“It has to be raunchy.”
“What does?”
“Whatever you’re writing!”
“Oh that. But if it’s a memoir, and there’s nothing raunchy in my life, how
can it be raunchy?”
“Nevermind. Make it creative fiction, not memoir. There’s lot you can get
away with when you label it like that. Like, I really think the world needs
another Jack Kerouac.”
“Well, the first one was good enough, why try to copy him.”
“No, you don’t copy. Just extend the story. Make it suitable for the mod-
ern times. Like, take the same characters and run away with a new version
of them. Make it look as if Sal and Dean end up meeting out of the blue
somewhere. A strip joint. A bar. Somewhere. It would take them a while to
recognize the man sitting next to them with his potbelly and wrinkles and all.
Or set it in the 80s New York. Dean moves back to New York. He meets Sal
again as he is parking his car. Dean often worked as a parking lot attendant,
and now Sal is that big hot shot writer who can afford to go to places with
valet parking and all. And so they recognize one another. Promise around
round of booze…”
“I still don’t see what’s so edgy about it. This is what happened the first time
around almost.”
“Wait. There’s more.”
“Well, it’s better be good. Because so far, well, it’s sketchy.”
“Listen to this. They become lovers.”
“Who?”
“Sal and Dean.”
“Why would they?”
“Oh come on, why wouldn’t they!... It was written all over the story. You
could just sense it throughout the story. This kind of love between them.”
“Well, some people call it friendship. If you ever heard of the concept.”
“Screw me. I know what friendship is. And what friendship is not. Sal was
damn it – in love – with Dean. And Dean was too. Not in love with himself,
but with Sal.”
“OK, and where do Marylou, Inez, Camille, and all the other babes fit here?”
“I am not saying they don’t fit. Sex is one thing. Love is another.”

“I really don’t follow. I’m sorry. I just don’t. Maybe you read too much into
the story.”
“I did not. I really think it is a natural extension. All this coming and going
to meet one another. All these desperate calls for help. This scene at the diner
where they have a falling out. And Dean goes out to cry. And Sal is pissed at
the wasted food. It’s a lovers’ quarrel damn it. I am sure it was. I’ve been in
love before. I have had quarrels with ladies before, and love is love, regardless
of its gender.”
“OK, so they have a sexual fling, then what?”
“No. It’s not a sexual fling. Lust loses the luster after a while. They finally ad-
mit to the love. Sex was just the by-product. Do you notice how little descrip-
tion of actual sex, graphic sex, there was in the novel? But God, compare that
to all those sentence referring to how angelic and beat or beatific Dean was.
And how Dean looked up at Sal as a father figure even though he was just five
years older than him.”
“OK, so this ends up being incest?”
“You’re not listening, are you?”
“I am. I just don’t get it.”
“Open your mind. Go read the book again. It’s there, all over. They could end
up in San Francisco again. Making up some alternative family on the same
street as Camille and the two girls. San Francisco is a gay mecca, everyone
knows that.”
“And Camille would agree to that, naturally….”
“Stop being a cynic. Camille wrote Inez letters and they talked on the phone
about Dean and all. People like Dean have the charisma to convince souls like
Camille, Inez, and damn it, everyone else of the righteousness of what they
are doing no matter how crazy and illogic it might be.”
“Oh, and what next? Holden Caulfield going back to Mr. Antolini and teaming
up for a threesome with his teacher’s older wife?”
“Stop being a cynic I said. That was different.”
“What’s so different about it. Antolini tried to pat his head in the darkness
while Holden was sleeping.”
“Have you ever cared for a student? For their welfare as such.”
“No.”
“Then you can never understand. You can never understand what kind of love
that is. I could understand how Antolini felt when he saw Holden all wrecked
up.”

“Yes, and that’s the perfect excuse to abuse a student in distress.”
“No. I told you that you wouldn’t understand. Sometimes all they need is to
know that someone gives a damn. A lot of people confide into their teachers.
They look for comfort in their soothing words. In small gestures. A kiss on
the tip of the head after they tell you how disoriented they are. There was one
girl who wanted to be a painter, a soprano, a graphic designer, and a writer all
at the same time. She was starting her first year in archeology, after having
spent three years in a different university, and two years in a different major.
It was her sixth year of university life and she was still a sophomore. You
can’t make her life right, but at least you can let her know she is cared for.
Despite the madness. The wreck. You don’t understand.”