“The ‘bigger picture,’ as you call it,” she interrupted me, “is that this novel still sells remarkably well despite the fact that it was first published more than forty years ago. Every year, ignorant yahoos embark on their ‘great adventure’ and go backpacking across the country and read this novel. They all worship Kerouac and his incessant ramblings and that includes the way he portrays women.”
“But the attitude today has changed in academic literary circles when discussing the novel,” I argued. “The male gaze is acknowledged.”
“Yes, in academic circles that may be the case,” she agreed. “But the bulk of readers aren’t found there. They’re out in the world, traveling, thinking that any single woman on the road must be an easy lay. Because that’s exactly how your precious Kerouac describes them.”
“But just because you have personal issues with the content doesn’t mean that you should disregard the impact the novel has had on generations of young people, and that includes men and women. It made them search for alternate ways of living and do great and daring things rather than settle for conformity. That’s why this is a great American novel and one of my personal favorites.”
Try and argue against that logic.
“Really?” she asked, narrowing her eyes. “And what great and daring things has the novel inspired you to do?”
I was momentarily stunned.
If this were a movie, there would be crickets right now.
I had no idea how to respond to her question. The truth was that I hadn’t ever traveled anywhere for more than a week’s vacation because I’d always been too busy with school and studies. I hadn’t done anything great or daring in my life and, worst of all, I was pretty sure that Ms. Wilde knew it.
“This isn’t about me,” I said weakly, suddenly feeling extremely tired. “What are some other impressions of the novel?” I asked the rest of the students.
I avoided looking at Ms. Wilde the rest of the class and after what seemed like forever, I finally dismissed them. They all rushed out, eager to start their weekend plans of partying and having fun. I watched as Ms. Wilde slowly packed up her things, the last one to leave.
“Have a nice weekend,” she said as she passed by.
“Are you angry with me?” I called after her, unable to stop myself.
She turned and gave me a curious look. “No, what gave you that impression?” she asked, walking over to me.
“Um, before,” I said, motioning to her seat.
“Oh no, not at all.” She smiled. “I tend to get passionate about that particular topic because I’ve met so many idiots who’ve read the book and believed every word that Kerouac wrote. I have problems with him, not you. I’m sorry.”
“That’s OK,” I said, looking down.
Dear God, has she decorated those hideous shoes herself? It looks like she’s written on them with a magic marker.
“Well, I should get going. I’ll see you Tuesday,” she said as I watched the ugliest sneakers in the whole universe walk out of my line of sight.
“Are you doing anything fun this weekend?” I asked, remembering Brian’s question from earlier.
That’s a normal inquiry for a Friday afternoon, right?
“Yeah, I’m actually going to a concert tonight. We leave in a few minutes because we have quite a bit of driving to do,” she said.
Oh, that explains the crazy getup…I hope.
“ ‘We’?” I asked.
“Just me and the girls,” she replied. “We’ll probably end up sleeping in the car and coming back sometime tomorrow, completely hung over,” she added with a laugh.
“Oh, OK,” I mumbled, not entirely sure how to respond to that. “Err, that sounds like a busy weekend.”
“But I’m free tomorrow night after dinner,” she said. “You can stop by if you want.”
Huh? What?
I tried to figure out what she was saying. Was she asking me over for a date?
No, she said “after dinner,” so it’s definitely not a date.
“You, uh, you want me to come by?” I asked, feeling more than a little taken aback by her invitation.
“Sure, if you’d like and you’re not busy,” she said, shrugging.
Definitely not busy.
“I don’t know, uh, I might have plans,” I lied.
“OK. Well, I’ll be home if you feel like stopping by,” she said. “I have to go meet the girls now.”
“OK, um…’bye,” I said, extremely ineloquently.
“’Bye, Stephen.”
She was gone before I could figure out what the hell just happened.