"You'll be Okay" by Edie Parker Introduction by Timothy Moran October 21, 1969 Edie Parker sat in disbelief as Walter Cronkite proclaimed the death of the," father of the Beat Generation"—Jack Kerouac. She frantically made plans to head to Lowell, Massachusetts for the funeral services and was off the next day—besieged by a tsunamic rush of flashbacks and confusion. When she returned to her home in Michigan, Edie began reading all of Jack's books. She was curious, sentimental and amused by recognizing herself and her friends from their days at Columbia in the 1940's in his work—though she always believed his characters to be "seventy-five percent one person and twenty-five another". In 1970, after reading what she felt were inaccurate biographies, Edie decided to tell her story. She would wake each day ten years thereafter at 5:00 A.M. And, after first feeding her twenty-five cats and two dogs, Shaw and Samantha would sit in her bedclothes on an old wooden chair with a notebook of paper, recording her memories in pencil. The following are some of Edie's first notes—transcribed from her original, handwritten manuscript, "You'll be Okay". Though brief, they are memories from a time when the world was changing and of a menagerie of friends who would change it yet again— Timothy Moran, Executor for the estate of Frankie Edith Kerouac-Parker William Burroughs: Is a combination of Sherlock Holmes, Wyatt Erp and Abraham Lincoln—dressed like Holmes, fascinated with guns like Erp and is kind and soft speaking in expressing his thoughts like Lincoln. And is sexless like all three. He was like the Cavalry—always to the rescue but there was never anyone to come to his. Later, only Joan [Adams] maybe. I certainly would have, but I was back in G.P. [Grosse Pointe], so was Jack. [Herbert] Huncke: When I think of Huncke I think of a sweet, wonderful guy—I suppose it would be like having a mother eagle as a friend—with eaglets in the nest. He is ever watchful and always protective. My love for my old friends is so enormous that they, nor I, will ever live up to the expectations—I have transferred my love for Jack to the ones now living. Lucien [Carr]: . . . I glanced to the right and a little in back of me—we were all standing at our easels. There was a boy drawing there who caught my eye as much as the model. He was taller than Jack—rather a dirty blonde—thick head of hair—curly—I couldn't keep my eyes off of him—I noticed others also were looking at him. He really should have been on the stand just as he was—very sloppily dressed—open at the neck white cotton shirt—it had never seen starch—rolled up high sleeves rolled so tight you knew he had taken the scissors to them—he had khaki pants on with the legs rolled up—no socks—and loafers. He was very intent on his work and noticed nothing else. All of a sudden this disheveled boy lets out a loud long whistle saying, "Not bad. Not bad!" admiring his sketch. He started to move around the room looking at everyone's work—he was completely at ease and seemed not to notice the attention he created. I was spellbound by him—he moved like a cat. His movements were like mercury over rocks. His eyes were slanted—almost oriental—and pure green. So green they dazzled you. But above all, he was unaware of the effect he had which made him more attractive. He looked at every drawing and person and said, "Great" or something nice—you could tell he was interested in you, not himself. He came over to my easel and stood a long time in complete silence so I glanced up. He smiled, so did I—he was looking at me not my work. Just then the professor called a break and [Lucien] said, "Lets have a cigarette outside." Celine [Young]: She was a lot like me—her background,—the way she dressed: skirts, saddles, sweaters, pink oxford cloth men's shirts from Brooks Brothers on Lexington Ave. She was also taller than I—maybe 5' 5"—had nice boobs and solidly built and a shinning glow to her complexion—very little makeup, just lipstick—Helena Rubenstein Bluegrass cologne. Her best asset was her gorgeous, slightly curly, natural blonde hair—she wore it long and flowing. Boy! How I envied her locks. She had big blue eyes and was full of energy and fun—Lucien adored her. They really fit their looks—their spirit, their bubbling gaiety. Jack called them, "flaming youth". She was not, I repeat, was not an easy conquest—and she loved Lucien. But the fag got in the way. Like us all, she grew up fast and stunned by fate. She was from Pelham [New York] in Westchester County and a Barnard student. She was also highly intelligent and well read—an honor student. I think a terrific gal and, like anyone who is attractive and has the world by the tail, loved to flirt—as Jack says in his books. Celine was a born career woman that you knew would be successful but I can not think of her as a housewife with children—I really don't know. But wherever she is she has her world under control. Kammerer [David]: Cloven hooves and horns that out of thick curly red hair—the dark cloud that hovered over our lives. He was tall-6'-muscles, long legs, dressed careless. Never had time to zip his fly—almost running. When he walked his coat and hair was always flying. He took the six flights of stairs up to the apartment 2 at a time. Breathless when he spoke—wringing his hands in full speed anxiety. And all this directed at Lucien, 1/2 his age. He drove us all to silence because all he ate and breathed was L. [Lucien]. Jack and I said nothing around him for, to us, he was on the verge of jumping off his own life's roof. Needless to say, he was uncomfortable to be around so we avoided him. Burroughs was the only one who would console him. Lucien hadn't a moment when he wasn't fleeing and in love with Celine. Hal Chase: When L.C. [Lucien Carr] was in jail and she [Celine] was waiting for him to get out, she went around with Hal Chase who resembled Lucien but did not have his fire. He lived in Joan [Adams] and my apartment as a roomer. Hal was quiet and not like us but as time went by he joined in our group. He had strange ideas—mirrors on the ceilings and stealing food from the refrigerator so Joan had to put a lock on it. He loved to do mischievous things. Ginsberg [Allen] Now to describe him I find very difficult for he was 17 to our 20 years and that is a big gap in that time of your life. He was the youngest of all of us and he was very NAÏVE also undernourished or underdeveloped. Small, wiry—longer legs and arms than his body. He was always moving and had large Charlie Chaplin ears that stuck out with feet that matched. He was kind of Arab sheik looking with oily hair and watery eyes and he wore thick horn—rimmed glasses that he was always pushing into his face. He was a sympathizer and everyone would go to him with their troubles—he kind of wanted you to feel sorry for his role in life. "Ah ha!," Jack would say, "Look out, he would pounce on you like a spider with many legs and you're done for." But this happened seldom for he knew it was not a charming quality and we, his peers, might get physical. Allen could be and was sweet, charming, always there and a good teacher. He always told you what you wanted to hear—he had an uncanny, intelligent tongue and sixth sense of how to win his personal war with life and you couldn't help but love him because you really felt he loved you too. But then when you left him you had doubts. He would have been a great politician, but I think he got to know a few and didn't like what he felt. Anyway, he chose Kerouac, Burroughs and Lucien instead. Women were attracted to Allen for his little boy qualities. But then we grow up so he hid his good looks behind a bush. His was hair at that time in his life—I do believe to keep the girls out of it. So I'll drink to Ginsberg for above all else he is still alive and, I hope healthy. As for being happy, that would be bourgeois. Copyright 2000, Timothy Moran tmoran@nyc.rr.com