That Certain Amount of Experience With Scroll Manuscripts

I went back to the Museum this evening and type type typed my story. It goes:

This is the scroll story. It's a little misty as to before and after. In 1968 I was living in a carriage house on the inside of the block bounded by Haight, Belvedere, Waller and Cole in the Haight Ashbury. My downstairs neighbor had a kind of continuous open house which ran on pills for half of every month until he ran out of money. Among the people who came to Tommy's was a poet named John Foret, who evenually connected my friend Jet with Irving Rosenthal, who had just arrived from New York with a printing press and Beat Connections. I think that's how a man named Angel got into my life and my apartment. Angel had also just arrived, from Afghanistan with a leather jacket full of hashish, and so couldn't stay in Irving's commune... anyway, Angel saw the typewriter on my kitchen table and told me that Kerouac had composed On the Road in a continuous scroll on telegraph paper. I went away for a few days and Angel stayed in my apartment. When I came home, Angel was gone and my cat Pickle was lost, and there was a long long scroll typed on yellow paper in the typewriter. I rolled it up and taped it with masking tape, and kept it a long time, but Angel never came back. I've no idea what I did with it in the end, but I can see it plainly in my memory, even now 40 years later. The paper was much heavier than Kerouac's—I was quite startled when I saw how thin the Museum's scroll is. About a year later the cat reappeared for a couple of days. He seemed to remember me, but had turned into a huge wild street cat, and didn't stay.