Crazy Jack
Crazy Jack lived with his mother in a corner house on the other end of our block. In June 1975 a fire destroyed their home, and neither mother nor son was seen again in the neighborhood. I was twelve then and an aspiring writer, so I composed stories and light verse about them since they epitomized my idea of local color.
When his house burned, Crazy Jack was about forty. He was a small man with thick, matted hair that reminded me of the bristles on a paint brush. He always had a five-o-clock shadow, like on bad guys in the comic strips. His grin was toothy and unwashed. He wore a toylike cowboy hat, its string dangling under his chin. Crazy Jack had a tired mutt he called Danny Dog. It was a peaceable hound; kids who were afraid of dogs weren't afraid of Danny.
Crazy Jack's old mother, Donna, was small and bony, with flowing hair the color of gunpowder. She preferred flamboyant dresses and the kinds of hats I associate with proud white women in Flannery O'Connor stories. Donna was reclusive, but not a hermit. A couple times a year she canvassed the neighborhood, collecting coins in a tin can for some charity we've all since forgotten.
Crazy Jack spent countless hours dragging an old manual grass cutter through his front lawn. He usually took that squeaky contraption with him on his daily strolls around the neighborhood, too, looking like a man soliciting business. But I don't think any of the neighbors entrusted him with cutting their grass. Truth be told, Crazy Jack was just a figurehead in lawn care.
He also hung around the playground of my Catholic school a block to his north. There, with Danny Dog snoozing at his feet, he watched pick-up basketball games and joshed with us kids. Eventually some of the guys pitched in and bought him a cheap basketball. It was oddly shaped and sometimes clogged the hoop. If no tall kids were around, somebody would have to stand below the net and throw another ball upwards, underhanded, in the hopes of dislodging Crazy Jack's.
He was a source of amusement at times. I remember this exchange between my brother and him:
BROTHER: Jackie, can you count?
JACK: One two three!
BROTHER: Can you count higher than that?
JACK: One two three high!
BROTHER: Higher?
JACK: One two three high high!
Inevitably, some kids tried to corrupt him. For a while his catch-phrase was "Playboy magazine—it's e'ertainment for men!" Older kids asked him to buy beer for them at the nearby 7-Eleven. Usually he'd return with a bottle of Dr. Pepper and no change from the cashier.
Crazy Jack liked everyone except his mother's unlikely boyfriend, a fellow named Joe, a lean man who wore a burr haircut that clashed with the hairstyles of the day. Because Joe was about twenty years younger than Donna, his attraction to her remains a mystery. We neighborhood kids, clever with nicknames, tabbed him “Crazy Joe.”
Crazy Joe came around in spurts. You'd see him a dozen times in the space of a month and then not again for half a year. When he was near, you knew it, because he and Crazy Jack fought like mad. Crazy Joe'd get drunk and pretty soon the two of them spilled onto the front lawn, shouting and gesturing. Those days, Crazy Joe’s visits nearly always ended with him in the back of a paddy wagon. Each time, neighborhood dads and moms would say, “Well, certainly that's the last time she'll let him come around.”
On a June twilight in 1975 an older brother and I were playing baseball catch in the street when we heard the familiar whine of sirens. We got to the corner at the same time as the patrol cars and fire trucks and other neighbors—some of whom we hadn't set eyes on since the last time the sirens blared. Soon Crazy Jack stumbled from the house, splattered in red. Behind him, Crazy Joe emerged. In one hand he gripped a paint brush dripping red, and in the other a bottle of whiskey. He was yelling at Crazy Jack and threatening to throw the bottle at him. It was soon determined that Crazy Joe had gotten sore at Crazy Jack for spilling the paint and playing in it. “I swear to God I'm a' gonna burn down this house and everyone in it!” he allegedly promised as the paddy-wagon doors closed on him.
Seven hours later, I awakened to the sounds of my brother announcing a fire. His excited words played against the soundtrack of sirens. Everyone in the household, even our parents, managed whatever clothing was within reach and raced to Crazy Jack's place.
This was no false alarm. Flames billowed from the home on the corner; it looked like hell was trying to attack the heavens. The firemen found a hydrant and trained their hoses on the blaze. Some sixty or seventy bystanders angled for better views. On the cross sidestreet, an ambulance idled, its lights flashing. From my vantage point I could not see inside of it, but word spread that Crazy Jack occupied that ambulance, alone. His mother's corpse, it was said, had already been taken away. Because of the logjam of fire engines, patrol cars, and hoses, I could not get closer to the ambulance before it was gone.
After a while, the firefighters got the blaze under control and were left with nothing to do but swing axes at the shell and douse the hot spots that survived. People began speculating about the fate of Crazy Joe. Had Donna sprung him from the downtown lock-up earlier that night? Had he returned to make good on his threats? The answer to both questions seemed an obvious Yes. But no one had seen him. Some of the older kids happily announced the man was dead within the ashes. What followed was a giddy flurry of metaphors: "Crazy Joe is Kentucky fried!" and "Crazy Joe is Crispy Critters!" and "Shake and bake that ol' gandy!"
Between the hours of three and four a.m., most adults returned to their beds, but dozens of kids remained to see the production to its end. While standing alone in a front yard two houses south of Crazy Jack's property, I detected a rustling sound and looked up and saw a figure shimmying down a puny tree. First I noticed fishbelly-white legs—old-man legs, hairless and splinty. Next my eyes locked on a most horrible sight— a dropsical dinger. I saw the sunken torso and then the face of Crazy Joe. He dropped the rest of the way to the ground, picked himself up, and approached me, his manhood flipping and flopping with each unsteady step. To me, he said, "Hey boys, what's all the excitement?"
By now others noticed the spectacle, and what resulted were the kinds of shrieks of laughter and catcalls you'll hear from studio audiences when something naughty is spoken. A few firemen ushered the drunk away, his rawboned legs dragging in the grass behind him, leaving a ghost of a trail that somehow resembled the wheels of Crazy Jack’s mower.
A tiny article appeared in the paper the next afternoon. It made no mention of fatalities. Indeed, we never saw an obituary for Donna. It was our hope that she had survived the blaze.
For the next few years I struggled to write profound stories about Crazy Jack and the fire. Though my adjectives were extravagant, the finished products were always disappointing. Perhaps befitting my age and inexperience, I had tried too hard to apply a moral or a twist to the story. I guess there’s nothing inherently profound about majestic flames and naked geezers dropping from trees. Sometimes a fellow simply drinks too much and acts impetuously, and some people suffer while the rest of us enjoy the show.
When his house burned, Crazy Jack was about forty. He was a small man with thick, matted hair that reminded me of the bristles on a paint brush. He always had a five-o-clock shadow, like on bad guys in the comic strips. His grin was toothy and unwashed. He wore a toylike cowboy hat, its string dangling under his chin. Crazy Jack had a tired mutt he called Danny Dog. It was a peaceable hound; kids who were afraid of dogs weren't afraid of Danny.
Crazy Jack's old mother, Donna, was small and bony, with flowing hair the color of gunpowder. She preferred flamboyant dresses and the kinds of hats I associate with proud white women in Flannery O'Connor stories. Donna was reclusive, but not a hermit. A couple times a year she canvassed the neighborhood, collecting coins in a tin can for some charity we've all since forgotten.
Crazy Jack spent countless hours dragging an old manual grass cutter through his front lawn. He usually took that squeaky contraption with him on his daily strolls around the neighborhood, too, looking like a man soliciting business. But I don't think any of the neighbors entrusted him with cutting their grass. Truth be told, Crazy Jack was just a figurehead in lawn care.
He also hung around the playground of my Catholic school a block to his north. There, with Danny Dog snoozing at his feet, he watched pick-up basketball games and joshed with us kids. Eventually some of the guys pitched in and bought him a cheap basketball. It was oddly shaped and sometimes clogged the hoop. If no tall kids were around, somebody would have to stand below the net and throw another ball upwards, underhanded, in the hopes of dislodging Crazy Jack's.
He was a source of amusement at times. I remember this exchange between my brother and him:
BROTHER: Jackie, can you count?
JACK: One two three!
BROTHER: Can you count higher than that?
JACK: One two three high!
BROTHER: Higher?
JACK: One two three high high!
Inevitably, some kids tried to corrupt him. For a while his catch-phrase was "Playboy magazine—it's e'ertainment for men!" Older kids asked him to buy beer for them at the nearby 7-Eleven. Usually he'd return with a bottle of Dr. Pepper and no change from the cashier.
Crazy Jack liked everyone except his mother's unlikely boyfriend, a fellow named Joe, a lean man who wore a burr haircut that clashed with the hairstyles of the day. Because Joe was about twenty years younger than Donna, his attraction to her remains a mystery. We neighborhood kids, clever with nicknames, tabbed him “Crazy Joe.”
Crazy Joe came around in spurts. You'd see him a dozen times in the space of a month and then not again for half a year. When he was near, you knew it, because he and Crazy Jack fought like mad. Crazy Joe'd get drunk and pretty soon the two of them spilled onto the front lawn, shouting and gesturing. Those days, Crazy Joe’s visits nearly always ended with him in the back of a paddy wagon. Each time, neighborhood dads and moms would say, “Well, certainly that's the last time she'll let him come around.”
On a June twilight in 1975 an older brother and I were playing baseball catch in the street when we heard the familiar whine of sirens. We got to the corner at the same time as the patrol cars and fire trucks and other neighbors—some of whom we hadn't set eyes on since the last time the sirens blared. Soon Crazy Jack stumbled from the house, splattered in red. Behind him, Crazy Joe emerged. In one hand he gripped a paint brush dripping red, and in the other a bottle of whiskey. He was yelling at Crazy Jack and threatening to throw the bottle at him. It was soon determined that Crazy Joe had gotten sore at Crazy Jack for spilling the paint and playing in it. “I swear to God I'm a' gonna burn down this house and everyone in it!” he allegedly promised as the paddy-wagon doors closed on him.
Seven hours later, I awakened to the sounds of my brother announcing a fire. His excited words played against the soundtrack of sirens. Everyone in the household, even our parents, managed whatever clothing was within reach and raced to Crazy Jack's place.
This was no false alarm. Flames billowed from the home on the corner; it looked like hell was trying to attack the heavens. The firemen found a hydrant and trained their hoses on the blaze. Some sixty or seventy bystanders angled for better views. On the cross sidestreet, an ambulance idled, its lights flashing. From my vantage point I could not see inside of it, but word spread that Crazy Jack occupied that ambulance, alone. His mother's corpse, it was said, had already been taken away. Because of the logjam of fire engines, patrol cars, and hoses, I could not get closer to the ambulance before it was gone.
After a while, the firefighters got the blaze under control and were left with nothing to do but swing axes at the shell and douse the hot spots that survived. People began speculating about the fate of Crazy Joe. Had Donna sprung him from the downtown lock-up earlier that night? Had he returned to make good on his threats? The answer to both questions seemed an obvious Yes. But no one had seen him. Some of the older kids happily announced the man was dead within the ashes. What followed was a giddy flurry of metaphors: "Crazy Joe is Kentucky fried!" and "Crazy Joe is Crispy Critters!" and "Shake and bake that ol' gandy!"
Between the hours of three and four a.m., most adults returned to their beds, but dozens of kids remained to see the production to its end. While standing alone in a front yard two houses south of Crazy Jack's property, I detected a rustling sound and looked up and saw a figure shimmying down a puny tree. First I noticed fishbelly-white legs—old-man legs, hairless and splinty. Next my eyes locked on a most horrible sight— a dropsical dinger. I saw the sunken torso and then the face of Crazy Joe. He dropped the rest of the way to the ground, picked himself up, and approached me, his manhood flipping and flopping with each unsteady step. To me, he said, "Hey boys, what's all the excitement?"
By now others noticed the spectacle, and what resulted were the kinds of shrieks of laughter and catcalls you'll hear from studio audiences when something naughty is spoken. A few firemen ushered the drunk away, his rawboned legs dragging in the grass behind him, leaving a ghost of a trail that somehow resembled the wheels of Crazy Jack’s mower.
A tiny article appeared in the paper the next afternoon. It made no mention of fatalities. Indeed, we never saw an obituary for Donna. It was our hope that she had survived the blaze.
For the next few years I struggled to write profound stories about Crazy Jack and the fire. Though my adjectives were extravagant, the finished products were always disappointing. Perhaps befitting my age and inexperience, I had tried too hard to apply a moral or a twist to the story. I guess there’s nothing inherently profound about majestic flames and naked geezers dropping from trees. Sometimes a fellow simply drinks too much and acts impetuously, and some people suffer while the rest of us enjoy the show.
posted by JW at jwopks@gmail.com at 10:03 PM
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