True stories in works of fiction

I've been rereading my novel Kerouac's Scroll, which is something I do when my spirits need lifting. It's a deeply personal story and one to which its fans, few but energetic, are true believers. No work of mine has received more enthusiastic praise, even though by and large the book is ignored. But it works deeply for males of a certain age and background, it seems.

At any rate, in this work of fiction, based on my relationship with my  late soul brother, are a number of true stories, things that actually happened. My favorite is this one.

The story went this way. Helen and I were still

together, and I was going to UCLA. Hooker had just gotten

out of the Army and moved to Idaho with plans to return to

college. One Saturday night we came home from a party

after midnight to find the phone ringing. It was Hooker. He

was drunk and calling to tell me he was leaving Jennifer.

He’d had enough. When? I asked. Right now. No, I

insisted, don’t do this until you talk to me. Where can we

meet? We decided on Reno, which was halfway between

southern California and northern Idaho.

Helen, of course, couldn’t believe that I actually was

going to leave for Reno on the spot. I was half-drunk and

my body was ready to crash. To hell with it. My soul

brother was in distress, and I left with Helen yelling at me.

Soon enough I got a lucky break. I picked up a

hitchhiker, who drove while I caught a nap in the back seat.

It was late morning by the time I made Reno. We had

agreed to meet in the bar at the Reno Hotel. But Hooker

wasn’t there. Maybe I beat him. I called Helen to let her

know I was still alive.

Hooker had called, He’d had car trouble and was

stranded in Winnemucca. He’d meet me at the downtown

motel there.

I didn’t trust myself to drive for another hour without

more rest. I crawled into my car, and when I woke up, the

sun was going down. I hit the road.

It was a tortuous trip. I kept hallucinating that car

lights were heading my way. I was hungover and still a

little drunk, exhausted mentally and physically, in no

shape to be on the road. But there I was.

In Winnemucca the desk clerk gave me our room

number. Though it was early, Hooker already was snoring.

I took the other bed and in no time was asleep.

When I awoke, morning sunshine was streaming into

the room. Hooker’s bed was empty. I found him downstairs

in the restaurant, reading the paper. I slipped into the

booth across from him.

“Sports?” he asked.

“Sure.”

A waitress came and took our order. We read the

paper and ate. No one spoke. We didn’t speak a single word

to the other as we ate.

Hooker picked up the tab. Outside the restaurant, I

said, “Which way you heading?”

“North.”

“Back to Jenn?”

“Right.”

“Have a safe trip.”

“You, too.”

We embraced. We climbed into our separate cars. At

the highway, Hooker turned north, and I turned south,

each beeping a farewell.

A man always grinned after hearing this story. A

woman always shook her head.

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