“ON THE ROAD WITH MEMÈRE” by Jack Kerouac – May 1965

NOTE: the following was later included in Desolation Angels. 

My widowed mother’s name is now “Memère”— nickname for Grandma in Québecois—since her grandson, my nephew, calls her that. It is 1957. I am still an itinerant; Memère and I are going from Florida to try to settle down in San Francisco, our meager belongings following us slowly in a moving van.

Here we are in Florida with two tickets to California, standing waiting for the bus to New Orleans, where we’ll change for El Paso and Los Angeles. It’s hot in May in Florida. I long to get out and go west beyond the East Texas Plain, to that high plateau and on over the Divide to dry Arizona and beyond. Poor Memère is standing there absolutely dependent on me. I wonder what my father is saying in Heaven. “That crazy Ti Jean is carting her 3,000 miles in wretched buses just for a dream he’s had about a new life near a holy pine tree.”

“SHARK!” by Peter Benchley – November 1967

Note: Alfred Bester, senior editor of Holiday, encouraged Benchley to turn this article into a novel; Benchley took his advice and wrote Jaws.

ONE WARM SUMMER DAY I was standing on a beach near Tom Never’s Head on Nantucket. Children were splashing around in the gentle surf as their mothers lay gabbing by the Styrofoam ice chests and the Scotch Grills. About thirty yards from shore, a man paddled back and forth, swimming in a jerky, tiring, head-out-of-the-water fashion. I had just remarked dully that the water was unusually calm, when I noticed a black speck cruising slowly up the beach some twenty yards beyond the lone swimmer. It seemed to dip in and out of the water, staying on the surface for perhaps five seconds, then disappearing for one or two, then reappearing for five. I ran down to the water and waved my arms at the man. At first he paid no attention, and kept plodding on. Then he noticed me. I pointed out to sea, cupped my hands over my mouth, and bellowed, “Shark!” He turned and saw the short, triangular fin moving al­most parallel with him. Immediately he lunged for the shore in a frantic sprint. The fish, which had taken no notice of the swimmer, became curious at the sudden disturbance in the water, and I saw the fin turn inshore. It moved lazily, but not aimlessly.

“THE CATSKILLS: LAND OF MILK AND MONEY” by Mordecai Richler – July 1965

Any account of the Catskill Mountains must begin with Grossinger’s. The G. On either side of the highway out of New York and into Sullivan County, a two-hour drive north, one is assailed by billboards. DO A JERRY LEWIS—COME TO BROWN’S. CHANGE TO THE FLAGLER. I FOUND A HUSBAND AT THE WALDEMERE. THE RALEIGH IS ICIER, NICIER, AND SPICIER. All the Borscht Belt billboards are criss-crossed with lists of attractions, each hotel claiming the ultimate in golf courses, the latest indoor and outdoor pools, and the most tantalizing parade of stars. The countryside between the signs is ordinary, without charm. Bush land and small hills. And then finally one comes to the Grossinger billboard. All it says, sotto voce, is GROSSINGER’S HAS EVERYTHING.

“CONVERSATION WITH WOODY ALLEN” by Alfred Bester – May 1969

What’s the name of the game, Woody?

“Basically everybody is a loser,” Woody Allen, high priest of the cult of the loser, says, “but it’s only now that people are beginning to admit it. People feel their shortcomings more than their attributes. That’s why Marilyn Monroe killed herself, and that’s why people can’t understand it.

“I’m a loser, and that’s been one of the appeals of my stage career. I’m a complainer. I’m more acutely aware of the negative side of life. That’s why I don’t like sunny weather. I like gloomy winter days. I like gloomy weather, period. I’d like to spend a winter in Copenhagen.

“Look at San Francisco. It has the highest suicide rate in the United States. It has perfect weather,around sixty-five degrees all year ’round, and the city is lovely—and everybody jumps off the Golden Gate Bridge.”

“NEW YORK’S NEW TOWER” by Gay Talese – May 1965

The Pan Am Building is the current king in the city’s line of dominating skyscrapers

Like thousands before him, Tom Kyle came to New York hoping to be­come a stage star, and like thousands before him, he did not make it. So to­day, after years of trying and only a few small parts to show for it, Tom Kyle, at thirty-four, works full time be­hind the information desk in the lobby of the fifty-nine-story Pan Am Building, at Park Avenue and 45th Street. Strangers approach all day with questions like:

“Say, fella, about how many windows in this place?”

“About 8,000,” Kyle says, standing erect in blue uniform behind his desk. “Excuse me,” another man asks. “Where’s Mitsui and Company?”

“Thirty-eighth floor, sir.”

“Pardon me,” says a tall brunette, dressed in a tight-fitting tweed suit. “How do I get to the Sky Club?”

Kyle looks at her. She is lovely and a little out of breath.

“It’s on the fifty-sixth floor, ma’am,” Kyle says, taking her in during the few seconds he has before she disappears. “The elevator is at the far end of the corridor.” he says, a little regretfully.

“Thank you,” she says, smiling again, turning quickly toward the elevator, watched by Tom Kyle.

“Fringe benefits,” Kyle thinks.