Years ago I went to a cemetery in Lowell, Massachusetts to look for Jack Kerouac's grave with a boy who vowed to quit smoking for me. Sexy, brilliant, Hollywood hair, and potting soil colored eyes. Kerouac, not the boy. The boy? He and I searched for hours and then gave up. Ah, Kerouac, who lives in my bookcase, emerging glorious when I quote everyone's favorite line from On The Road: "The only people for me are the mad ones . . ." who would be the first to scorn my search for his grave! He quit smoking for me. The boy, not Kerouac.