Gerald Nicosia

JACK IN GHOST-TOWN

a play about Jack Kerouac

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CAST OF CHARACTERS:

OLD JACK

YOUNG JACK

STELLA

ALLEN GINSBERG

NEAL CASSADY

LUANNE CASSADY

PAULINE

THE PORTRAIT (GERARD)

FIRST RASKOLNIK

SECOND RASKOLNIK

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ACT ONE

OPENING: A spotlight comes on GERARD, the ten-year-old invalid brother of JACK KEROUAC, as he kneels facing the audience, as if before his bedroom window. GERARD looks for and then sees a bird approaching; he opens the window, puts out his finger, and the bird alights on it. He strokes it for a second; then the bird flies away. As this action unfolds, a dim light comes up on OLD JACK, stage right, and YOUNG JACK, stage left. OLD JACK, hair mussed, baggy pants, and shirt untucked, stands in his living room. YOUNG JACK sits before his typing table, with typewriter and a stack of books. Both of them have a bottle nearby. YOUNG JACK looks much neater, as if ready for a night on the town; OLD JACK wears bedroom slippers and no stockings. OLD JACK speaks over GERARD's actions.

OLD JACK: The nuns said my brother Gerard was a saint... He was in terrible pain when he died, but he never complained. I wonder which one made him the saint--being in pain or not complaining?
(OLD JACK walks tentatively toward Gerard, who immediately stands, as if sensing danger, and exits past YOUNG JACK. As if caught napping on the job, YOUNG JACK immediately begins typing, and OLD JACK walks over to him.)
You mind if I have a drink?

YOUNG JACK: It's death in a bottle.

OLD JACK (chuckling wickedly): I know! That's why I drink it.

(YOUNG JACK stops typing. OLD JACK reaches for the bottle.)

YOUNG JACK: You're not supposed to say that.

OLD JACK: Who's listening?

YOUNG JACK: You never know.

(YOUNG JACK looks toward OLD JACK'S living room. A light comes up on OLD JACK'S rocker; GERARD sits in it, drawing on a tablet.)

OLD JACK (glancing toward GERARD): We don't have to worry about him.

YOUNG JACK: Why not?

OLD JACK: He's the one who's doing all this!
(OLD JACK sets down the bottle; he grabs a book and throws it at YOUNG JACK, who catches it.)
"On the Road" by Jack Kerouac...
(OLD JACK throws another book at YOUNG JACK.)
"The Dharma Bums" by Jack Kerouac...
(OLD JACK throws another book at YOUNG JACK.)
"Doctor Sax" by Jack Kerouac...
(OLD JACK throws another book at YOUNG JACK.)
"Mexico City Blues" by Jack Kerouac...
(OLD JACK throws another book at YOUNG JACK.)
"Big Sur" by Jack Kerouac.

YOUNG JACK: Stop it! I can't write all these books at once. I'm working on my first family epic--"The Town and the City."

OLD JACK: It's going to sell 400 copies, and the publisher will ask you for their money back.

YOUNG JACK: Do you think Gerard would have cared about money?

OLD JACK: Don't ask me! Ask him!

YOUNG JACK: I don't have to ask him--I am him.

OLD JACK: Then what were you doing with a lunatic sex fiend like Neal Cassady?
(OLD JACK and YOUNG JACK stare at each other for a few seconds; then YOUNG JACK reaches for the bottle and takes a slug. OLD JACK continues in a W.D. Fieldsian whine:)
"Tastes better, tastes better all the time!...Ah yass.
(YOUNG JACK hands the bottle to OLD JACK; he drinks heartily.)
The trouble with you is you got the flowers of death in your eyes.

YOUNG JACK: The flowers of death are everywhere, Jack--just ask Baudelaire!

OLD JACK: You're also too literarily inclined.

YOUNG JACK: I'm a Cornish Celtic Breton seafarer born of the sea's lips and the brattle of her boney floor! The crack of Noah's Ark timbers built by drowning geniuses in the unconditional night of universal death.

OLD JACK: You make it sound pretty, Jack.

YOUNG JACK: Death is as pretty as my brother's face.

OLD JACK: Your own face might not look so pretty draped in satin.

YOUNG JACK (with bravado): It is not hard to face death.

OLD JACK: No, sirree.
(OLD JACK takes another hit of the whiskey.)

YOUNG JACK: You'll find out soon enough.

OLD JACK: Naw, not me! I'll live forever! I got the magics!

YOUNG JACK: What magics?

OLD JACK: Sssshhh! It's a secret.

STELLA (calling from offstage, in a Greek accent): Jack-ie!

(OLD JACK grabs another book off the pile on the table and studies the blurb.)

OLD JACK: Hmmm, you wanna know how the publishers will sell your work? ... "A wild tale of forbidden love between a white beatnik writer and a Negro chick in the jazz underworld of San Francisco's North Beach..."

STELLA (voice getting louder): Jackie! Who're you talkin' to?

OLD JACK (continuing): "...an orgy of sensual kicks among those who dare to do anything!"
(STELLA enters; she breaks the spell of his dream world. Still oblivious, GERARD now leaves, and the lights go up on the Kerouac living room. YOUNG JACK acts as if he doesn't notice her; he types silently. OLD JACK jumps up and dances toward her, singing:)
"Flatfoot floogie with the floy-floy ... Cement mixer! Puttee, puttee! Cement mixer! Puttee, puttee!"

STELLA: Jackie! Stop it!

OLD JACK: Hello, ghost!

STELLA: What did you call me?

OLD JACK (in an English accent): I said, "Hello, Mrs. ghost."

STELLA: I'm your wife, Jackie!

OLD JACK: Don't thunder at me, wifey! Or you might mistake me for Louis Thunder, and forget that I'm a millstone about your neck.

STELLA (reaching out to him): You're no such thing.

OLD JACK (pushing her away): Jean Louis Millstone is my name ... Millstone... Gallstone ... Ghostawack ... Death.

STELLA (moving closer as if to smell his breath): You've been drinking again?

OLD JACK (taking her hand, swinging her around in a waltz; he speaks like W.C. Fields): Welcome to the ghosts' party, my dear!

STELLA: Jackie, let me go!

OLD JACK (still Fieldsian): Why the shy little darling bridles from my touch ... she's still a virgin--no doubt about it.

STELLA: Jackie, shut your mouth! You make fun of me all over town, but don't say those things to my face.

OLD JACK: Ghosts don't have faces.

STELLA: I'm not a ghost.

OLD JACK: Prove it to me.
(STELLA starts toward him, hesitates, looks confused. OLD JACK gives a Shadow laugh.)
Just as I suspected... The Shadow knows what evil nefarities of dubious disbelief lie half hidden in your heart.

STELLA: Jackie, what're you talkin' about?

OLD JACK: I'm not talking to you.

STELLA: Who're you talkin' to?

OLD JACK: The ghosts.

STELLA: What ghosts?

(YOUNG JACK looks up at her for a moment.)

OLD JACK: Why the ghosts in the living room of space, of course!

STELLA: There's nobody here but you and me.
(Bell tinkles offstage.) And your mother.

OLD JACK: "So kind to my mother that he would not..." How does that go? "...that he would not let the winds of heaven visit her face too roughly."