already into a long monologue for the guy, only he is
throwing in all kinds of sirs: "Well, yes sir, this is a
Hammond bi-valve serrated brake, you understand, sir,
had it put on in a truck ro-de-o in Springfield, Oregon,
had to back through a slalom course of baby's bottles
and yellow nappies, in the existential culmination of
Oregon, lots of outhouse freaks up there, you
understand, sir, a punctual sort of a state, sir, yes sir,
holds to 28,000 pounds, 28,000 pounds, you just look
right here, sir, tested by a pureblooded Shell Station
attendant in Springfield, Oregon, winter of '62, his
gumball boots never froze, you understand, sir, 28,000
pounds hold, right here—" Whereupon he yanks back
on the hand-brake as if it's attached to something,
which it isn't, it is just dangling there, and jams his
foot on the regular brake, and the bus shudders as if the
hand brake has a hell of a bite, but the cop is
thoroughly befuddled now, anyway, because Cassady's
monologue has confused him, for one thing, and what
the hell are these... people doing. By this time
everybody is off the bus rolling in the brown grass by
the shoulder, laughing, giggling, ya-hooing, zonked to
the skies on acid, because, mon, the woods are burning,
the whole world is on fire, and a Cassady monologue
on automotive safety is rising up from out of his throat
like weenie smoke, as if the great god Speed were