天天读书网(www.book.d78i.com)整理PART ONEI first met Dean not long after my wife and I split up. I had just gotten over a serious illness that Iwon’t bother to talk about, except that it had something to do with the miserably weary split-up andmy feeling that everything was dead. With the coming of Dean Moriarty began the part of my life youcould call my life on the road. Before that I’d often dreamed of going West to see the country,always vaguely planning and never taking off. Dean is the perfect guy for the road because heactually was born on the road, when his parents were passing through Salt Lake City in 1926, in ajalopy, on their way to Los Angeles. First reports of him came to me through Chad King, who’dshown me a few letters from him written in a New Mexico reform school. I was tremendouslyinterested in the letters because they so naively and sweetly asked Chad to teach him all aboutNietzsche and all the wonderful intellectual things that Chad knew. At one point Carlo and I talkedabout the letters and wondered if we would ever meet the strange Dean Moriarty. This is all farback, when Dean was not the way he is today, when he was a young jailkid shrouded in mystery.Then news came that Dean was out of reform school and was coming to New York for the firsttime; also there was talk that he had just married a girl called Marylou.One day I was hanging around the campus and Chad and Tim Gray told me Dean was staying ina cold-water pad in East Harlem, the Spanish Harlem. Dean had arrived the night before, the firsttime in New York, with his beautiful little sharp chick Marylou; they got off the Greyhound bus at50th Street and cut around the corner looking for a place to eat and went right in Hector’s, and sincethen Hector’s cafeteria has always been a big symbol of New York for Dean. They spent money onbeautiful big glazed cakes and creampuffs.All this time Dean was telling Marylou things like this: .Now, darling, here we are in New Yorkand although I haven’t quite told you everything that I was thinking about when we crossed Missouriand especially at the point when we passed the Booneville reformatory which reminded me of my jailproblem, it is absolutely necessary now to postpone all those leftover things concerning our personallovethings and at once begin thinking of specific worklife plans . . .. and so on in the way that he hadin those early days.I went to the cold-water flat with the boys, and Dean came to the door in his shorts. Marylou wasjumping off the couch; Dean had dispatched the occupant of the apartment to the kitchen, probablyto make coffee, while he proceeded with his loveproblems, for to him sex was the one and only holyand important thing in life, although he had to sweat and curse to make a living and so on. You sawthat in the way he stood bobbing his head, always looking down, nodding, like a young boxer toinstructions, to make you think he was listening to every word, throwing in a thousand .Yeses. and.That’s rights.. My first impression of Dean was of a young Gene Autry -trim, thin-hipped, blue-eyed, with a real Oklahoma accent - a sideburned hero of the snowy West. In fact he’d just beenworking on a ranch, Ed Wall’s in Colorado, before marrying Marylou and coming East. Marylouwas a pretty blonde with immense ringlets of hair like a sea of golden tresses; she sat there on theedge of the couch with her hands hanging in her lap and her smoky blue country eyes fixed in a widestare because she was in an evil gray New York pad that she’d heard about back West, and waitinglike a longbodied emaciated Modigliani surrealist woman in a serious room. But, outside of being asweet little girl, she was awfully dumb and capable of doing horrible things. That night we all drankbeer and pulled wrists and talked till dawn, and in the morning, while we sat around dumbly smokingbutts from ashtrays in the gray light of a gloomy day, Dean got up nervously, paced around, thinking,and decided the thing to do was to have Marylou make breakfast and sweep the floor. .In other5words we’ve got to get on the ball, darling, what I’m saying, otherwise it’ll be fluctuating and lack oftrue knowledge or crystallization of our plans.. Then I went away.During the following week he confided in Chad King that he absolutely had to learn how to writefrom him; Chad said I was a writer and he should come to me for advice. Meanwhile Dean hadgotten a job in a parking lot, had a fight with Marylou in their Hoboken apartment - God knows whythey went there - and she was so mad and so down deep vindictive that she reported to the policesome false trumped-up hysterical crazy charge, and Dean had to lam from Hoboken. So he had noplace to live. He came right out to Paterson, New Jersey, where I was living with my aunt, and onenight while I was studying there was a knock on the door, and there was Dean, bowing, shufflingobsequiously in the dark of the hall, and saying, .Hello, you remember me - Dean Moriarty? I’vecome to ask you to show me how to write...And where’s Marylou?. I asked, and Dean said she’d apparently whored a few dollars togetherand gone back to Denver - .the whore!. So we went out to have a few beers because we couldn’ttalk like we wanted to talk in front of my aunt, who sat in the living room reading her paper. Shetook one look at Dean and decided that he was a madman.In the bar I told Dean, .Hell, man, I know very well you didn’t come to me only to want tobecome a writer, and after all what do I really know about it except you’ve got to stick to it with theenergy of a benny addict.. And he said, .Yes, of course, I know exactly what you mean and in factall those problems have occurred to me, but the thing that I want is the realization of those factorsthat should one depend on Schopenhauer’s dichotomy for any inwardly realized . . .. and so on inthat way, things I understood not a bit and he himself didn’t. In those days he really didn’t knowwhat he was talking about; that is to say, he was a young jailkid all hung-up on the wonderfulpossibilities of becoming a real intellectual, and he liked to talk in the tone and using the words, but ina jumbled way, that he had heard from .real intellectuals. - although, mind you, he wasn’t so naiveas that in all other things, and it took him just a few months with Carlo Marx to become completelyin there with all the terms and jargon. Nonetheless we understood each other on other levels ofmadness, and I agreed that he could stay at my house till he found a job and furthermore we agreedto go out West sometime. That was the winter of 1947.One night when Dean ate supper at my house - he already had the parking-lot job in New York heleaned over my shoulder as I typed rapidly away and said, .Come on man, those girls won’t wait,make it fast..I said, .Hold on just a minute, I’ll be right with you soon as I finish this chapter,. and it was oneof the best chapters in the book. Then I dressed and off we flew to New York to meet some girls.As we rode in the bus in the weird phosphorescent void of the Lincoln Tunnel we leaned on eachother with fingers waving and yelled and talked excitedly, and I was beginning to get the bug likeDean. He was simply a youth tremendously excited with life, and though he was a con-man, he wasonly conning because he wanted so much to live and to get involved with people who wouldotherwise pay no attention to him. He was conning me and I knew it (for room and board and .howto-write,. etc.), and he knew I knew (this has been the basis of our relationship), but I didn’t careand we got along fine - no pestering, no catering; we tiptoed around each other like heartbreakingnew friends. I began to learn from him as much as he probably learned from me. As far as my workwas concerned he said, .Go ahead, everything you do is great.. He watched over my shoulder as Iwrote stories, yelling, .Yes! That’s right! Wow! Man!. and .Phew!. and wiped his face with hishandkerchief. .Man, wow, there’s so many things to do, so many things to write! How to evenbegin to get it all down and without modified restraints and all hung-up on like literary inhibitions andgrammatical fears . . ..6.That’s right, man, now you’re talking.. And a kind of holy lightning I saw flashing from hisexcitement and his visions, which he described so torrentially that people in buses looked around tosee the .overexcited nut.. In the West he’d spent a third of his time in the poolhall, a third in jail, anda third in the public library. They’d seen him rushing eagerly down the winter streets, bareheaded,carrying books to the poolhall, or climbing trees to get into the attics of buddies where he spent daysreading or hiding from the law.We went to New York - I forget what the situation was, two colored girls - there were no girlsthere; they were supposed to meet him in a diner and didn’t show up. We went to his parking lotwhere he had a few things to do - change his clothes in the shack in back and spruce up a bit in frontof a cracked mirror and so on, and then we took off. And that was the night Dean met Carlo Marx.A tremendous thing happened when Dean met Carlo Marx. Two keen minds that they are, they tookto each other at the drop of a hat. Two piercing eyes glanced into two piercing eyes - the holy con-man with the shining mind, and the sorrowful poetic con-man with the dark mind that is Carlo Marx.From that moment on I saw very little of Dean, and I was a little sorry too. Their energies met head-on, I was a lout compared, I couldn’t keep up with them.The whole mad swirl of everything that was to come began then; it would mix up all my friendsand all I had left of my family in a big dust cloud over the American Night. Carlo told him of Old BullLee, Elmer Hassel, Jane: Lee in Texas growing weed, Hassel on Riker’s Island, Jane wandering onTimes Square in a benzedrine hallucination, with her baby girl in her arms and ending up in Bellevue.And Dean told Carlo of unknown people in the West like Tommy Snark, the clubfooted poolhallrotation shark and cardplayer and queer saint. He told him of Roy Johnson, Big Ed Dunkel, hisboyhood buddies, his street buddies, his innumerable girls and sex-parties and pornographicpictures, his heroes, heroines, adventures. They rushed down the street together, digging everythingin the early way they had, which later became so much sadder and perceptive and blank. But thenthey danced down the streets like dingledodies, and I shambled after as I’ve been doing all my lifeafter people who interest me, because the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who aremad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones whonever yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candlesexploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop andeverybody goes .Awww!. What did they call such young people in Goethe’s Germany? Wantingdearly to learn how to write like Carlo, the first thing you know, Dean was attacking him with a greatamorous soul such as only a con-man can have. .Now, Carlo, let me speak - here’s what I’msaying .... I didn’t see them for about two weeks, during which time they cemented their relationshipto fiendish allday-allnight-talk proportions.Then came spring, the great time of traveling, and everybody in the scattered gang was gettingready to take one trip or another. I was busily at work on my novel and when I carne to the halfwaymark, after a trip down South with my aunt to visit my brother Rocco, I got ready to travel West forthe very first time.Dean had already left. Carlo and I saw him off at the 34th Street Greyhound station. Upstairsthey had a place where you could make pictures for a quarter. Carlo took off his glasses and lookedsinister. Dean made a profile shot and looked coyly around. I took a straight picture that made melook like a thirty-year-old Italian who’d kill anybody who said anything against his mother. Thispicture Carlo and Dean neatly cut down the middle with a razor and saved a half each in theirwallets. Dean was wearing a real Western business suit for his big trip back to Denver; he’d finishedhis first fling in New York. I say fling, but he only worked like a dog in parking lots. The mostfantastic parking-lot attendant in the world, he can back a car forty miles an hour into a tight squeeze7and stop at the wall, jump out, race among fenders, leap into another car, circle it fifty miles an hourin a narrow space, back swiftly into tight spot, hump, snap the car with the emergency so that yousee it bounce as he flies out; then clear to the ticket shack, sprinting like a track star, hand a ticket,leap into a newly arrived car before the owner’s half out, leap literally under him as he steps out, startthe car with the door flapping, and roar off to the next available spot, arc, pop in, brake, out, run;working like that without pause eight hours a night, evening rush hours and after-theater rush hours,in greasy wino pants with a frayed fur-lined jacket and beat shoes that flap. Now he’d bought a newsuit to go back in; blue with pencil stripes, vest and all - eleven dollars on Third Avenue, with awatch and watch chain, and a portable typewriter with which he was going to start writing in aDenver rooming house as soon as he got a job there. We had a farewell meal of franks and beans ina Seventh Avenue Riker’s, and then Dean got on the bus that said Chicago and roared off into thenight. There went our wrangler. I promised myself to go the same way when spring really bloomedand opened up the land.And this was really the way that my whole road experience began, and the things that were tocome are too fantastic not to tell.Yes, and it wasn’t only because I was a writer and needed new experiences that I wanted toknow Dean more, and because my life hanging around the campus had reached the completion of itscycle and was stultified, but because, somehow, in spite of our difference in character, he remindedme of some long-lost brother; the sight of his suffering bony face with the long sideburns and hisstraining muscular sweating neck made me remember my boyhood in those dye-dumps and swim-holes and riversides of Paterson and the Passaic. His dirty workclothes clung to him so gracefully, asthough you couldn’t buy a better fit from a custom tailor but only earn it from the Natural Tailor ofNatural Joy, as Dean had, in his stresses. And in his excited way of speaking I heard again the voicesof old companions and brothers under the bridge, among the motorcycles, along the wash-linedneighborhood and drowsy doorsteps of afternoon where boys played guitars while their olderbrothers worked in the mills. All my other current friends were .intellectuals. - Chad the Nietzscheananthropologist, Carlo Marx and his nutty surrealist low-voiced serious staring talk, Old Bull Lee andhis critical anti-every-thing drawl - or else they were slinking criminals like Elmer Hassel, with that hipsneer; Jane Lee the same, sprawled on the Oriental cover of her couch, sniffing at the New Yorker.But Dean’s intelligence was every bit as formal and shining and complete, without the tediousintellectualness. And his .criminality. was not something that sulked and sneered; it was a wild yea-saying overburst of American joy; it was Western, the west wind, an ode from the Plains, somethingnew, long prophesied, long a-coming (he only stole cars for joy rides). Besides, all my New Yorkfriends were in the negative, nightmare position of putting down society and giving their tired bookishor political or psychoanalytical reasons, but Dean just raced in society, eager for bread and love; hedidn’t care one way or the other, .so long’s I can get that lil ole gal with that lil sumpin down theretween her legs, boy,. and .so long’s we can eat, son, y’ear me? I’m hungry, I’m starving, let’s eatright now!. - and off we’d rush to eat, whereof, as saith Ecclesiastes, .It is your portion under thesun..A western kinsman of the sun, Dean. Although my aunt warned me that he would get me introuble, I could hear a new call and see a new horizon, and believe it at my young age; and a little bitof trouble or even Dean’s eventual rejection of me as a buddy, putting me down, as he would later,on starving sidewalks and sickbeds - what did it matter? I was a young writer and I wanted to takeoff.Somewhere along the line I knew there’d be girls, visions, everything; somewhere along the linethe pearl would be handed to me.92In the month of July 1947, having saved about fifty dollars from old veteran benefits, I was readyto go to the West Coast. My friend Remi Boncoeur had written me a letter from San Francisco,saying I should come and ship out with him on an around-the-world liner. He swore he could get meinto the engine room. I wrote back and said I’d be satisfied with any old freighter so long as I couldtake a few long Pacific trips and come back with enough money to support myself in my aunt’shouse while I finished my book. He said he had a shack in Mill City and I would have all the time inthe world to write there while we went through the rigmarole of getting the ship. He was living with agirl called Lee Ann; he said she was a marvelous cook and everything would jump. Remi was an oldprep-school friend, a Frenchman brought up in Paris and a really mad guy - I didn’t know how madat this time. So he expected me to arrive in ten days. My aunt was all in accord with my trip to theWest; she said it would do me good, I’d been working so hard all winter and staying in too much;she even didn’t complain when I told her I’d have to hitchhike some. All she wanted was for me tocome back in one piece. So, leaving my big half-manuscript sitting on top of my desk, and foldingback my comfortable home sheets for the last time one morning, I left with my canvas bag in which afew fundamental things were packed and took off for the Pacific Ocean with the fifty dollars in mypocket.I’d been poring over maps of the United States in Paterson for months, even reading books aboutthe pioneers and savoring names like Platte and Cimarron and so on, and on the road-map was onelong red line called Route 6 that led from the tip of Cape Cod clear to Ely, Nevada, and theredipped down to Los Angeles. I’ll just stay on 6 all the way to Ely, I said to myself and confidentlystarted. To get to 6 I had to go up to Bear Mountain. Filled with dreams of what I’d do in Chicago,in Denver, and then finally in San Fran, I took the Seventh Avenue subway to the end of the line at242nd Street, and there took a trolley into Yonkers; in downtown Yonkers I transferred to anoutgoing trolley and went to the city limits on the east bank of the Hudson River. If you drop a rosein the Hudson River at its mysterious source in the Adirondacks, think of all the places it journeys byas it goes out to sea forever - think of that wonderful Hudson Valley. I started hitching up the thing.Five scattered rides took me to the desired Bear Mountain Fridge, where Route 6 arched in fromNew England. It began to rain in torrents when I was let off there. It was mountainous. Route 6came over the river, wound around a traffic circle, and disappeared into the wilderness. Not onlywas there no traffic but the rain came down in buckets and I had no shelter. I had to run under somepines to take cover; this did no good; I began crying and swearing and socking myself on the headfor being such a damn fool. I was forty miles north of New York; all the way up I’d been worriedabout the fact that on this, my big opening day, I was only moving north instead of the so-longed-forwest. Now I was stuck on my northernmost hangup. I ran a quarter-mile to an abandoned cuteEnglish-style filling station and stood under the dripping eaves. High up over my head the great hairyBear Mountain sent down thunderclaps that put the fear of God in me. All I could see were smokytrees and dismal wilderness rising to the skies. .What the hell am I doing up here?.I cursed, I cried for Chicago. .Even now they’re all having a big time, they’re doing this, I’m notthere, when will I get there!. - and so on. Finally a car stopped at the empty filling station; the manand the two women in it wanted to study a map. I stepped right up and gestured in the rain; theyconsulted; I looked like a maniac, of course, with my hair all wet, my shoes sopping. My shoes,damn fool that I am, were Mexican huaraches, plantlike sieves not fit for the rainy night of Americaand the raw road night. But the people let me in and rode me north to Newburgh, which I accepted10as a better alternative than being trapped in the Bear Mountain wilderness all night. .Besides,. saidthe man, .there’s no traffic passes through 6. If you want to go to Chicago you’d do better goingacross the Holland Tunnel in New York and head for Pittsburgh,. and I knew he was right. It wasmy dream that screwed up, the stupid hearthside idea that it would be wonderful to follow one greatred line across America instead of trying various roads and routes.In Newburgh it had stopped raining. I walked down to the river, and I had to ride back to NewYork in a bus with a delegation of schoolteachers coming back from a weekend in the mountains chatter-chatter blah-blah, and me swearing for all the time and the money I’d wasted, and tellingmyself, I wanted to go west and here I’ve been all day and into the night going up and down, northand south, like something that can’t get started. And I swore I’d be in Chicago tomorrow, and madesure of that, taking a bus to Chicago, spending most of my money, and didn’t give a damn, just aslong as I’d be in Chicago tomorrow.113It was an ordinary bus trip with crying babies and hot sun, and countryfolk getting on at one Penntown after another, till we got on the plain of Ohio and really rolled, up by Ashtabula and straightacross Indiana in the night. I arrived in Chi quite early in the morning, got a room in the Y, and wentto bed with a very few dollars in my pocket. I dug Chicago after a good day’s sleep.The wind from Lake Michigan, bop at the Loop, long walks around South Halsted and NorthClark, and one long walk after midnight into the jungles, where a cruising car followed me as asuspicious character. At this time, 1947, bop was going like mad all over America. The fellows at theLoop blew, but with a tired air, because bop was somewhere between its Charlie ParkerOrnithology period and another period that began with Miles Davis. And as I sat there listening tothat sound of the .light which bop has come to represent for all of us, I thought of all my friends fromone end of the country to the other and how they were really all in the same vast backyard doingsomething so frantic and rushing-about. And for the first time in my life, the following afternoon, Iwent into the West. It was a warm and beautiful day for hitchhiking. To get out of the impossiblecomplexities of Chicago traffic I took a bus to Joliet, Illinois, went by the Joliet pen, stationed myselfjust outside town after a walk through its leafy rickety streets behind, and pointed my way. All theway from New York to Joliet by bus, and I had spent more than half my money.My first ride was a dynamite truck with a red flag, about thirty miles into great green Illinois, thetruckdriver pointing out the place where Route 6, which we were on, intersects Route 66 before theyboth shoot west for incredible distances. Along about three in the afternoon, after an apple pie andice cream in a roadside stand, a woman stopped for me in a little coupe. I had a twinge of hard joyas I ran after the car. But she was a middle-aged woman, actually the mother of sons my age, andwanted somebody to help her drive to Iowa. I was all for it. Iowa! Not so far from Denver, andonce I got to Denver I could relax. She drove the first few hours, at one point insisted on visiting anold church somewhere, as if we were tourists, and then I took over the wheel and, though I’m notmuch of a driver, drove clear through the rest of Illinois to Davenport, Iowa, via Rock Island. Andhere for the first time in my life I saw my beloved Mississippi River, dry in the summer haze, lowwater, with its big rank smell that smells like the raw body of America itself because it washes it up.Rock Island - railroad tracks, shacks, small downtown section; and over the bridge to Davenport,same kind of town, all smelling of sawdust in the warm midwest sun. Here the lady had to go on toher Iowa hometown by another route, and I got out.The sun was going down. I walked, after a few cold beers, to the edge of town, and it was a longwalk. All the men were driving home from work, wearing railroad hats, baseball hats, all kinds ofhats, just like after work in any town anywhere. One of them gave me a ride up the hill and left me ata lonely crossroads on the edge of the prairie. It was beautiful there. The only cars that came bywere farmer-cars; they gave me suspicious looks, they clanked along, the cows were coming home.Not a truck. A few cars zipped by. A hotrod kid came by with his scarf flying. The sun went all theway down and I was standing in the purple darkness. Now I was scared. There weren’t even anylights in the Iowa countryside; in a minute nobody would be able to see me. Luckily a man goingback to Davenport gave me a lift downtown. But I was right where I started from.I went to sit in the bus station and think this over. I ate another apple pie and ice cream; that’spractically all I ate all the way across the country, I knew it was nutritious and it was delicious, ofcourse. I decided to gamble. I took a bus in downtown Davenport, after spending a half-hourwatching a waitress in the bus-station cafe, and rode to the city limits, but this time near the gas12stations. Here the big trucks roared, wham, and inside two minutes one of them cranked to a stopfor me. I ran for it with my soul whoopeeing. And what a driver - a great big tough truckdriver withpopping eyes and a hoarse raspy voice who just slammed and kicked at everything and got his rigunder way and paid hardly any attention to me. So I could rest my tired soul a little, for one of thebiggest troubles hitchhiking is having to talk to innumerable people, make them feel that they didn’tmake a mistake picking you up, even entertain them almost, all of which is a great strain when you’regoing all the way and don’t plan to sleep in hotels. The guy just yelled above the roar, and all I had todo was yell back, and we relaxed. And he balled that thing clear to Iowa City and yelled me thefunniest stories about how he got around the law in every town that had an unfair speed limit, sayingover and over again, .Them goddam cops can’t put no flies on my ass!. Just as we rolled into IowaQty he saw another truck coming behind us, and because he had to turn off at Iowa City he blinkedhis tail lights at the other guy and slowed down for me to jump out, which I did with my bag, and theother truck, acknowledging this exchange, stopped for me, and once again, in the twink of nothing, Iwas in another big high cab, all set to go hundreds of miles across the night, and was I happy! Andthe new truckdriver was as crazy as the other and yelled just as much, and all I had to do was leanback and roll on. Now I could see Denver looming ahead of me like the Promised Land, way outthere beneath the stars, across the prairie of Iowa and the plains of Nebraska, and I could see thegreater vision of San Francisco beyond, like jewels in the night. He balled the jack and told storiesfor a couple of hours, then, at a town in Iowa where years later Dean and I were stopped onsuspicion in what looked like a stolen Cadillac, he slept a few hours in the seat. I slept too, and tookone little walk along the lonely brick walls illuminated by one lamp, with the prairie brooding at theend of each little street and the smell of the corn like dew in the night.He woke up with a start at dawn. Off we roared, and an hour later the smoke of Des Moinesappeared ahead over the green cornfields. He had to eat his breakfast now and wanted to take iteasy, so I went right on into Des Moines, about four miles, hitching a ride with two boys from theUniversity of Iowa; and it was strange sitting in their brand-new comfortable car and hearing themtalk of exams as we zoomed smoothly into town. Now I wanted to sleep a whole day. So I went tothe Y to get a room; they didn’t have any, and by instinct I wandered down to the railroad tracks andthere’re a lot of them in Des Moines - and wound up in a gloomy old Plains inn of a hotel by thelocomotive roundhouse, and spent a long day sleeping on a big clean hard white bed with dirtyremarks carved in the wall beside my pillow and the beat yellow windowshades pulled over thesmoky scene of the rail-yards. I woke up as the sun was reddening; and that was the one distincttime in my life, the strangest moment of all, when I didn’t know who I was - I was far away fromhome, haunted and tired with travel, in a cheap hotel room I’d never seen, hearing the hiss of steamoutside, and the creak of the old wood of the hotel, and footsteps upstairs, and all the sad sounds,and I looked at the cracked high ceiling and really didn’t know who I was for about fifteen strangeseconds. I wasn’t scared; I was just somebody else, some stranger, and my whole life was a hauntedlife, the life of a ghost. I was halfway across America, at the dividing line between the East of myyouth and the West of my future, and maybe that’s why it happened right there and then, that strangered afternoon.But I had to get going and stop moaning, so I picked up my bag, said so long to the oldhotelkeeper sitting by his spittoon, and went to eat. I ate apple pie and ice cream - it was gettingbetter as I got deeper into Iowa, the pie bigger, the ice cream richer. There were the most beautifulbevies of girls everywhere I looked in Des Moines that afternoon - they were coming home fromhigh school - but I had no time now for thoughts like that and promised myself a ball in Denver.Carlo Marx was already in Denver; Dean was there; Chad King and Tim Gray were there, it was13their hometown; Marylou was there; and there was mention of a mighty gang including Ray Rawlinsand his beautiful blond sister Babe Rawlins; two waitresses Dean knew, the Bettencourt sisters; and