u-n-r-o-l-l-e-d and hugged our left front tire as if glued to our groove. Dean hunched his muscular neck, T-shirted in the winter night, and blasted the car along. He insisted I drive through New York for traffic practice; that was all right; except he and Marylou insisted on steering while they kissed and fooled around. It was crazy; the radio was on full blast. Dean beat drums on the dashboard till a great


developed in it; I did too. The poor Hudson - the slow boat going to China - was receiving her beating.


-Jack Kerouac