(The Night Ken Kesey Died)

I woke in the morning, a normal morning so far as I could tell, the sky was a bright blue and the air was warm and humid, as is normal for this time of year.  I logged onto the computer and downloaded my email, 99% garbage as is normal for this time of year.  I logged onto a news service and scanned the headlines, bad news as is normal for this time of year.  I scrolled down, there near the bottom of the screen in tiny text it said “Ken Kesey, Author of ‘One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest’ Dead.”  My heart dropped and I outwardly sighed “Ohhh.”  I clicked on the hypertext and learned how he died and when.  My paramour, my lover, my friend asked what had happened to make me so sad.  I told her that Ken Kesey had died, my favorite contemporary author.  The name meant nothing to her; she had not read any of his books nor the Wolfe book.

I was sad.  I knew that he had been living on his ranch in Oregon, staying away from fans and fanatics.  I had left him alone there, feeling that his privacy was worth more than my desire to see and speak with him.  I thought back to the Wolfe book, The Merry Pranksters as friends I would never meet, and Kesey as chief Prankster, a black hero from my youth.  A window to the Beat’s before him, unknown to me except vicariously.  I wanted to rejoice his life and mourn his death, but all the concepts in my head were weak displays of affection for this man who had meant so much to me.  “You’re either on the bus or off the bus.”  I was on that bus.

There was craziness the night that Kesey died.  I’m not sure that kids today understand the craziness or know how to deal with it.  Or maybe I’m getting old and don’t know how kids deal with craziness today.  There’s the story of a stolen car careening down the beach access road, breaking through barriers and trashcans and the boardwalk, scattering the kids who were partying on the boardwalk.  Stories of kids running from the angry car onto the beach and running, falling over each other running for their lives.  Stories of stolen purses and cars aflame.  Stories of police and volunteer firefighters struggling all night to contain the blaze.

I woke to a pair of flat tires on my car.  Vandalism.  They pulled the cores of the tire stems out.  It could have been worse, they could have slashed the tires.  I fixed the tires, thinking all the while about Kesey and how would he respond to such vandalism.  I shrugged and bore it.  Considering it part of the craziness of the night that Ken Kesey died.

I’m re-reading “Sometimes a Great Notion,” the great American novel.  I welcome you to join me.