Jack Is Back
Back in days of yore, from lifestyles long past I have a friend named Jack. Now, Jack is the prototypical mold I use any time I conjure forth images of living the white trash amerikan dream. Jack has the luck of a downs syndrome Islamic jihad suicide bomber on crack. Given such a task, he would most likely either, A) accidentally detonate the device while fishing a battered cigarette from his pockets or B) flick his bic and realize right before the impending explosion as he takes the first puff of his cancer stick that he is wearing a vest of dynamite that tends to be sensitive to heat sources or C) if A) & B) above managed to somehow miraculously not occur he would blow up the wrong target (probably a friends house), end up getting lost and going back to the home terrorist base and then blow up or get arrested for doing something asinine like littering or loitering. Mental picture in place? Then away we go!
At the ripe age of 19, he finally graduated high school on a wing and a prayer, having three senior years and having to take P.E. three times, failing the first two times with an F and D grade respectively. Jack has had more jobs than I can even fathom counting, 98% of which involved washing dishes, bussing tables and a whole slew of �would you like fries with that?� positions, every one of which he has been fired from. To his credit, he has learned something, his most recent position was a shift supervisor for a fast food eatery and he was �laid off� instead of outright being fired.
He has been hit by three cars while riding a bicycle one of which resulted in a broken leg and all of which resulted in minor injury settlements he promptly blew on drugs, boos and cigarettes. He has been jumped and beaten up (twice unconscious) for the meager contents of his wallet, backpack and had his bike stolen a half a dozen times. Of all my running buddies, Jack has the record for ER visitations for injuries; various dislocated and fractured bones, lacerations and concussions were common place. One of the more entertaining excursions began when he drunkenly tumbled down the stairs at his condo and split his head open (7 stitches to close). The problem being at the time we were all under age and piss ass drunk, so we quickly covered the license plate of the �getaway� vehicle with duct tape and pushed him out of the car in front of the emergency room doors before speeding off. Because of the things we did and the situations that arose, the group we wrangled with has been shot at with guns on three separate occasions. Jack, of course, was the only one unlucky enough to be hit by a bullet. At the time, he nearly went into shock for something that was little more than a torn shirt and a slight graze to his left shoulder. This injury required antiseptic and a band-aid to heal in roughly one week�s time.
Despite all of his shortcomings, Jack has a few redeeming qualities; undying loyalty to his friends, a willingness to be coerced into doing or saying just about anything that won�t land him in too much hot water for the price of a few beers, a pack of smokes or a couple of bucks and sometimes even a bit of recognition, and a chivalrous sense of honor that is uncommon in most human beings, let alone poor white trash. His other quality has long since expired with time, but during the heyday in which he was part of the crew, the fact that his mother worked nights as a janitor at the local ER gave us a place to drink, do drugs and have sex with underage girls to our hearts content. And even when his mother was there, we just nixed the underage girls, did our drugs outside and she would thrown down and drink us all under the table with a gusto no 40 something women should ever have. The sense of honor he posses led to one of the greatest and most bizarre back alley fisticuffs I have ever bared witness to. To make an extremely long, but wonderfully funny story short, Jack decided to help out a girl he had the HOTS for by challenging her abusive boyfriend to a duel of the fists. He felt particularly compelled not only because he wanted the girl, but also because she was physically deformed; one arm shorter than the other and one breast twice the size of the other. Myself and the enforcer of the group came along for back up to make sure it was a mano-e-mano fight and not a group beat down. I would love to say that his fight was the stuff of legends. Maybe it could qualify as a local legend and while a pro-boxing match or an extreme cage fight would be endlessly more entertaining, I was blown away that good ole Jack beat the guy bad enough to put him in the hospital AND that the bloke in question or any of the witnesses failed to press charges, cooperate with the police and rat any of the three of us out because they were so frightened at reprisals from the new beat down king and his completely insane sidekicks.
This is not to say that he has been crime and arrest free, far from it in fact. The police in his neighborhood knew him by name, not only because he was on the receiving end of many a mugging, but we also caused a bit of mischief in our time as well; all of us have know the sweet caress of steel bracelets a time or two. The two times he was actually hauled to jail, the first was dropped because the arresting officer didn�t show up and the other he plea bargained out to no charges filed for his testimony against a known drug dealer. The one thing I can say about Jack, he maybe unlucky in life, but at least he doesn�t have a police record to show for it.
Many a tale have been told by me about my friend Jack and most of them are so wonderfully outrageous, when they are recanted by others, most folks that hear them can�t possibly believe that a person like this really existed. Upon my introduction by those that carry on my stories, I am almost always asked right off the bat, �Dude, this Jack guy, you HAD to have made this shit up�?� To one and all I responded in kind, �I�m afraid not, as stories that are this good, even I couldn�t make up��
Eventually, life went on as it tends to do. The original crew broke away for various rhymes and reasons. Jack and I would keep tabs on each other every so often, but eventually he found a girl, fell in love and got married. As friends do in such instances, he disappeared into the land of married bliss.
So why this trip through memory lane rife with nostalgia and tales long past? Well, I�m glad you asked dearest of diaries! The other day in a fit of depression and longing for information on the one known as �The Stony Girl� a thought popped into my head and in spite of myself, I decided to impulsively act upon it. You see, Jack has always had a knack for tracking her down and my beckon call; regardless of where she maybe hiding, he can find her like some sort of mutated blood hound. Amazingly enough his mother�s phone number is stilled burned into my brain and even more so was the fact that she answered on the second ring. After a brief chat and re-introduction (she of course remembered me), I am advised that not only can she help me find Jack, but that he is there right now. The conversation went like this:
ME: �Holy shit mother fucker, how about a ghost from the past to stir your soul awake!�
JACK: ��M�M�Martin?�
ME: �That�s right BIATCH, WHAT IS UP!�
JACK: �Oh my god dude, oh my god it�s so good to hear your voice, I though I was dreaming.�
ME: �No dream brother, how in the hell are you?�
JACK (groaning): �I�M TERRIBLE DUDE! Last night my wife threw me out of our apartment told me she didn�t love me anymore and that she wants a divorce.�
ME: ��ahhh...ummm�dude�what?�
JACK: �Oh it gets worse, I got laid off from my job last week, she stole all my money and her new boyfriend is moving in tomorrow. I wrecked my car last month and I have to take the bus to go pick up all my stuff. I had a nervous breakdown and came to my senses curled up bawling my eyes out in the middle of the apartment complex.�
ME: �Jack, that is one of the worst fucking things I have ever heard come out of your mouth.�
JACK: �So yeah, here I am 4 and a half years of marriage down the drain, no money, no car, no job and back at my mom�s place. I�ve come 350 degrees (I didn�t have the heart to correct him) and am back to square one. And to add injury to insult (again didn�t have the heart) I have to go the ER cuz I might have broken my hand when I flew into a rage and put it through the apartment wall.�
ME: �holy fuck dude, I don�t know what to say other than I�m sorry homey.�
JACK: �yeah well, that�s how shit goes, you know me man, I�m used to this kind of shit luck�so how have you been?�
ME: �No offense man, but compared to you, I�m living the amerikan dream��
And so another chapter is about to begin in the life of my friend Jack as told through my eyes. Life in my desert oasis sure is strange at times. But you know me, dearest of diaries; I wouldn�t have it any other way.
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