Jack kerouac: The Long Island Years
By Christopher Twarowski and Spencer Rumsey
Skipped to BEATIFIC
Larry Smith, 82, is an accomplished photographer and architect—whose firm designed Northport Village Hall—and lived his own On the Road-style adventures traveling the world, three years in the Navy and three years by way of a 1958 Volkswagen He recalls his time with Kerouac fondly.
The photographs take up several feet of Smith’s hallway at his apartment, a space he calls his “Kerouac corner.”
There is Kerouac seated in a recliner, holding his head while Twardowicz’s wife Ann sits on his lap and plays with his hair. There is Kerouac standing in front of a doorway, pointing upward in a goofy pose. There is Kerouac wearing a fedora with its brim turned up, or pensively staring outward, surrounded by empty cans of beer. Among the images is a postcard, sent from Kerouac to Smith in 1965 from St. Petersburg, Florida—discussing the photo that would be used for The Desolation Angels.
Unlike Kerouac, who had no car or 9-to-5 job during his Northport years, Smith worked during the day, so most of their time together was spent in the evenings or on weekends—on the softball field, over dinner prepared by his ex-wife Tsuneko, or over beers at Twardowicz’s studio and apartment.
It’s during these moments, says Smith, when Kerouac would reveal himself.
“We would invite Jack over occasionally for a very modest meal,” he says. “He’d dress up, he’d wear his slippers or whatever, his plaid shirt,” he laughs. “And we’d have pasta and wine and we’d go down and sit on the porch and look out over the harbor.
“Whether he was telling a story or whatever, he was just completely relaxed,” Smith continues. “And then this one time there that we were sitting on the porch overlooking the harbor, he says, ‘You know, I’m the only major writer in this country that’s never received a literary prize.’ Very wistful.
“But I much preferred being with the quiet, sober Jack than the drunken one,” adds Smith, who was eight years Kerouac’s junior. “And he paid me a left-handed compliment one time. Because we’d be at his house and there’d be knocks on the door and it would be groupies coming in. And you can see Jack’s not in great shape. He’d go to the door and they’d say they were looking for Jack Kerouac. And he turns to me and he says, ‘They expect to see you answering the door.’
“He could be a pain in the ass sometimes,” he laughs, “and then he could be the most charming, engaging and interesting guy.”
Despite its relegation as a dark footnote in his career, Smith and Fenton believe Kerouac’s time in Northport did have significant meaning to the author, and that had he remained, it could have prolonged his life.
“I think it meant a lot to him,” says Smith. “He had this coterie of friends here and he was comfortable with us.”
“I think in his Northport years there really wasn't much more in him,” says Fenton. “I mean, if it was in him, he certainly couldn't get it down on paper. You can’t stay drunk and try to write, man, you know.”
Fenton doubted that the author could have ever matched his earlier literary triumphs, but “had he stayed there, it would have saved his life, because it was the only protection that he had.”
Larry Smith, 82, is an accomplished photographer and architect—whose firm designed Northport Village Hall—and lived his own On the Road-style adventures traveling the world, three years in the Navy and three years by way of a 1958 Volkswagen He recalls his time with Kerouac fondly.
The photographs take up several feet of Smith’s hallway at his apartment, a space he calls his “Kerouac corner.”
There is Kerouac seated in a recliner, holding his head while Twardowicz’s wife Ann sits on his lap and plays with his hair. There is Kerouac standing in front of a doorway, pointing upward in a goofy pose. There is Kerouac wearing a fedora with its brim turned up, or pensively staring outward, surrounded by empty cans of beer. Among the images is a postcard, sent from Kerouac to Smith in 1965 from St. Petersburg, Florida—discussing the photo that would be used for The Desolation Angels.
Unlike Kerouac, who had no car or 9-to-5 job during his Northport years, Smith worked during the day, so most of their time together was spent in the evenings or on weekends—on the softball field, over dinner prepared by his ex-wife Tsuneko, or over beers at Twardowicz’s studio and apartment.
It’s during these moments, says Smith, when Kerouac would reveal himself.
“We would invite Jack over occasionally for a very modest meal,” he says. “He’d dress up, he’d wear his slippers or whatever, his plaid shirt,” he laughs. “And we’d have pasta and wine and we’d go down and sit on the porch and look out over the harbor.
“Whether he was telling a story or whatever, he was just completely relaxed,” Smith continues. “And then this one time there that we were sitting on the porch overlooking the harbor, he says, ‘You know, I’m the only major writer in this country that’s never received a literary prize.’ Very wistful.
“But I much preferred being with the quiet, sober Jack than the drunken one,” adds Smith, who was eight years Kerouac’s junior. “And he paid me a left-handed compliment one time. Because we’d be at his house and there’d be knocks on the door and it would be groupies coming in. And you can see Jack’s not in great shape. He’d go to the door and they’d say they were looking for Jack Kerouac. And he turns to me and he says, ‘They expect to see you answering the door.’
“He could be a pain in the ass sometimes,” he laughs, “and then he could be the most charming, engaging and interesting guy.”
Despite its relegation as a dark footnote in his career, Smith and Fenton believe Kerouac’s time in Northport did have significant meaning to the author, and that had he remained, it could have prolonged his life.
“I think it meant a lot to him,” says Smith. “He had this coterie of friends here and he was comfortable with us.”
“I think in his Northport years there really wasn't much more in him,” says Fenton. “I mean, if it was in him, he certainly couldn't get it down on paper. You can’t stay drunk and try to write, man, you know.”
Fenton doubted that the author could have ever matched his earlier literary triumphs, but “had he stayed there, it would have saved his life, because it was the only protection that he had.”