Letter to John Clellon Holmes

And then suddenly I'm standing at the side of the road, cursing the motorists of America who really are NOT giving rides anymore, but standing just where I can see the hind end of the yard tracks in case they make up a Frisco-bound freight train I'll see the bloody caboose tagged on. Cursing. Angry supposedly, I'd guess, with something blackly handsome in like an Allen lad, this gun for hire; murder. Then SCREECH stops this 1955 Mercury Mont Claire, persimmon-colored, brand new paint simonized job, with blond, beautiful blond, in strapless white bathing suit wearing little thin gold bracelet at sweet anklet
I run, jump in, she yarn, keeps yarning, wants to know if I can drive? Yes, I can drive and bloody well afraid to look at her, the curl of her milk armpits, the flesh of her cream legs, the cream
Legs, curls, love, milk, wow, did i love that, not looking but giggling, hearing she has been driving all the way from Fort Worth Texas without sleep I say "O how would you like some Mexican Benzedrine?" (which I have in a big battered pack that I just been sleepin' on beach in cold night of sea fog coast with, sad, talking to old Greeks at noon, the old Greek taking his annual vacation wanders up and down the sands looking at driftwood) - "Crazy!" she yells, I whip out my Benzedrine, yanking out all my dirty underwear and unspeakable Mexican raggedy junks and give her, she takes two, very much, we stop at a coke station and she mumps out jumping, the sweetest little perfect everything you know. We swallow benes, by the time we've raced a hundred miles and hour, and once may a hundred ten to Santa Ana and the Guadalupe Valley she's high, I'm high, we're talkin' and lovin', talkin' driving and sweating, and I can smell her sweet sweat, and my own too. And we move on up to the San Luis Obispo bump, and the impossibly beautiful California, dry, blue sky sundowns. And she calls her daddy in San Fran to cable her money, she can pickup in Salinas