The man who knew Huncke

For Christmas I was given a copy of the original un-edited "scroll" version of On the Road by  Jack Kerouac. I remember reading the official version of this book while a senior in high school. It talks about the pleasures of hitchhiking, traveling aimlessly, hanging out with hobos and wild women. It made many a youngster admire the life described.

As a college student I hung out with some bearded men at the dorm who talked about the Beat writers, Rimbaud, Henry Miller and others of that ilk. The leader of the gang was the older guy who owned the paperback used book store on George Street in New Brunswick. He was a reformed addict, had some beat oriented first editions and had claimed to know Herbert Huncke.

After graduating with my BA in English the only job I could find was selling hot dogs at Two Guys and through CETA and some family connections I got a minimum wage job working at a public library. Later on I went to library school, got my MLS, and then found out all the school teachers who couldn't get jobs had become librarians in an overcrowded field. I was determined though, and unlike most people, I could relocate.

New Years Eve I spend in New Brunswick with the old bearded gang. The man who knew Huncke was there. He was living in Denver and wanted me to come there. "Come on man, move to Denver! There's plenty of jobs out there. You've got the mountains, cheap rent, and beautiful women".
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I remembered On the Road, then, and decided to follow the beat trail and go to Denver. Like Jack Kerouac I would move to Denver, have adventures, and get a high paying librarian position.

I packed all of my belongings that fit into the Ford Falcon my father gave me (he told me the car was mine if I paid for the brake job). I left for Denver. I picked up a hitch hiker that had a baby. After two days of driving and a night in Hays Kansas, I arrived in Denver. I stayed in a flea bitten hotel downtown and made copies of my resume.

I had only an address for the man who knew Huncke. He apparently hung out at the Muddy Waters of the Platte and worked in the used book store attached to the coffee house. When I got there it was too early and the coffee house was closed. Next door was a building painted in psychedelic colors. I figured there might be a connection between the two places.

I walked in and heard his voice. He was talking, the man who knew Huncke. He was trying to borrow money from the man standing in the doorway of an apartment. I was tempted to flee but I didn't and met up with him. He turned out to be a good, if erratic, friend. I outlasted him in Denver by five years.