk to you about something?" the older man asked. "What," I said, trying to make it clear that I wasn't really interested. I was expecting the worst. Religious nut. Anti-smoking zealot. Secret Service. Or some combination of the three. People have a way of snagging me while I'm trying to smoke.

The older man removed his shades. He didn't look like much of a religious nut, at least. The rest was open. "Have you ever heard of On the Road, by Jack Kerouac?" he asked. "Yeah." I was still suspicious. "Have you ever read it?"

"Couple times, yeah." The two men glanced at each other quickly. Then they looked back to me. "You're the first person we've run into today who's actually read it. See, we're working on a documentary..."

My heart sank a little. I would've preferred the Secret Service. Only then did I notice that the tall one was carrying a digital video camera, and the older guy was holding a fat microphone with one of those fuzzy heads on it. I can be pretty slow sometimes. The story they gave me was this: A major motion picture version of On The Road was being filmed.

Rumors that it was being made had been circulating for over 10 years, but for all the rumors, nothing ever happened. Now it looked like it was finally a go. Ten years ago, Francis Ford Coppola was supposed to be directing it; now Walter Salles was directing and Coppola was producing. Before work on the film got started, Salles wanted to make a documentary comprised of interviews with famous people and jerk-offs (like me) alike, talking about the book, or travel, or most anything even vaguely related to On the Road. At least that's the story they told me.

So while I'm usually very hesitant about getting my picture taken or commenting on other writers, I shrugged and consented, explaining that while I kept trying to like it-reading it every few years, watching documentaries about Kerouac, listening to an audio version read by David Carradine-it never really grabbed me. I told them that the world of On the Road didn't exist anymore, that kind of freedom he was describing was long gone. But I'd try again somewhere down the line, still hoping that someday it would click the way it was supposed to. Then I shut up.

They seemed satisfied enough with the results, had me sign a release, then continued on their way. It all meant very little to me, and I ultimately had very little to say. Mostly I was thinking about that salami sandwich I was going to get as soon as they left. Of course the moment they walked away, I began second-guessing the things I'd said, or should've said differently. But by the time I paid for the sandwich, I'd let it all slide. "You should've started talking about Bing Crosby and Bob Hope movies," Morgan said when I told her what happened. "Then you should've broken into song." And of course that would've been the perfect response, but it was too late.

On my way home later that afternoon, the deep and ironic wrongness of that whole sidewalk encounter started making itself clear to me. I know people who not only worship that book and Kerouac, but who have, in distant ways, been connected with the rumors surrounding the film. People who would've torn my throat out with their teeth for the chance I just had. I knew people who stood in line for hours in the freezing cold a decade ago, waiting for a chance to audition for Coppola at an open casting call for an On the Road that never happened.

A friend and former neighbor of mine produced an indie film in 2001 called American Saint, about a kid who hires a yellow cab to drive him from New York to LA to audition, after hearing rumors that the film was being made.

Then there are the Kerouac nuts. I know more than a few people who insist that On the Road is The Greatest American Novel Ever Written. People who've made pilgrimages to Kerouac's grave, who have the book memorized, who would've had volumes to speak on the subject, if only these guys making the documentary had bothered to ask them.

But who the hell did they pick instead? Some schlub standing out there on the sidewalk having a smoke, his mind on a sandwich. Some dimwit who scratched his neck and essentially said "Eh, it was OK, I suppose...Never really grabbed me." I mean, who the fuck am I to say such a thing? Kind of sad, I guess, the way things sometimes turn out in this world.