I'm about to go to Denver U, you know, me and Roy."
"What are you going to take up?"
"Oh, sociology and all that field, you know.
Say, Dean gets crazier every year, don't he?"
"He sure does."
Galatea Dunkel was there.
She was trying to talk to somebody, but Dean held the whole floor.
He stood and performed before Shephard, Tim, Babe, and myself, who all sat side by side in kitchen chairs along the wall.
Ed Dunkel hovered nervously behind him.
His poor brother was thrust into the background.
"Hup! hup!" Dean was saying, tugging at his shirt, rubbing his belly, jumping up and down.
"Yass, well – we're all together now and the years have rolled severally behind us and yet you see none of us have really changed, that's what so amazing, the dura – the dura – bility – in fact to prove that I have here a deck of cards with which I can tell very accurate fortunes of all sorts."
It was the dirty deck.
Dorothy Johnson and Roy Johnson sat stiffly in a corner.
It was a mournful party.
Then Dean suddenly grew quiet and sat in a kitchen chair between Stan and me and stared straight ahead with rocky doglike wonder and paid no attention to anybody.
He simply disappeared for a moment to gather up more energy.
If you touched him he would sway like a boulder suspended on a pebble on the precipice of a cliff.
He might come crashing down or just sway rocklike.
Then the boulder exploded into a flower and his face lit up with a lovely smile and he looked around like a man waking up and said,
"Ah, look at all the nice people that are sitting here with me.
Isn't it nice!
Sal, why, like I was tellin Min just t'other day, why, urp, ah, yes!"
He got up and went across the room, hand outstretched to one of the bus-drivers in the party.
"Howd'y'do.
My name is Dean Moriarty.
Yes, I remember you well.
Is everything all right?
Well, well.
Look at the lovely cake.
Oh, can I have some?
Just me?
Miserable me?"
Ed's sister said yes.
"Oh, how wonderful.
People are so nice.
Cakes and pretty things set out on a table and all for the sake of wonderful little joys and delights.
Hmm, ah, yes, excellent, splendid, harrumph, egad!"
And he stood swaying in the middle of the room, eating his cake and looking at everyone with awe.
He turned and looked around behind him.
Everything amazed him, everything he saw.
People talked in groups all around the room, and he said,
"Yes!
That's right!"
A picture on the wall made him stiffen to attention.
He went up and looked closer, he backed up, he stooped, he jumped up, he wanted to see from all possible levels and angles, he tore at his T-shirt in exclamation, "Damn!"
He had no idea of the impression he was making and cared less.
People were now beginning to look at Dean with maternal and paternal affection glowing in their faces.
He was finally an Angel, as I always knew he would become; but like any Angel he still had rages and furies, and that night when we all left the party and repaired to the Windsor bar in one vast brawling gang, Dean became frantically and demoniacally and seraphically drunk.
Remember that the Windsor, once Denver's great Gold Rush' hotel and in many respects a point of interest – in the big saloon downstairs bullet holes are still in the walls – had once been Dean's home.