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The streets are empty, I go down the wrong way, among warehouses, nobody works on Saturdays, a few dismal Filipinos walk in the street pass me—Where is my breakfast? And I realize too that my blisters from the mountain have grown so bad now I cant hitch hike, I cant take that pack on my back and walk two miles out—south—I decide to take a bus to San Francisco and git it over with.
Maybe a lover there for me. I have plenty of money and money is only money. And what will Cody be doing when I get to Frisco? And Irwin and Simon and Lazarus and Kevin? And the girls? And I read about Eisenhower waving from trains on campaign speeches, and Adlai Stevenson so elegant so snide so proud—I read about riots in Egypt, riots in North Africa, riots in Hong Kong, riots in prisons, riots in hell everywhere, riots in desolation—Angels rioting against nothing.
The station is loaded with people, I stash my rucksack in the baggage room and wander around unencumbered looking everywhere, I sit in the station and roll a cigarette and smoke, I go down the street for hot chocolate at a soda fountain. I wouldnt allow it! Why fret? The world wouldnt exist if it didnt have the power to liberate itself.
Dog is God spelled backwards. Then the long hot sun of the Sacramento Valley in her Sunday afternoon, and bleak little stop-towns where I chew up popcorn and squat and wait—Bah! Things happening everywhere. Incredible the things I saw. I get out of the way for two Filipino gentlemen crossing California. I pass through to the Bell Hotel, by the Chinese playground, and go in get my room.
