Chapter XIII

by Jack London

　　So I left Benicia, where John Barleycorn had nearly got me, andranged wider afield in pursuit of the whisper from the back oflife to come and find. And wherever I ranged, the way lay alongalcohol-drenched roads. Men still congregated in saloons. Theywere the poor-man's clubs, and they were the only clubs to which Ihad access. I could get acquainted in saloons. I could go into asaloon and talk with any man. In the strange towns and cities Iwandered through, the only place for me to go was the saloon. Iwas no longer a stranger in any town the moment I had entered asaloon.

　　And right here let me break in with experiences no later than lastyear. I harnessed four horses to a light trap, took Charmianalong, and drove for three months and a half over the wildestmountain parts of California and Oregon. Each morning I did myregular day's work of writing fiction. That completed, I drove onthrough the middle of the day and the afternoon to the next stop.But the irregularity of occurrence of stopping-places, coupledwith widely varying road conditions, made it necessary to plan,the day before, each day's drive and my work. I must know when Iwas to start driving in order to start writing in time to finishmy day's output. Thus, on occasion, when the drive was to belong, I would be up and at my writing by five in the morning. Oneasier driving days I might not start writing till nine o'clock.

　　But how to plan? As soon as I arrived in a town, and put thehorses up, on the way from the stable to the hotel I dropped intothe saloons. First thing, a drink--oh, I wanted the drink, butalso it must not be forgotten that, because of wanting to knowthings, it was in this very way I had learned to want a drink.Well, the first thing, a drink. "Have something yourself," to thebarkeeper. And then, as we drink, my opening query about roadsand stopping-places on ahead.

　　"Let me see," the barkeeper will say, "there's the road acrossTarwater Divide. That used to be good. I was over it three yearsago. But it was blocked this spring. Say, I'll tell you what.I'll ask Jerry----" And the barkeeper turns and addresses some mansitting at a table or leaning against the bar farther along, andwho may be Jerry, or Tom, or Bill. "Say, Jerry, how about theTarwater road? You was down to Wilkins last week."

　　And while Bill or Jerry or Tom is beginning to unlimber histhinking and speaking apparatus, I suggest that he join us in thedrink. Then discussions arise about the advisability of this roador that, what the best stopping-places may be, what running time Imay expect to make, where the best trout streams are, and soforth, in which other men join, and which are punctuated with moredrinks.

　　Two or three more saloons, and I accumulate a warm jingle and comepretty close to knowing everybody in town, all about the town, anda fair deal about the surrounding country. I know the lawyers,editors, business men, local politicians, and the visitingranchers, hunters, and miners, so that by evening, when Charmianand I stroll down the main street and back, she is astounded bythe number of my acquaintances in that totally strange town.

　　And thus is demonstrated a service John Barleycorn renders, aservice by which he increases his power over men. And over theworld, wherever I have gone, during all the years, it has been thesame. It may be a cabaret in the Latin Quarter, a cafe in someobscure Italian village, a boozing ken in sailor-town, and it maybe up at the club over Scotch and soda; but always it will bewhere John Barleycorn makes fellowship that I get immediately intouch, and meet, and know. And in the good days coming, when JohnBarleycorn will have been banished out of existence along with theother barbarisms, some other institution than the saloon will haveto obtain, some other congregating place of men where strange menand stranger men may get in touch, and meet, and know.

　　But to return to my narrative. When I turned my back on Benicia,my way led through saloons. I had developed no moral theoriesagainst drinking, and I disliked as much as ever the taste of thestuff. But I had grown respectfully suspicious of JohnBarleycorn. I could not forget that trick he had played on me--onme who did not want to die. So I continued to drink, and to keepa sharp eye on John Barleycorn, resolved to resist all futuresuggestions of self-destruction.

　　In strange towns I made immediate acquaintances in the saloons.When I hoboed, and hadn't the price of a bed, a saloon was theonly place that would receive me and give me a chair by the fire.I could go into a saloon and wash up, brush my clothes, and combmy hair. And saloons were always so damnably convenient. Theywere everywhere in my western country.

　　I couldn't go into the dwellings of strangers that way. Theirdoors were not open to me; no seats were there for me by theirfires. Also, churches and preachers I had never known. And fromwhat I didn't know I was not attracted toward them. Besides,there was no glamour about them, no haze of romance, no promise ofadventure. They were the sort with whom things never happened.They lived and remained always in the one place, creatures oforder and system, narrow, limited, restrained. They were withoutgreatness, without imagination, without camaraderie. It was thegood fellows, easy and genial, daring, and, on occasion, mad, thatI wanted to know--the fellows, generous-hearted and -handed, andnot rabbit-hearted.

　　And here is another complaint I bring against John Barleycorn. Itis these good fellows that he gets--the fellows with the fire andthe go in them, who have bigness, and warmness, and the best ofthe human weaknesses. And John Barleycorn puts out the fire, andsoddens the agility, and, when he does not more immediately killthem or make maniacs of them, he coarsens and grossens them,twists and malforms them out of the original goodness and finenessof their natures.

　　OhHeaven forefend me fromthe most of the average run of male humans who are not goodfellows, the ones cold of heart and cold of head who don't smoke,drink, or swear, or do much of anything else that is brase, andresentful, and stinging, because in their feeble fibres there hasnever been the stir and prod of life to well over its boundariesand be devilish and daring. One doesn't meet these in saloons,nor rallying to lost causes, nor flaming on the adventure-paths,nor loving as God's own mad lovers. They are too busy keepingtheir feet dry, conserving their heart-beats, and making unlovelylife-successes of their spirit-mediocrity.

　　And so I draw the indictment home to John Barleycorn. It is justthose, the good fellows, the worth while, the fellows with theweakness of too much strength, too much spirit, too much fire andflame of fine devilishness, that he solicits and ruins. Ofcourse, he ruins weaklings; but with them, the worst we breed, Iam not here concerned. My concern is that it is so much of thebest we breed whom John Barleycorn destroys. And the reason whythese best are destroyed is because John Barleycorn stands onevery highway and byway, accessible, law-protected, saluted by thepoliceman on the beat, speaking to them, leading them by the handto the places where the good fellows and daring ones forgather anddrink deep. With John Barleycorn out of the way, these daringones would still be born, and they would do things instead ofperishing.

　　Always I encountered the camaraderie of drink. I might be walkingdown the track to the water-tank to lie in wait for a passingfreight-train, when I would chance upon a bunch of "alki-stiffs."An alki-stiff is a tramp who drinks druggist's alcohol.Immediately, with greeting and salutation, I am taken into thefellowship. The alcohol, shrewdly blended with water, is handedto me, and soon I am caught up in the revelry, with maggotscrawling in my brain and John Barleycorn whispering to me thatlife is big, and that we are all brave and fine--free spiritssprawling like careless gods upon the turf and telling the two-by-four, cut-and-dried, conventional world to go hang.