The Ghost of Jack Kerouac

I first met him at a truck stop outside of Omaha that was really in my
apartment in Brooklyn because I’ve never been near Omaha, but that
doesn’t mean the things I am about to recount here never happened.
Because as far as I’m concerned these things did happen much in the
same way everything tends to happen. And in this sense I am certain
that one night, either just outside of Omaha or in Brooklyn, I met
Jack Kerouac, and this night was one of the most disappointing nights
of my life.

When I encountered this Kerouac, it occurred to me that he had been
dead for at least 40 years, but I kept this to myself as I shook his
hand and told him that I was a huge fan of is work. He said thank you,
and then I asked him how he was. Bored, he said, so bored, you
wouldn't believe it. But how can that be? I said. You’re Jack Kerouac?
This is true, he said, but my identity isn’t a remedy for boredom. It
isn’t? I said. I used to think it was, he said, but I think I was
wrong. And why is that? I said. I don’t know, said Kerouac. Maybe it’s
because I’m not Jesus Christ.

Shortly after he said these things, the man who I thought was Kerouac fell silent. He seemed to want to be alone with his thoughts so I excused myself and went to the bathroom where I snorted some cocaine. I snorted so much that for a moment I was back in Brooklyn lying on my bed in my apartment just feeling my blood pulsate through me and wondering how I would come down enough to fall asleep and make it to work on time. But then my hallucinations took hold of me again and rescued me from these thoughts so I walked out of the bathroom and told Kerouac about Brooklyn and not sleeping and every problem I’d ever had. He told me to relax and try to write a story about how I felt. Then, I should try to sell it for a million dollars
so I’d never have to go to work again and have plenty of time to deal with all my issues.

I ended up taking his advice and going home. But later when I tried to
write all I came up with was a bunch of horse shit.