A memory of Billy ~ John Allen Cassady

My father was a complex and "highly evolved" soul. He was a man of many facets, of which I knew only a few. A "sparkling diamond in the rough," as my mother pointed out. He affected everyone who came in contact with him. Some viewed him as a lovable con man. They knew he was absolutely charming their socks off so that he could gain something for himself: Money, dope, sex, shelter or love. They knew that he knew that they knew, and they loved him anyway. He was mostly undeniable. If you study his childhood, it's amazing that he could balance all his passions in this life without bitterness or (intentionally) being hurtful to others. He could shift gears in a heartbeat. A loving father, husband, hard-working breadwinner, writer, rogue, driver, lady's man, philosopher, rapper, story teller, saint and sinner. They were all attributes within his grasp at a moment's notice, but his spirit and wisdom came through regardless of the situation in which he found himself, and by all accounts, he touched many of those he encountered in magical ways.

Take, for example, an account by the brilliant writer William J. Craddock of his meeting Neal at a party in San Francisco in 1965. Bill, although his first novel "Be Not Content" was not published until 1970, was already an avid Kerouac and Cassady fan, so that when Neal walked into the second-story apartment where the party was being held that night, Bill was beside himself and was determined to meet his legendary hero. Neal was already talking non-stop to all who would listen, and after introductions Neal praised Bill on his writing endeavors and invited him to go along for a drive to get some cigarettes at the market down the street. Bill was thrilled that the almost-forty-year-old Dean Moriarty would consider rapping with the then teen-aged wanna-be writer, and Bill quickly agreed. Bill told me that they went downstairs and out onto Gough street, one of the steepest in the City. Neal, talking about writing and a million related subjects, stopped walking at a VW bug just down the hill, and said, "this is it." They jumped into the car and proceeded down the hill. Suddenly and without warning, Neal cranked the wheel to the left, and the car flipped over twice, crushing the top and breaking the windows. It miraculously landed on its wheels in the middle of the street. As you can imagine, Bill was horrified and afraid for his life, which was thankfully preserved, or we would have missed out on some great future writing by Billy!

Neal kept the engine running and straightened her out, proceeding down the incline. Bill swears that Neal never missed a beat in his monologue while the car rolled, and acted as if nothing had happened. As Bill was searching for the door handle, Neal drove around the block and parked the disabled car exactly where they'd found it. It was then that Bill realized it wasn't Neal's car at all! Some poor kid had left the keys in it, thinking "no one's going to steal this thing." I can't imagine the owner's horror to return to his car and find the roof crushed, as if Godzilla had walked through town, it being still in the same parking place.

Neal walked back up to the party, talking all the while, with the ashen-faced Bill in tow. Bill's summation of the experience: "we never bought the cigarettes!"
Now, mind you, I don't approve or condone property damage of any kind--cars or otherwise--but the way Billy told the story made me laugh. I could just picture it, and that's the gift Billy had in his story-telling—whether verbal or in his writing. He was impressed by Neal Cassady, and I was duly impressed by William J. Craddock!

John Cassady
April 20, 2007