1 I first met Dean shortly after my wife and I split up.I had just had a serious illness at that time, and I don't want to mention it any more.But it does have something to do with that annoying, disastrous divorce, when it seemed to me that all emotions were dead.Ever since Dean Moriarty came into my world, you could call my life "on the road."Before that, I had dreamed of going to the West more than once, but I was only planning in a vague way and never put it into action.Dean this guy is the perfect travel companion, he was born on the road.It was 1926, and his parents were driving through Salt Lake City to Los Angeles in a broken car.I first knew him from Chad King.Chad showed me some of the letters Dean had written to him from his reform school in New Mexico.I was interested in those letters, because in them he begged Chad very naively and piously to tell him all about Nietzsche and more.Carlo and I have often talked about these letters, and hope to get to know this strange Dean Moriarty someday.This was all a long time ago.At that time, Dean was not what he is today. He was still a little prisoner shrouded in a mysterious halo.Suddenly one day news came: Dean was out of reform school, and he was coming to New York for the first time; and of course people were talking about the fact that he had just married a girl named Marylou.

I was walking around campus one day, and Chad and Tim Gray told me that Dean was living in an old apartment in East Harlem, Spanish Harlem.Dean had arrived the night before, his first time in New York with his bright, pretty little lady.They hopped off the bus at 50th Street and walked down the street looking for a place to eat.They turned right away into Hector's.In Dean's eyes, Hector's Restaurant is an important symbol of New York.There they tasted sweet cakes and muffins with cream. In those early days, Dean used to tell Marylou, "Ah, honey, now we're finally in New York. When we crossed the Missouri River, and especially when we got out of Bonnville, I felt It’s too deep. Although I didn’t tell you all of this, I think what we need most at the moment is to put aside all personal hobbies for the time being and concentrate on designing our future.…”

Me and a few guys went to Dean's run-down apartment, and Dean came out in shorts to answer the door, and Marylou jumped up from the couch; I chatted about his views on love.He considers sex the only sacred and important thing in life, even though he has to work hard to survive.When I was talking, he stood in the aisle and tapped his head lightly, staring at the ground, nodding his head constantly, like a young boxer receiving a lesson, which makes you think he Listen carefully to every word, and then throw a series of "yes, yes, yes" and "yes, yes, yes" to you.My first impression of Dean was that he was handsome, lanky, with blue eyes, and spoke an authentic Oklahoma dialect—a standard man with big sideburns in the snowy West.Before marrying Marylou and coming east, he was working on Ed Wall's ranch in Colorado.Marylou was a beautiful blonde with long curly hair that fell like a sea of ​​gold over her shoulders.She sat on one side of the couch, her hands on her knees, and her hazy, rustic blue eyes watched everything with vigilance, for now, in a shabby apartment in the sinful darkness of New York, she had heard Said about this mysterious West End.At this point she seems to be waiting for something to happen at any moment, like a tall, gaunt surreal woman in a room full of danger.In addition to being a beautiful, lovely girl, Marylou was also a very deep person, capable of terrible things.That night we drank beer, wrestled arms, talked, and played until dawn the next day.In the morning, in the dim light we were still smoking around the butts in the ashtray, Dean stood up nervously, paced around us, thinking, then decided that Marylou should make breakfast and clean the floor . "In other words, we should be flexible, my dear, otherwise we don't have a clear understanding of our plans, or lack of proper knowledge, then we will waver." So I left.

The following week he confided to Chad King that he must learn to write from him; Chad told him I was a writer and asked him to take my advice.During this time Dean got a job in the parking lot and had a falling out with Marylou at the Hoboken apartment - god knows why they were going there - and she just went nuts and made up a lot of crimes to get back at Dean Going to the police station to accuse him hysterically, Dean ends up having to flee from the Harboken apartment.Since he had nowhere to live, he went straight to Paterson, New Jersey, where I lived with my aunt.One day I was reading a book when someone knocked on the door and it was Dean.He greeted me with a bow, and then said awkwardly in the dark hallway, "Hey, do you remember me, Dean Moriarty? I came here to ask you to teach me how to write. "

"Where's Marylou?" I asked, and Dean said she'd made some money as a whore and went back to Denver--"The whore!" We couldn't talk as we wanted in her presence.My aunt took one look at Dean and decided he was crazy. In the bar I said to Dean, "Hey man, I know very well that you didn't come to me just to be a writer, I know why you're here so you don't have to use all the amphetamines." Come out and argue with me." He said: "Yes, indeed. But what I need now is to recognize these factors, to recognize the essence of these things according to Schopenhauer's philosophy..." and so on.I don't understand a bit of what he's saying, and he doesn't understand it himself.In those days he really couldn't figure out what he was talking about, which is to say that the prisoner's experience made him lose the possibility of becoming a real intellectual.He speaks in a scholarly tone, and likes to use some pedantic words, but these words are messed up by him, and he has heard them from those "real intellectuals".Although it took him only a few months to really understand these technical terms from Carlo Marx.Despite this, we were able to understand each other, even to a certain point of insanity.I agree that he will live with me until he gets a job, and we plan to go west together.This is all in the winter of 1947.

Dean was eating at my house one night--he'd gotten a job in a parking lot in New York--and I was typing away, and he leaned over my shoulder and said, "Come on, man, those girls can't wait Hurry up." I said, "Wait a minute, and I'll leave after I finish typing this chapter." This is the most exciting chapter in my book. I changed and I went to New York with Dean to meet the girls.As we rode the bus through the ghostly phosphorescent Lincoln Tunnel, we danced and yelled and talked excitedly next to each other, and I started to go crazy like Dean.Dean was the kind of young man who was passionate about life, although he was a confident liar, because he wanted so much in life, and he wanted attention.I know, he cheats on me, and he knows I know (it's the basis of our relationship), but I don't mind, we get along very well - neither please nor interfere with each other.We encouraged each other, like a pair of sad friends.I started to learn from him, just as he learned from me.As soon as I had a job, he would say, "Go ahead, you're doing amazing things." And while I was writing, he'd be looking over my shoulder and screaming, "Yes, that's exactly right! Oh! That's right, man!" or "Wow!" and put your hands over your face. "Oh man, there's so much to do and so much to write about! If only I could write it down without any restrictions, with neither literary nor grammatical taboos..."

"Yeah, man, now you're writing." I could see sparks in his excited dreams, and he described it with such enthusiasm.On the bus, people must think he is a "crazy weirdo".In the west, he spends one-third of his time in casinos, one-third of his time in jail, and one-third of his time in public libraries. People often see him hurriedly walking on the winter streets shirtless, Sometimes I go to the casino with a book, sometimes I climb a tree to find a hollow tree hole, in order to concentrate on reading, or to avoid the police. We got to New York—I've forgotten what it was like, except there weren't any girls there, just two black girls who were going to have dinner with Dean but didn't.Dean and I went to the parking lot where he worked, where he had some work to do—then he went to the shed in the back to get changed, and stood neatly in front of a cracked mirror for some retouching, and we Then drive away.That was the evening Dean had a meeting with Carlo Marx.It was this meeting of theirs that began what would later be a startling event.When two bright minds met, they were immediately attracted to each other.A pair of piercing eyes searched for another pair of piercing eyes——Dean is a saint full of beautiful ideals, Carlo Marx is a melancholy and taboo poet.I hadn't seen Dean since the time they met, and I felt a little sad for that.They are quite smart and very congenial, but I look a little stupid in comparison, so I feel that I can't be with them.Then everything started to go dark; all my friends and family seemed to be in great chaos and commotion.Carlo told him about Old Bull Lee, Elmer Hathor, and Jenny; about Lee planting weeds in Texas, Hathor on Riker's Island, and about Jenny wandering in Times Square , immersed in the hallucination of excitement brought to her by amphetamine, she hugged her little daughter tightly, and finally walked into the Street of Beauty.Dean told Carlo some strange anecdotes that happened in the West.Tell him about Tommy Snack, the casino veteran with the misshapen foot, and the eccentric saint, and tell him about Roy Johnson, and Big Eddie Dunkel, about his childhood buddies, about his wandering days and the countless girls he met, his lovers, and showed him pornographic pictures, actors and actresses he admired, and his legendary adventures.Together they rushed to the streets to find and explore things that were interesting at the time, even though they would later become dull and boring in their eyes.Then they go on adventures again, to find new interests.And I always imitate them, just like I have been following those I like all my life.I only like this kind of people, their lives are wild and uninhibited, they talk passionately, they are very demanding on life, and they hope to have everything. Burning like a Roman candle, eager to explode, glowing blue with a bang like a planetary impact, it's awe-inspiring.Why do people call these young people "Gothic Germans"?Desiring to be able to write like Carlo as soon as possible, Dean tried to get close to him and love him in a way that only a very confident liar can do. "Ah, Carol, let me tell you next--this is what I think..." I haven't seen them for two weeks, and during this time their friendship has deepened like a devil, and they almost forget to eat and sleep. Chat together.

Spring is here, and this is the golden season for travel. People organize in twos and threes to prepare for travel.I've been busy writing my novel.When I was halfway through the book, my aunt and I went to the south for a few days at my brother Locke's house, and upon our return I was ready to make my first trip west. Dean was gone, and Carlo and I went to the Gerry Holder Station on 34th Street to see him off.We took a few pictures on the street, and Carlo took off his glasses and looked very menacing.Dean took one too, looking a little shy.I took a frontal photo, which looked like a 30-year-old stunned young man, as if anyone who offended his mother would be killed immediately.The group photo of Dean and Carlo was cut in the middle with a razor blade, and each of them kept half in their wallets.Dean was in standard European work clothes on his great trip back to Denver; he made his first trip to New York.I say he "flies," but he's just working in the parking lot like a dog.He's the weirdest parking lot employee in the world.He can reverse a car at 40 miles an hour into an extremely crowded corner, then jump over numerous obstacles and jump into another car.He can also circle a tight field at 50 miles an hour, quickly reverse the car into a gap that just remains, and then sprint towards another car, a sharp turn, you can see The car rebounded sharply and finally avoided a dangerous car accident.Just after arranging this car, you can see that he rushed to the ticket office to issue the ticket, and then quickly ran to the other car that just came. Before the owner of the car came out, he had already got into the Get in, slam the door shut, and drive the car to where it can park with the sound of a siren.Driving, braking, starting, and parking, he worked non-stop like this, and he hardly took a minute to rest for eight hours at night.During the peak hours of the night, or when the theater is over, he is extremely busy.He wore a battered, oily fur jacket, his shoes were worn out from numerous brakes, and he was often panting like a drunk as he worked.Now he bought a new coat on Third Avenue, a blue base with gray stripes, and a vest for $11.He bought another watch, a watch strap, and a portable typewriter, all in preparation for returning to Denver to find a job, as well as for his writing.We had a farewell dinner at Rick's on Eleventh Street, and then Dean caught a bus to Chicago and disappeared into the night.Our hero is gone.I was going to wait for the spring to really come, when everything woke up, and I would travel along Dean's route. This is where my whole travel career began, and everything that happened after that was so strange that I can't describe it.

Of course I decided to travel not just because I was a writer and needed new experiences, or because I wanted to get to know Dean better, or because I found the idle life on campus ridiculous, but rather Because, despite our different personalities, Dean brought back memories of long-lost companions.His tormented, haggard face, his strong, weary body reminded me of a melancholy, difficult childhood by the creeks of Paterson and Passaic.The grimy overalls looked so dapper on him, as Dean himself used to say, he couldn't get such a fit from a common tailor, and it was the joyful nature of the gods. His gift.Listening to his stirring talk, I seemed to hear again the voices of my childhood friends and mates, under the bridge, on the motorcycle, at the gate in the afternoon when their brothers went to work in the factory. On the silent stone steps before him, he played his beloved guitar.My current friends are all so-called “intellectuals”—Chad a Nietzschean anthropologist, Carlo Marx a surrealist, always earnest and serious in a feverish, deep voice Elmer Hessey sneered at everything, and so did Jenny Lee, she He always stretches out his limbs lazily on the couch, covered with oriental velvet quilt, and constantly mocks "The New Yorker" from his mouth.But Dean's wisdom is rich and perfect, without that tiresome pedantry, and even his "criminal behavior" is not infuriating and sneering, which is the "American style" of the wild western character. Joy" burst out that he was just having fun stealing other people's cars.My New York friends, however, always took a negative stand and cursed social decay, giving it bookish political or psychological reasons.Dean is just really fighting in society, fighting for love and bread. "You can find girls as beautiful as lilacs, boy, and if you're hungry, listen to me, boy, you're hungry, are you hungry? Then go and eat!" So we all went to have a good meal, As the pastor said: This is your due divine portion.During the trip, I will meet many beautiful girls and see many new things; maybe this trip will bring me precious wealth.

2 In July, 1947, I withdrew my $50 GI deposit, intending to go to the West Coast.My friend Remi Bonkel wrote me from San Francisco to join him on a circumnavigation of the West Coast, and he swore he could take me in the cockpit.I wrote back that I would be happy with any ship, but that I would have to make a few "special" trips to earn some money so that I could finish the novel before I left my aunt.He said he had a spare room in Mill City that I could use completely, where I could write while I went through all the tedious travel formalities.He lived with a girl named Lee Ann, who he told me was a good cook and pretty good at everything.Rémy was an old friend of mine from before I went to school, and a Frenchman brought him to Paris.This guy is a madman - I don't know how crazy he is now.He expects me to arrive within ten days.My aunt was very approving of my trip to the west, she said it would do me good.I worked so hard that spring, and stayed home, that she didn't even complain when I told her I was going to hitchhike all the way, and the only hope was to come back whole.One morning, I put my half-finished manuscript on the table and set off for the West Coast.

During my months at Paterson I had memorized maps of America, and even read a little about the pioneers of the West, fascinated by names like Palette and Cimarro.On the traffic map I studied Highway 6, which runs from Cape Cod through Airy, Nevada, and on to Los Angeles.As I began my journey from Route 6 to Airy, I encouraged myself to be confident.In order to go to Route 6, I first came to Bill. On the way, I kept imagining the scene after Chicago, Denver and Los Angeles.I took the subway from 11th Street all the way to the terminus at 242nd Street, where I switched to a trolley to Yonkers.In the city center, I transferred to the tram bound for the suburbs to the east bank of the Hudson River outside the city.If you throw a rose into the water from the Adirondacks, the mysterious source of the Hudson River, you can imagine it going down the river, drifting through many places, and finally rushing to the embrace of the sea-oh, you again Imagine the Hudson Valley, how alluring it would be!I was deeply attracted by all this.Five knight travelers brought me to the anticipated Bear Hill Bridge, which would link Route 6 with New England.When I got there, it was pouring rain.This is a mountainous area. Highway No. 6 crosses the big river, winds up the mountain, and finally disappears into the vastness.Not only was there no traffic here, I couldn't even find a place to take shelter in the pouring rain.I had to run under some pines for shelter, but it didn't help; I started crying and cursing myself for being so stupid.Now I'm forty miles north of New York, and I'm so sad, the beginning of this great trip, the first day of this trip to the Pacific, and all I did was go forty miles north, And my plan is to go west.Now I'm standing at the northernmost point of this hapless place.I walked another quarter of a mile to an abandoned but very chic British car service station.I stood under the eaves where the rain was still dripping, and I looked up and saw the dark and thunderous Mount Bier.Drenched, I was tightly surrounded by horror, and I could only see some hazy tree shadows and rolling dark clouds in the sky. "Am I fucking here to die?" I cursed myself as I cried to go to Chicago. "Now must be their happiest moment. They are doing important work, but I am not there. When can I get there?" I thought secretly in my heart.Suddenly a car drove up and stopped at the empty gas station. There was a man and two women in the car. They stopped to study the map carefully.I went up to meet them and waved to them in the rain, and they discussed with each other whether to take me.My hair was dripping, my shoes were soaked, and I must have looked like a psychopath.My abysmal shoes were Mexican with lots of mesh, so bad for America, especially on a rainy night like this, they finally agreed to give me a lift and take me back to Newburgh.I think this is a better choice in comparison, otherwise I will be trapped in the dark night of the eerie Bier Mountain. "Besides," said the man, "there will be no cars on Route 6. If you want to go to Chicago, you'd better go to Pittsburgh through New York's Holland Tunnel first." I knew he was right.My dream was finally shattered, the idea of ​​crossing America just by following the one red line indicated on the map was absurd, to get there one had to try many roads. By the time we reached Newburgh the rain had finally stopped.I came down to the river, back in New York in the car with a delegation of teachers returning from Bear Hill for the weekend—and in the car I blamed myself, cursing myself for wasting so much time and money.I went up and down, north, south, east, and west for a day and a night, but in the end I came back to where I was.I swear I'm going to Chicago tomorrow, by car, and I don't care how much it costs as long as I get there tomorrow. 3 The car I took was a very ordinary car. It was hot and noisy in the car, and some country folks got on and off at every small stop.The car moved slowly, and it was not really driving until the Ohio Plain.Passing through Indiana at night, I headed straight for Chicago, arriving early the next morning.I found a hotel and lay down with very little money in my pocket.After a good day's sleep, I started my search for Chicago. I wandered the streets of Chicago and enjoyed the gentle morning breeze blowing from Lake Michigan and the crazy jazz music in downtown Chicago.And in the middle of the night, I walked into the forest alone, which attracted the attention of the forest police. They drove a police car and followed me suspiciously.This is 1947, when jazz is all the rage in America, when the guys in Chicago are playing downtown, it's not so hot, because jazz is going from the Charlie Parker period to another period that started with Mars Davis Transition.As I listened to this jazz at night in Chicago, I thought of my friends all over the country, they all lived in the same background, and they were all so crazy!The next afternoon I was in the West for the first time in my life.The weather was very pleasant that day, so there were many cars on the road.After escaping Chicago's unimaginable traffic, hitchhike all the way to Juliet and Illinois.I first visited some writers in Julius City, and then walked outside the city along the tree-lined winding streets to start planning the next trip.All the way from New York to Juliet City, I have spent most of the money I brought. A brand new truck with a small flag on it took me to magical green Illinois.The driver pointed me to Highway 6, which we were driving above, which intersected with Highway 66 and continued westward.About three o'clock in the afternoon, I was eating an apple pie and an ice cream on the side of the road when a woman in a small car pulled up in front of me.I was frightened and guilty because I had chased this car just now, and she was a middle-aged woman, and her son seemed to be about my age.She was going to Iowa and wanted someone to drive for her.Of course I agree.Iowa!It's not too far from Denver, and in Denver, I can take a good rest.She drove the car for the first four hours, and whenever we went somewhere, she would come down to visit the church, as if we were out for sightseeing.Later, I took over the steering wheel, and although I am not very good at driving, I still drove through Illinois, Davenport, and Ya Rock Island without any problems.And for the first time, I saw the long-awaited Mississippi River.It is hot summer, so the river is very shallow, and the river exudes a unique atmosphere, which reminds people of the wild and unruly primitive wildness of the American style.The railway on Rock Island, the houses in the small town, and the city of Davenport across the bridge all looked a little deserted in the warm sunshine of the Midwest.The lady had to take another detour back home to Iowa, and I had to get out of the car. The sun was slowly setting.After a few cold beers, I took a walk to the edge of the city, which is far from the city center.Commuters wore railroadmen's mesh hats and drove home like people in other cities.A worker drove me up the hill and left me alone on the crossroads next to the prairie.The scenery here is beautiful, only a few farm cars pass by here, they look at me very attentively, and they ring the spring bells to drive the herds of cows home.No trucks here, just the occasional car honking by.A young man drove by in a high-speed car, the scarf fluttered in the evening wind, and the sun finally set.Surrounded by the thicker and thicker night, I felt a little bit of fear in my heart.There was hardly any light in the suburbs.In an instant I was going to be swallowed up by this darkness.It so happened that a man was driving through here on his way to Davenport at this time, and finally saved me. Sitting at the bus station, I was reminded of all the horrific things that just happened.I had an apple pie and a cup of ice cream, which became almost my staple food along the way, knowing that they were both nutritious and tasty.I decided to take a risk.Came to the center of Dawynport by car, was fascinated by a waitress in the station cafe, watched her for half an hour, and then drove to the outskirts of the city.There's a gas station here, and cars roar to and fro at the gas station.But two minutes later a truck stopped in front of me and I jumped on it, almost crazy with joy, what a driver! ——Sturdy and sturdy, with thick eyebrows and big eyes, he speaks in a rough voice like a horse braying.He drove on a rampage, caring only for his own enjoyment, and hardly ever noticing me.That's good, I can take the opportunity to have a good rest.One of the biggest troubles with taking someone else’s car is that you have to keep proving yourself to them, so that they feel that you have the right person, or some people take you just to make you happy, chatting with you endlessly, This is the most unbearable for those who travel long distances but don't want to take the time to rest in a hotel.But this guy just yelled at the road, and I couldn't help yelling sometimes, and we all felt very relaxed and happy along the way.He also told me his own story of how he was speeding while evading the cops in various cities, saying over and over, "Those fucking cops can't do anything about me!" We just arrived in Iowa In the city, a truck was coming from behind: because his car was going somewhere else, he turned on the taillights to signal the car, then slowed down, and I jumped off and took out the luggage.The car understood what the driver meant and stopped the car too. In the blink of an eye, I was already sitting in another car.Our car drove all night and I couldn't be happier!This driver was just as frantic as the other, and I just settled back comfortably in the seat and rested.Now Denver is looming in front of my eyes. It seems to be a paradise beckoning to me. Under the quiet starry sky, the vast Iowa prairie and Nebraska plains are unfolding in front of me. Looking far away, San Francisco is like a pearl inlaid in the black night.He told me the story for two hours, and we stopped in a small town in Iowa.Years later Dean and I were stranded here on suspicion of stealing a Cadillac.He just slept on the seat for a few hours, and I slept for a while, and went around the town.The faint light illuminates the cold brick wall, and every path leads to the vast grassland. The strong smell of corn permeates the air like dewdrops at night.At dawn, he woke up and restarted the engine.An hour later, Demont loomed behind a field of green corn.I want to have breakfast and want to rest, so I get out of the car.It was only about four miles to the city, and I got into a car driven by two boys from the University of Iowa.It was a strange feeling listening to them talk about their exams in such a new and comfortable car.I made it to the city without much trouble.Now all I want is a good night's sleep, so I'm going to find a room at the hotel, but it's full.That's when I thought of the railroad, and I walked down the street toward the railroad--there's a lot of railroads in Demont--there are motels along the railroad lines, and I slept all day in this dark, old room.The clean and hard bed was covered with white sheets, the wall beside the pillow was painted in a mess, and the broken glass windows reflected the gray scene outside.When I woke up, the sun was gradually turning red.It was a strange time in my life, a most grotesque time, when I didn't even know who I was--I was far away from home, exhausted and disturbed by travel; In the unimaginably humble room, the roar of the train outside the window, the creaking of the old wood of the house, the sound of footsteps upstairs, and many other annoying sounds made me restless.I literally stood under the creaking ceiling not knowing who I was for 15 seconds.But I wasn't frightened, I seemed to be another person, a stranger, my whole soul seemed to go out of my body, I was a ghost.I'm only halfway through the journey across the United States, and now I'm standing on the dividing line between the East of youth and the West of future times, and maybe that's why this red afternoon feels so confusing and strange to me. But now I have to stop sighing and move on.I took my bag, said hello to the owner, and walked out of the hotel to eat.I ate apple pie and ice cream - after I got to Iowa, they got bigger and there was more cream in the ice cream.There are the most beautiful girls everywhere.I stopped by Demont that afternoon to see them, they were all home from high school—but I don't have time to think about that right now, and I promise myself I'll enjoy it when I get to Denver.Carlo Marx was in Denver, Dean was there, Chad King and Tim Gray were here, it was their hometown.Marylou was in Denver, too; there was a bunch of guys there, including Rhea Rollins and his beautiful blonde sister, Bobbi Rollins, and the Batecott sisters, two waitresses Dean knew, and even my college Pen pal Roland Menor at the time was also in Denver.I wanted so badly to meet them and attend their events that I left these beautiful girls, the most beautiful girls in the world living in Demont. A guy took me up the hill, a guy with a toolbox hanging by the wheels, littered with tools, and he looked like a milkman.Then I immediately got another ride with a farmer whose son was going to Adahl, Iowa.At a gas station by a big elm tree in Adair, I became acquainted with another guy who wanted a lift.The man was a typical New Yorker whose job for many years was to drive for a post office and who was now going to Denver to see a girl and start a new life there.我想这家伙一定是由于什么原因从纽约逃出来的，也许与法律有关。这是一个典型的30岁左右的红鼻子酒鬼，平常我是最讨厌这种人的，除非有时我对任何人类友好关系都特别敏感。他穿着肮脏的汗衫，宽松的长裤，甚至连个包也没有，只带了一只牙刷和一条手帕。他说我们可以结伴找车。我本来不想同意，因为他看上去就让人厌恶。但我们终于还是一起搭了一个沉默寡言的人开的车，到了爱荷华州的斯德特，在那里我们真的陷入了困境。我们站在斯德特火车站的票房前，等着西去的车辆一直等到太阳落山，整整等了五个小时。开始我们彼此谈论着自己，然后讲一些下流的故事，接着就玩起路上的石子，让它们发出各种不同的响声。我们都感到无聊透了，我准备花十元钱去喝啤酒。我们来到斯德特的一个老酒店，他就象自己是在纽约的第9大街上一样喝得烂醉，高兴地大叫大笑；给我讲起他的那些肮脏故事。我都有些喜欢上他了，这并不是因为他是个好人，就象后来所证明的那样，而是因为他对待生活有一种热情。我们在夜里又回到了公路旁，当然不会有什么车子经过了，就这样一直等到凌晨三点。我们准备在路边票房的长凳上睡一会，但是可恨的电话铃响个不停，根本无法入睡，外面运货的汽车声也震耳欲聋。我们不知道免费搭车的诀窍，因为以前没有经验，我们看不出哪些车搭上的可能性更大。黎明时分，有一辆开往奥马哈的公共汽车从这儿通过，他一下就跳了上去，加入了那些昏昏欲睡的旅客行列——我为我们两个人付了票钱。他的名字叫埃迪亚，他说认识我的表兄，这样我们就更亲近了，我很希望在这样的长途旅行中有一个象他这样无忧无虑的家伙作伴。 清晨，我们到了城里的市政厅门前，车窗外一片沉寂，只有灰蒙蒙的晨光中星星点点地点缀着一些式样各异的别致的乡间农舍。突然，我在一家肉铺阴暗的墙边看到了西部的第一个牛仔，他戴着一顶足有十加伦重的大帽子，脚蹬一双德克萨斯大皮鞋，除了穿着之外和东部的那些颓废派青年没有什么区别。一下汽车我们又搭车去了一座美丽的小山丘，这是由密苏里河数十年的冲刷形成的，奥马哈城就座落在山脚下。看着这秀美的景色我们都禁不住赞叹。开车的也是位戴着一顶十加伦重的帽子的阔气的农场主，他告诉我们附近的普拉特峡谷可以和埃及的尼罗河谷相媲美。按他的指点我向远方望去，绿色的树林，清亮亮的小溪，还有翡翠般的茸茸草地一下吸引了我的视线，所以我决定去峡谷。正在这时，遇到了一个小插曲。当我们走到一个交叉路口时，被另一个牛仔截住了。这家伙六英尺高，头戴一顶比较庄重的帽子。他一见我们就迎了上来，问我们谁会开车。当然埃迪亚会开，他有驾驶证，而我没有。这个牛仔有两部车子想开回蒙大拿。他的妻子在格兰特岛，他希望我们能帮助他开一辆车过去，然后将车交给他妻子。问题是他要往北去，这和我们的计划相悖。但一想我们正好可以开几百英里去内布拉斯加，所以就跳了上去。埃迪亚单独开一辆车，我和牛仔开另一辆车跟在后面。突然，埃迪亚这家伙把速度开到了每小时90英里，车子象箭一样地飞了出去。“这个该死的家伙，他要干什么！”牛仔大叫着在后面猛追，就好象是在进行一场汽车比赛。有一刻我甚至认为埃迪亚是想把这车开跑，因为我知道他想干什么。但是牛仔紧迫不放，在后面猛按喇叭，埃迪亚终于慢了下来。牛仔按喇叭让他停车。“该死的你他妈的开得这么快是想坐牢吗？你不能开慢些吗？” “是的，是的，我该死，我真开到90英里了吗？在这么光滑的路面上我的确感觉不到有这么快。” “你最好开得慢些，轻松一些，完完整整地到达格兰特岛。” “当然，”我们又重新上路了。埃迪亚这会儿很安静，看上去几乎昏昏欲睡。我们向前开了一百英里穿过了内布拉斯加，又越过普拉特山的盘山道到了绿草如茵的大草地。 “大萧条时期，”牛仔告诉我，“我常常搭顺路的货车，至少是每天一次，那些日子里成千上万的人开着大平板车或大棚车从这里经过。他们并不都是些流浪汉，有些是失业工人，从一个地方到另一个地方去工作，当然也有一些人纯粹是流浪汉。当时整个西部几乎都是这样。本世纪30年代这个地方什么也没有，整个城市就象个垃圾堆。你简直无法呼吸，地面都是黑的。当时我正好住在那里。他们真应该把内布拉斯加还给印第安人，我恨这个城市超过世界上任何地方。蒙大拿是我的故乡。今后你们可以去看看，那儿简直就象天堂。” 到了下午他说话说得太疲倦了便不再开口，我趁机睡了一觉。我们的车停在路边准备吃饭。 牛仔去换轮胎了，我和埃迪亚到饭店吃了一顿。这时我听到一声大笑，简直是世界上最粗旷的笑声，接着走来一位披着生牛皮上了年纪的内布拉斯加农夫，他的身后还跟了一大帮小伙子。你能听到他粗鲁的大叫在整个大平原昏暗的天空下回响，其他人也和他一起笑着。他是那样无忧无虑，对别人似乎又十分义气。我暗暗对自己说，听这人的笑声，这就是西部风格。我真正体验到了西部的风情。他要吃饭了，便对着女店主大叫，她给他端来内布拉斯加最美味的甜饼，我也吃到了满满一大勺冰淇淋。“老板娘，快给我弄些吃的来，要不然我可要把自己给生吞了，还要吃他几个愚蠢的傻瓜。”他猛地一屁股坐在一张长凳上。“再来点豆子！”这个家伙正好坐在我的旁边。我真希望了解他那狂放不羁的生活，希望知道这些年来他除了大嚷大叫和狂笑之外还干了些什么。唉，真晦气，我正想着，牛仔已经换好车胎回来了，我们只得离开，继续向格兰特岛进发。 我们如期到达格兰特。他找妻子去了，不知等待他的将是怎样的命运。我和埃迪亚继续往前走。两个十多岁的小伙子吵吵嚷嚷地开着一辆破车带了我们一段路，后来不知道到了什么地方，在蒙蒙细雨中我们下了车。接着一位老人又把我们捎上了。他什么也没说——不知道他为什么要捎上我们——把我们带到了希尔顿。我和埃迪亚孤独凄凉地站在路上，面对着一群蹲在地上无所事事的奥马哈的印第安小矮人。马路对面是铁路线，水槽上写着“希尔顿”。 “上帝啊，”埃迪亚激动地叫了起来，“我以前来过这儿，那是很多年前的战争时期。是在一天夜里，一个深夜，我们的火车路过这儿。大伙儿都睡着了，我去站台上抽烟。那时我们正在途中，每个人都脏得象地狱一样黑，我去找水，突然在水槽上发现了'希尔顿'几个字。火车是开往太平洋的。伙计们正鼾声震天。我们这群蠢猪全受骗了。火车只停了几分钟就开走了。真见鬼，又是希尔顿！我永远都痛恨这个地方！” 然而我们将在希尔顿停留，就象在达温波特、爱荷华一样。不知怎么，路上全是农用汽车，只有一次，有一辆旅游车经过，但是糟透了，车上一大群老头带着他们的妻子，老头们开车，老太太们一边眺望着车窗外的景色，一边翻地图、对一切都带着一种猜疑的眼光。雨又下大了些，埃迪亚感到有些冷，他衣服穿得很少。我从帆布包里取出一件方格花呢衬衫给他穿上，他立刻感到好些了。我也感到有些凉，就去一家摇摇欲坠的印第安人药店买了些感冒药。然后又去邮局花了一便士给我姨妈发了张明信片。接着就踏上了阴沉沉的公路。只见希尔顿，写在水槽上的那个希尔顿，已经出现在我们面前。一辆开往洛克岛的火车呼啸而过，普尔门式列车上旅客的面容渐渐变得模糊起来。火车吼叫着穿过大平原，朝着我向往已久的地方开去。雨下得更大了。一个相貌丑陋的瘦高个带着一顶大帽子把车错停在马路左边，然后向我们走来，他看上去象个什么官长。我们偷偷地编好了故事。 “你们两个小伙子是要去哪儿，还是在随便走走？我们不明白他问的是什么，不过真他妈的是个不错的问题。” “你问这个是什么意思？”我们说道。 “哦，我在离这儿几里之外有一个游乐场，想找些小伙子到那儿干一点活，当然你们自己也能挣几个钱。我有一个轮盘赌场，还有一个投环游戏场，你们也可以去碰碰运气。如果你们愿意给我干活，你们可以得到我赢利的30％。” “吃住怎么解决？” “你们可以住那儿，但要去城里吃饭，当然有时可派车送。” “我们考虑了一下。” “这是个好机会。”他说，并站在那儿耐心地等着我们答复。我感到很滑稽，不知道该说些什么，我本人是不想被困在这个什么可恶的游乐场的。我现在最迫切的是要到丹佛去见我那帮伙计。 我说：“我不知道。我们要尽快赶路，没有时间。” 埃迪亚也这么回答了他。这个老家伙向我们挥了挥手，漫不经心地一摇一摆走回他的车里，一溜烟把车开走了。这件事就这么过去了。当我们想到如果去了将会发生的一切时，都不禁放声大笑。可以想见那情景：一个漆黑的夜晚，大平原上闪现着无数个内布拉斯加人的身影，大人们带着可爱的孩子十分恐怖地看着一切，我想我一定会觉得自己象魔鬼一样用那些可恶的花招，敲诈这些可怜的人们，轮盘在黑暗中转动着。呵，万能的上帝。悲哀的音乐在黑夜中低徊，我等待着自己的报酬——在金色的大车上铺着麻袋片的床上睡上一觉。 现在埃迪亚已经变得有些心不在焉了。这时一个很可笑的，仿佛是一个什么新发明的玩意儿开过来，驾驶员是个老头。这玩意儿象是由一种什么铝制成的，形状象只盒子，毫无疑问是一种拖车，相当古怪的内布拉斯加式拖车。老头将车开得很慢，然后停在我们面前。我们赶紧跑了过去。他说只能带一个人，埃迪亚二话没说就跳了上去，渐渐地从我的视线中消失了。他走时身上还穿着我那件花格衬衫。oh!我只剩下给我那件可爱的衣服送去一个飞吻，道声再见的份儿了。这样的结果不免令人伤感。我独自在那该死的希尔顿等了很久，甚至有一段时间我想一定已经是深夜了，其实才刚到下午，但天色很暗。丹佛，丹佛，我何时才能走进你的怀抱？我已经等得不耐烦了，正准备去喝杯咖啡，突然一辆很漂亮的崭新的小汽车停了下来，开车的是个小伙子。我发疯似地跑了过去。 “你去什么地方？” "Denver." “那好，我可以带你一百英里。” “啊，太好了！太好了！你简直救了我的命。” “我自己也常常搭便车，所以我开车时也很乐意带别人。” “如果我有车也会这样的。”我们就这样聊了下去。他给我讲他的生活。没有多大意思，我便开始睡觉，醒来时正好到了哥伦堡城，他让我在这儿下了。 4 我生活中最不寻常的一次旅行就要开始了。一辆后面带拖斗的卡车开了过来，上面横七竖八躺了大约六七个小伙子。司机是两个长着亚麻色头发的农场青年，来自明尼苏达，这种人都是那些你能指望看到的整天嘻嘻哈哈、无忧无虑、长得也还英俊的乡下佬、除了身上穿的棉布衬衫和牛仔裤，别的一无所有。他们大都身体结实，办起事情来却死心眼，而且脸上总是挂着随时准备向他们见到的每一个人每一件事都表示问候的微笑。一路上，他们把遇到的流浪汉统统拉到车上。我跳起来问：“有空位置吗？”他们叫道，“当然有。来吧。这里每个人都有位置。”我爬上拖斗，卡车又晃荡着开了。我局促地站着，不知谁拉了我一把，我就势坐了下来。有人递过来一瓶劣等威士忌酒，就剩底儿了，我抓过来喝了一大口。内布拉斯加细雨蒙蒙的空气中充斥着一种疯狂的野性，“哈，我们要到了。”一个戴棒球帽的小伙子叫道。卡车加足了马力，以每小时七十英里的速度从路上行人的身边一闪而过。“从迪莫尼斯起我们就一直象这样开快车，这些小子从不放慢速度。你要想小便就得拼命嚷，否则就只好对着空气撒尿了。忍着吧，伙计，忍着吧。”我环视了一下同车的这些人，有两个从北达科他来的农场孩子，带着红色的棒球帽，这是标准的北达科他州农场孩子的帽子。他们的父母让他们出来在路上转了一个夏天，这会儿该赶回去参加收割了，有两个从俄亥俄州的哥伦布城来的城市孩子，都是高中足球队员。他们嘴里嚼着口香糖，眼睛不停地眨着，轻松地哼着小调，他们说他们夏天要走遍整个美国。“我们要到洛城去。”他们叫道。 “你们到那儿干什么？” “不知道，谁操心这个。” 这伙人中有个家伙又高又瘦，脸上带着阴沉的表情。“你从哪儿来？”我问。我正好靠在他旁边，在这里你要是不使把劲就别想坐起来，因为没有扶手。他慢慢地向我转过身来，张开嘴，说，“蒙——大——拿。” 车上还有一个叫吉恩的密西西比人，照顾着一个孩子，密西西比的吉恩是个矮小黝黑的家伙，到处搭货车周游全国。虽然他已经30多岁，长相却相当年轻，所以你无法确切说出他的年龄，他盘腿坐着，一言不发地望着四周的田野，就这样走了几百英里之后，他转过身来问我：“你到哪儿？” 我说丹佛。 “我有个姐姐在那里，但我已经有好几年没看见她了。”他的嗓音舒缓动听。这是个极有耐心的人。他照顾的孩子大约16岁，高高的个头，满头金发，也穿着一身流浪汉常穿的破衣服，由于铁路上的煤烟、闷罐车里的尘土以及长时间睡在地上的缘故，他们穿的那身旧衣服已经发黑了。这个金发小孩很安静，他看上去似乎在苦思冥想着什么。从他呆呆地凝望前方的神态看，大概在想法律。在这种忧虑的沉思中，他的嘴唇显得有些潮湿。蒙大拿的细高挑偶尔带着挖苦和不怀好意的微笑同他们聊上几句。他们并不搭理他。细高挑一直这么不怀好意，当他冲着你的脸傻乎乎地张着大嘴痴笑时，我感到有些毛骨悚然。 “你有钱吗？”他对我说。 “没多少，大概够我到丹佛之前买一瓶威士忌。你呢？” “我知道我能在哪儿搞到一点。” "where?" “哪儿都成。只要你能把一个人引到小胡同里，不是吗？” “当然，我想你会这么干的。” “如果我真的需要一点儿现钞，我就会来这么一下。搞到点儿钱后到蒙大拿去看我父亲，到了斜阳谷我就不这么干了，得想点其他法子。这些傻小子都发疯了，他们要到洛杉矶去。” “这不要一直往前走吗？” “当然。如果你也想到洛杉矶，可以同路。”我想了一下，向前走一夜穿过内布拉斯加、怀俄明，明天早晨经过犹他州沙漠，下午差不多就可以到内华达沙漠，实际上过不了多久就要到达洛杉矶了。这就会把我的计划改变。但是我必须去丹佛，我也要在斜阳谷下车，然后向南走九十英里到丹佛。到了北普拉提，两个明尼苏达农场的司机打算停车吃点东西。我很高兴，因为我一直想见见他们。他们爬出驾驶室，对我们大伙笑着，“撒尿去吧。”其中一个说。“该吃饭了。”另一个说。但是只有他们有钱买吃的。我们都跟在他们后边，来到一个胖女人开的饭馆。我们围坐在汉堡包和咖啡四周，看着他们狼吞虎咽着大堆食物，他们的神气就好象坐在家里的厨房中一样。他们是兄弟俩，这次他们要把农场的机器从洛杉矶运到明尼苏达，从中赚笔钱，因为到洛杉矶的途中是空车，他们便在路上载行人。他们这么干大概已经五次了，每一次都苦得要命。但是他们无忧无虑，一刻不停地微笑着。我想同他们聊聊——我是想用这种愚蠢的办法同我们这条船的船长们套套近乎——但我得到的唯一回答是两张迷人的笑脸和一口充满乡土味道的大白牙。 除了吉恩和他照顾的孩子这两个流浪汉，其他人都跑到饭馆同司机凑在一起。当我们回来时，他们依然坐在车上，凄凉又有些忧郁。这时，夜幕即将降临。司机们抽了阵烟，我乘机跳下车，想去买几瓶威士忌，以便在寒冷的夜里喝两口取取暖。我对他们说了以后，他们笑了：“去吧，快点。” “你们可以一起过来先喝一杯。”我向他们保证。 “噢，不。我们从不喝酒。快去吧。” 我和蒙大拿的细高挑还有两个高中生在北普拉提的街道上逛着，终于找到了一家威士忌酒店。我们一起喝了几杯，然后我又另外买了一瓶。几个高大、阴沉的男人盯着我们从房屋前走过，大街两旁停了许多大棚车。在远离这些阴郁的街道的地方，就是广阔的田野。我觉得北普拉提有种异样的气氛，搞不清那是怎么回事，在几分钟内，我的确有这种感觉。我们回到车上，卡车又继续颠簸上路了。天很快就完全黑了下来，我们大家都喝了一口酒。突然，我发现普拉提翠绿的田野逐渐隐去，在你无法看清的尽头，出现了一望无垠的满是黄沙和灌木丛的荒原。我有些茫然不知所措。 “这鬼地方是哪儿？”我对着细高挑叫道。 “这是该到大牧场了，伙计，再给我点儿喝的。” “哈！”高中生们大呼小叫起来，“他妈的，太大了！如果我们那帮伙计们在，他们会怎么说？” 司机已经改变了方向。两兄弟中小的那个小心翼翼地驾着车。道路也发生了变化，中间隆起，两旁一边是斜坡，另一边是一条四尺多深的水沟，因此卡车上下起伏着从一边歪向另一边，巧的是还好这时没有车从对面开来。我想我们都得翻个筋斗不可。然而司机真是了不起，无论如何，卡车总算制服了这些内布拉斯加的障碍——这些障碍遍布科罗拉多。一时间，我意识到我这是终于走过了科罗拉多，再向西南走一百多英里就到丹佛了。我禁不住欢呼起来。酒瓶在我们中间传递着。天上出现了明亮闪烁的星斗，远远退去的沙丘变得模糊了。我觉得自己就象离弦之箭，能够一口气跨越剩下的所有路程。忽然，密西西比的吉恩放下盘着的双腿，向我转过身来，愣了一会儿神，然后张开嘴，又靠近了一点，说：“这块原野让我想起得克萨斯。” “你从得克萨斯来？” “不，先生，我从穆兹一西比的格林威尔来。”这就是他说话的方式。 “那个孩子从哪儿来？” “他在穆兹一西比惹了点儿麻烦，所以我帮他逃了出来。男孩子不应该单独柱外。我尽力照料他，他还是个孩子。”尽管吉恩是个白人，但是在他身上，有些地方却很象一个聪明、劳碌的老黑人。他身上有些地方还象艾尔默。哈索尔，一个纽约的瘾君子。但他是一个铁路上的哈索尔，一个喜欢旅行的具有传奇色彩的哈索尔。他每年都要一次又一次地穿越全国，冬天在南方，夏天在北方，只是因为他倦于寻找休憩之地，因为没有地方可去而四处为家，所以不断地在星空下，尤其是在西部的星空下到处流浪。“我去过几次奥格登，如果你想到奥格登的话，我那里有几个朋友，我们可以找他帮忙。” “我要从斜阳谷到丹佛去。” “他妈的，那就该一直向右走，不必象现在这样每天搭车。” 这倒的确是个值得尝试的主意，但奥格登是什么地方呢？“奥格登是什么地方？”我问。 “那是个许多小伙子都要从那里经过，在那里碰头的地方，你可以在那里看见所有的人。” 很久以前，我曾经同一个人们称作细杆哈查德的人一起到过海上。细杆哈查德高高的个儿，骨瘦如柴。他真名叫威廉。霍尔姆斯。哈查德，路易斯安那人。他自己选择当了一个流浪汉，还是在孩提的时候，他看见过一个流浪汉。这个人走过来向他母亲要几张馅饼，他母亲给了他。等流浪汉走了之后，小哈查德问：“妈，这个人是干什么的？” “噢，那是个流浪汉。” “妈，我将来也要做个流浪汉。” “闭嘴，那不是哈查德家人干的事。”但他一直没有忘记这么一天。他长大后，进了路易斯安那州立大学读书。踢了几场球之后，他真的成了流浪汉。细杆和我经常在一起一边讲故事一边吸着自制的卷烟，就这样度过了无数夜晚。 现在，密西西比的吉恩的行为举止有些地方真切地让我想起关于细杆哈查德的往事，于是我问道：“你是否在那里碰巧遇到过一个叫细杆哈查德的人？” 他说：“你说的是一个喜欢高声大笑的高个儿吧？” “大概是他，他是路易斯安那州罗斯顿人，” “对，人们有时叫他路易斯安那的细杆。真的，先生，我肯定遇到过细杆。” “他过去是不是经常在得克萨斯州东部的油田工作？” “是在得克萨斯州的东部。但现在他在放牛。” 这可真是大巧了。但我仍然不能相信吉恩真的认识细杆，这几年来我一直在找他。“那么，他是不是曾经在纽约的拖轮上干过？” “可能，我并不知道这些。” “我猜你是在西部认识他的。” “我承认我从来没去过纽约。” “你别介意，我只是奇怪你会认识他，这可是个很大的国家，但是我知道你一定认识他。” “是这样，先生。我跟细杆很熟。如果他有一点儿钱我们总是在一起花，我是说我们是铁哥儿们。在斜阳谷的时候，有一次放牛，我看到他把一个警察撂倒在地。”这事儿听起来象是细杆干的，他在露天地里放牛时总喜欢活动活动。他看上去很象杰克。狄普西，而且是个年轻酗酒的狄普西。“他妈的！”我迎着风嚷了一句，然后又喝了一口酒。我感到舒坦多了，每喝一口酒都要呛一口风，同时还可灌一口尘土，我的胃里灌满了尘土，“斜阳谷，我来了！我唱了起来，丹佛，看看你的孩子！” 蒙大拿的细高桃向我转过身，指着我的鞋，说：“你得承认，如果你把它们扔在地上，准会有东西跳出来，”然而这句话并没有引起哄堂大笑，只是几个小伙子听到了笑笑。我这双鞋在美国的确是式样最难看的一双鞋，我之所以一定要买它，是因为我不想在炎热的大路上走得满脚都是汗。而且在比尔山上下雨那一次证明，它们的确是最适合我旅行的鞋，但是现在，这双鞋已经变得破烂不堪，皮子裂开了缝，脚趾头都露在外面。所以我也跟周围的人一起笑了起来。不知不觉中，我们来到了一个小镇。灯光划破了夜幕。一路上，站着许多晚上出来收割的懒洋洋的牛仔们，一直到小镇的另一头。他们脸上带着同一种表情盯着我们走过，我们则看着他们漫不经心地干活——我们这些人个个悠闲自得。因为现在是收获季节，所以每年这个时候这里都集中了许多的人。达科他的小伙子有些坐立不安。“我想下次再遇到收割我们就下车，看样子这附近有许多活儿可干。” “你要干的活儿这里没了，北边还有，”蒙大拿的细高挑劝道，“顺着收割的地方走你可以一直走到加拿大。”这些小伙子懵懵懂懂地点着头，他们有点不理解这个劝告。 这期间，那个金发的小亡命徒一动不动地坐着，吉恩则要么冲着漆黑的旷野出神，要么亲热地附在那个孩子的耳边嘀咕几句，这时孩子就会微微地点点头。密西西比人细心照料着他，生怕他感情上受到什么伤害。他们没有香烟了，我就把自己的掏出来递了过去。我很喜欢他们，喜欢他们的善良与谦和。他们从来不乱问什么，我也不必回答，蒙大拿的细高挑自己抽着烟，却从不摸几根出来分给大伙儿。不一会儿，我们又来到一个小镇。一群瘦高而丑陋的人站在路边，他们穿着牛仔裤，聚集在昏暗的灯光下，就象荒漠里的一群飞蛾。卡车开出了小镇，我们重又进入无边的夜色中。群星在晴朗的夜空中闪烁着。我们的卡车开始爬行在西部高原的山坡。路边的蒿草中有一头忧郁的白牛从我们面前一闪而过。我们现在仿佛坐在火车上，平稳而又飞快。 没过多久，又一个小镇出现了，我们的卡车慢了下来。蒙大拿的细高挑嘟嚷着：“嗨，小便。”但是明尼苏达人并没有停车，而是一直往前开着。“他妈的，我要下去。”细高挑叫道。 “就站在车边尿吧。”有人建议。 “好吧，我会这么干的。”他回答道。然后我们看到他慢慢地挪到车边，尽量抓紧。有人敲着驾驶室的窗户，想让那兄弟俩注意，他们转过身看了看，哈哈大笑起来。细高挑挪到车边，这时候已经相当危险，司机却把速度提高到每小时七十英里，并且左右摇晃。细高挑犹豫了一会儿，接着我们便看到空中划过一条鲸鱼喷水似的水柱。然后他踉跄地想退回到原来坐着的地方。两个司机故意把车开得左右摇摆，他站立不稳，一下尿到了自己身上。颠簸中，我们听见他在轻声地咒骂着，就象一个人翻山越岭之后疲倦的哀鸣。“他妈的……他妈的……”他不知道我们是有意这么干的，只是在可怜地挣扎着。他想坐稳，但披摇摇晃晃的卡车颠来倒去，只好扭作一团，脸上露出可怜的神色，车上除了那个忧郁的金发孩子外，每个人都笑得前仰后合。明尼苏达人在驾驶室里笑得喘不过气来。我把酒瓶递给他，让他压压惊。 “他们为什么要这么干？”他问。 "No reason." “好吧，算我倒霉，我真搞不懂，我只想回内布拉斯加，并不想惹什么麻烦。” 就这样，我们来到了奥格登，驾驶室里的两个伙计兴高采烈地叫道：“撒尿！”细高挑放弃了这次机会，闷闷不乐地站在那里。两个达科他来的小伙子向每个人道了声别后就走了，他们大概想在这里干点儿收割的活。他们向小镇尽头亮着灯光的一排棚屋走去。我们目送着他们消失在夜幕中。一个穿牛仔裤的守夜人告诉我们，每一个男人在这里都可以找到活干。我想再去买几包香烟。吉恩和那个金发孩子跟着我一起去。 我好象来到了世界上最可爱的地方。这里有许多本地十几岁的少年男女们正在随着音乐起舞，其中有许多漂亮姑娘。我们走过去时，他们停了下来。吉恩和金发少年目不斜视地站在那里，他们只想要香烟。一个正在跳舞的孩子目不转睛地盯着金发少年，他从未见过这么漂亮的头发。我给车上的人每人买了一包香烟。他们谢了我，于是卡车又重新上路。现在已将近午夜，寒气逼人。吉恩告诉我们现在每个人都应该用车上的防水帆布把自己包严实，否则肯定会冻坏。他周游全国的次数，你就是把手指头加上脚趾头一起算也算不过来，所以我们都照他说的去做。酒瓶里还剩一点儿酒，如果空气再冷下去，我们就能喝几口取取暖，别冻掉了耳朵。天上的星星看上去比我们刚才爬山时更亮了，现在我们是在怀俄明。我直挺挺地躺着，凝望着深邃的天穹，想到我正在度过的时光，想到我终于离那倒霉的比尔山越来越远，心里十分快活。尤其是想到丹佛即将出现在我的面前，我简直激动得发狂——一切都要实现了。这时，吉恩哼起了一首小调，他唱得委婉、深沉，象一条宁静的溪流，这首歌很简单。“我得到了一个纯洁的女孩，十六岁的她甜蜜又可爱，她是你最纯洁的小东西。”然后他又接下去唱了一段，大意是无论他走到哪里，都希望能回到她的身旁，但他还是失去了她。 “吉恩，这首歌真美。”我对他说。 “这是我所知道的最甜蜜的歌。”他微微一笑。 “我真希望你能到你要去的地方，并且万事顺利。” “我总是四处漂流，从一个地方到另一个地方。” 蒙大拿的细高挑刚才睡着了。这时他醒了过来，对我说：“嘿，杂种，今晚你到丹佛前，跟我一起去斜阳谷转转，怎么样？” “一言为定。”我喝够了酒，现在干什么都行。 当卡车到达斜阳谷附近时，我们看见了当地广播电台高高的红灯。突然，路两旁拥有一大群人向我们冲来。“啊哈！这是疯狂的西部周。”细高挑叫道。一大群套着皮靴、戴着巨大帽子的商人，携着他们高大的打扮成西部女郎的妻子，在古老的斜阳谷的马路上尽情地跳着叫着，这种狂欢只有在这样古老的城市才能看到。这时，酒吧里挤满了人，一直挤到了人行道上。我觉得这一切异常新奇，同时也感到十分可笑：我第一次来到西部就看到了这种愚蠢的行为，似乎这样就可以维持辉煌的传统。我们该下车告别了，明尼苏达人不愿意在这附近停留。看到他们离去，我觉得十分悲哀，我知道我可能再也见不到他们了，但是生活就是这样。“今天晚上你们肯定要冻掉屁股，”我警告他们，“这样，明天下午在沙漠里你们就可以把它们烤了吃。” “和我在一起准保没事，我们会平安度过这个寒冷的晚上的。”吉恩说。卡车从人群中急驰而过，但是没有人注意那些裹在防水帆布里的孩子们，他们就象襁褓中的婴儿一样注视着这个城市。我目送着卡车渐渐消失在黑夜之中。 5 我和蒙大拿的细高挑进了一家酒吧。我只剩下7美元了，那天晚上却又胡乱地花掉了5美元。开始我们和一些牛仔、出来旅游的花花公子、炼油工人以及一些农场主混在一起，我们在酒吧里喝了一会儿，接着又在门口，在马路上闹成一团。后来我不得不抽身去照顾细高挑，他几杯威士忌和啤酒下肚之