Somewhere beyond the staccato patter that was leaping out of Kerouac's chapped lips, I noticed the high whine of a police siren coming from somewhere amid the manic whir of motors, frogs, locusts, wind and radio static in the Tennessee night. I leaned over and looked at the speedometer, which said we were standing still. Neal gritted his teeth and grinned. " Doesn't work!" he yelled, "but we're going about 6 lines per second," he pointed at the broken dividing line of the two-lane road." That's about 80 or 90."

" I hear a police siren !" I yelled. He grinned again. " It's the possum!" he shouted, pointing at a familiar piece of clay sculpture perched on the nose of the Mercury. " Cool, huh? I copped it from the weird guy back at the Mudcat Tavern while he was trying to get the door open!" The little ceramic bastard was whistling like a teapot as we sailed through the damp darkness.

" What a night," I said, as Kerouac passed me the wine bottle.