The characters kind of reminded Frank of the crowd he’d spent the last ten years serving drinks to at the Metropole Lounge in Zenith, Minnesota. And if that place wasn’t the heart of the American night, he didn’t know what was.
But Frank was hard pressed to find much wisdom or universal truths from his days at the Metro, unlike the characters in the book, who seemed to readily extract profundities from their own similar experiences.
Frank guessed things just looked different from the working side of the bar.
But the book made letting your wild side out sound fun and exciting. And now Frank had a craving for beer. And there were two more black beauties remaining in Waverly’s gift box.
He could swallow one down, get back in the groove and drive all night, be like those crazy, sad bastards in the book.
And damn near to California by tomorrow morning.
But shit, that wasn’t going to cut it. Along with the fuel supply problems, thoughts of being alone on the freeway in the middle of the night and having the Hater come back on center stage were turning him cold. It could really get dark at night out here in the West, even on a freeway.
His life was already dark enough without adding to the blackness, he thought. And he was just too burnt for another all-nighter, the accumulated stress of the last few months choosing now to turn him inside out and sideways.
But the book did give him an idea.
Kerouac’s protagonist, Sal Paradise, was on his own journey to California, and made his first prolonged stop in the city of Denver, with the purpose of looking up an old friend and possibly scrounging some cash for the remainder of his journey.
Frank also had a friend in Denver, an old high school buddy, former Arizona Amateur Tennis Champion Larry Richards. Who, the last Frank had heard, was now a divorce lawyer in Denver, allegedly raking in the cash hand over fist, divorce a growing concern in 1977.
Frank possessed adequate funds and could afford a place to crash if necessary, so that separated him from Sal Paradise. But he was craving rest, recreation, fun and excitement—without any fear attached—and Denver was only an inch away on the map.
So…
Larry always had his shit together, Frank was thinking. Back when they were teenagers and used to hang together, the guy was well organized and full of plans. If he were anything at all like the guy Frank remembered, Richards would definitely show him a good time in the Mile High City.
Which was just what Frank needed.
Blow off a little steam and straighten out his wounded mind. Drink beer and shoot the shit and chase women in a new place where nobody knows who you are or what you’ve done.
Studying the map, he discovered Denver was somewhere around two hundred miles or more away—nearly four hours. Far enough, that it would be dark before he hit the city limits. And coming into an unfamiliar environment after dark was never a good idea.
Frank put the paperback down on the seat, started the wagon and headed back to I-70. Slightly rejuvenated, the coffee chugging through him, he figured he had a couple more hours left before he hit bottom.
(End of Chapter 2)
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