The Kerouac Obsession

"If his old spinster sister hadn't been sitting on a porch waiting for a drunk to come home, he would have been working flea markets."

Weinberg clears off the table. It's show time. He produces a color photo, flicking it over like a blackjack dealer.

Kneeling at the grave of Jack Kerouac is a strong-chinned Johnny Depp, an old blue raincoat around his shoulders, a cigarette strategically placed between his fingers. His expression is practiced, his eyes fixed on the camera lens. He is an actor, doing what he has to do to get what he wants, and then get the hell out of Massachusetts.

Weinberg names his price for the shot:
"Five thousand dollars." He leans back. "Hey, I could sell this to People magazine."

Although it's unlikely that People would suddenly take $5,000 of interest in a 7-year-old photograph of Johnny Depp, or be in the midst of preparing that all-Kerouac issue, the image is worthy in one sense. It represents all that is cold, greedy, and empty about the controversy surrounding the legacy of Jack Kerouac.

This long-running dispute could continue in the courts for years, or be over in a few weeks. Whatever the outcome, in the end the dispute will not have focused on who might be a proper caretaker for the best-selling voice of a generation. For in the end, the Kerouac obsession is not about novels or poetry at all. It's about literary nobodies, who have no blood relation to Jack Kerouac, but who through sheer perseverance have envisioned themselves to have become somebodies, at last.

What would Jack Kerouac make of all this?
"He would have enjoyed it. His name would be out there." Sampas smiles, and thinks a moment. "He only would have enjoyed the good aspects of it.