Jack Kerouac Novels & Stories

Jerry knew his racket and had confided in him. “I'm an artist,” he had said. “Passport, certificate… whatever it is, I can handle it. We never know when we'll need these things.” Jack Jerry wasn't so much of an ambitious man and he had been content to work shifts as an elevator attendant at one of the big hotels, and he owned this apartment. He was a man who was satisfied with himself, whose standards weren't high, who was beyond caring about the vanities of this world, but he had been a man of extreme handsomeness. Looking at him now, Gorevoy saw that age had taken away whatever claim he had to that title.

My brain is bursting with unanswered questions and simmering rage. "Ah." He keeps polishing glasses. "The kind that follows you home?" I study his face for calculation or curiosity. Instead, there's just professional interest— someone who's heard plenty of sob stories and learned not to judge. "Something like that." I scowl into my vodka. "I'm Jack. Bartender, occasional therapist, full-time keeper of secrets." No pushiness, no probing for more details. In my world, that discretion is worth gold. "Sergei." I empty my glass in one mouthful.