it's just a dream, just a dream I had

[dearestmcadams]

It's the late forties. I'm sitting in City Lights bookstore in San Francisco (and the inside looks like Maxwell's in La Mesa) reading up on Kierkegaard. I look to my left and there's Jack Kerouac.
"Hi" he says
-Hi
He offers up his arm and says:
"My Lady..."
-Don't mind if I do! I say
We walk onto the Frisco streets and my pal lights up a cigarette.
-So what's your name? I ask
"Jack Kerouac" He says, all nonchalant.
-Kerouac huh?
"That's right"
-So whattya do Kerouac?
"I'm a writer"
-hmm ya don't say...

And then the phone rings.
ACK.
ackley kid.