West Seneca, NY—Donna Kane, the wife of local author P.A.Kane has been giddy for the last two weeks as skilled handyman and all-around good guy Rich Hannotte has been updating the couple’s kitchen in their West Seneca home. After enduring years of procrastination and excuses from her writer husband regarding this project, Mrs. Kane is now reevaluating her life choices.
Watching Hannotte work Mrs. Kane thought about how much more enjoyable life might have been had she spent it with someone who could measure and cut with accuracy; who could tape and caulk with fluency and who could problem solve in a matter of minutes rather than dilly-dalling around for years in front of a computer screen like her writer husband as endless house projects languished.
It was Kane himself—Amazon’s 1.5 millionth ranked author who noted the positive change in his wife’s disposition. “Yes,” she said, “It feels so good to see our living space transformed. I’m so glad we hired Rich. He’s so amazing.”
Feeling a little overlooked Kane pointed out that he did much of the demolition work in preparation for this makeover. His wife gave him an encouraging smile and told him he made a killer pot of coffee, that he was good at carrying things like ceramic tile and buckets of joint compound and he was like the best monkey at tearing off god-awful paneling from the walls and ripping up old flooring, but as far as real handyman skills went—severely lacking.
Kane became indignant and proudly declared that he had an upside. He pointed out his recent deep dive into the life of Jack Kerouac.” (*author’s note* Last month Kane visited Lowell, Massachusetts the birthplace of trendsetting Beat Generation author Jack Kerouac on his 100th birthday).
“Kerouac,” she said, raising her voice. “You’ve spent months sitting on your ass reading his books, reading books about him, watching documentaries, writing dumb poems, how about instead of that you learn to hammer a fucking nail or maybe change out a leaky faucet? Huh, how about that? Jack Kerouac—give me a break.”
She then stormed off to their bedroom and stared out the window. Standing there as she reevaluated her life choices she quickly became uncomfortable as a cool breeze filtered through the edges of the window frame where the caulk had chipped away from years of neglect.
At Jack Kerouac’s Grave
Those falling stars
Looking for meaning
Looking for purpose
In your restless search
In your poverty and homelessness
You found a voice
A voice of majesty and exhilaration
A voice of desolation and disillusion
And here where your body lies
In your release from suffering
In your golden eternity
We honor the fierce and gentle radiance
You brought to this sad angry world