Shareware Supreme Volume 6 #1/swsii.zip/swsii/201/RUBYV20.ZIP/RUBY20-3

Text File | 1993-02-19 | 17KB | 287 lines

Copyright 1992(c)
                       JACK'S LAST FIFTH
                       By Franchot Lewis

     Pop, Jack. Now, we are alone. Mrs. White was here. I
caught her laying a dozen stinking flowers on top of your
grave, directly above where down underneath your nose is.
ACHEW! The old crow knows that hay fever runs in the
McGregory family. ACHEW! I called a little colored boy over
from the section over that way. He was with his family
standing over their relative's grave. The boy was happy to
get five dollars and quickly disposed of those stink weeds as far
from the vicinity as his little black legs could run. Some of
that damn-stinking-pollen still lingers. Pardon me while I wave
it off with my hands and elbows. ACHEW! Pardon me while I sneeze.
ACHEW!
     Pop, had you been slipping the old tally peeler to Mrs.
White? At the age you were you couldn't have done more than
gum her old lily-watt. That last day you shut your eyes she
went bonkers. I understand that she's been out here a lot,
bringing the stinking weeds with her. I wonder why? You
didn't leave her anything as far as I know. There was no
mention of her in the will. You must have paid that old
crow something extra by the week. She must have plenty
stashed.
     She was going to join me in a toast when she heard
giggling noise from the adjacent grave site. The young
relatives of your next door neighbor were amused. Nothing
unusual in that, but the rather rude talk that accompanied
the giggling peeved me off. The older members of the group next
door were not giggling. The three children giggled. The three
adults were rather nasty and angry. Mrs. White shrank away. She
told me she would see me later. I hoisted a nearly finished fifth
of vodka up so that your neighbor's folks could get a good look
at the few ounces left, and I shouted out, toasting you: "Pop!" I
wonder if you heard.
     The three adults grouped around the grave next door
circled the grave as if they were drawing a defensive shield
around hollowed ground. They looked peculiar. The tall woman,
a flaming red head, was at the center of a dark cloud. She was
dressed, or more correctly, assembled, in a dreary black
shroud, pretending to be a mourning dress. She was covered
from ankles to neck. She had round, hard, high riding eyes
that don't look at a human being in the eye, but fires eye
crap over the top of people's head. The man next to her had a
flat nose. I figured she had punched it a couple of times.
The other adult, a stout woman, had curls of red hair peeking
out the bottom part of her large black hat. The kids were
blonde. One girl had a short hair cut. The boy's hair was cut
so short that he had no hair at all. The other child, a girl,
had hardly any face; she was one large reddish pimple.
The tall woman spoke for the group. She shouted at me,
"Don't you know where you are?"
     "Sure," I replied, softly, "I'm at my pop's grave."
     "Show some respect for your father," she shouted.
     "That's why I'm here," I spoke even quieter.
     "But you are drinking," the woman yelled.
     I whispered, "Pop knows I drink."
     "You are drunk," she screamed.
     "You are a busy-body," I whispered, very softly, barely
speaking. I was fully ready to cuss her if pressed but she looked
ready to attack. So, I just reached into the shopping bag I
had, took out another fifth of vodka, uncorked the bottle and
gobbled down a hefty dose.
     "You are vulgar," the woman said.
     The stout woman joined in: "He has no shame, look at his
legs wobbling. The man has no self-control and no self-respect,
and no respect for a graveyard."
     Needling them to farther displays of disgust I let a
large vodka drop run down my cheeks and fall to the ground.
My tongue was pink, wet, and looking very loose as I turned
the last of the drink around in my mouth. The redheads' necks
were ruby red, dry and stiff, looking like the red-necks
I'm sure their daddies had. I started to belch. The tall
woman rolled her eyes. From her clenched teeth and tight
mouth, I think I heard a four-letter word trying to escape.
I couldn't hear well enough to be sure. The stout woman was
muttering, and the kids were giggling. The tall woman stiffened
and struck out, smacking each of the little pups hard on the
sides of their faces.
     She scolded them, "Ignore that man! He is not funny."
     Each kid slid one hand along his smacked cheek and I
slipped one of mine back into the shopping bag for another
fifth. Pop, the faces of the folks next door were as red as
the hair on the tall woman's head. The red headed man, seeing
how agitated the women were, began to nag them to let him take
them home.
     "Leave this worm to himself," the man said.
     I ignored him, held the last fifth up over my head,
gazing at its pleasing liquid as though mesmerized. The
redheads muttered, uttered, grunted and groaned. I held the
vodka higher. The tall woman stopped the mumbling about six
minutes later and left, taking her family away. But, not
before she fired a parting shot. "Sir," she addressed me, "You
are a skunk." An obscenity followed. It erupted, burst in full
force and vigor like a release of long suppressed gas. Though,
just one cuss word. I suppose Heaven only allows her one.
     Still, before the cuss word broke loose, she wrestled it
around her lips as if trying to suck it back down and swallow
it before the kids heard. I eagerly unscrewed the top of the
last fifth and raised the bottle to my lips and leaned back
on my heels.
     Pop, when Addison, your lawyer, called my apartment that
morning and told me you had died, I wanted my feet to grow
wings so I could fly off this world where you were not. I
watched goggle-eyed at the reading of your will: Two million
dollars in cash. Six million dollars in property. A million
dollar-a-year business. I was never good at math. My fingers
only went up to ten. I knew you had hoarded a lot, as much
as you could from every dollar that passed your fingers, but
I had no idea you had hoarded that much. I should have
expected something. At the wake, your faithful retainers, your
lawyer, your employees all had that silly grin spread across
their faces, and their lips opened wide when they spoke. I
leaned back in the chair as each of them expressed the utmost
sorrow and wished me all the luck in the world. Only a week
before, none of those people bothered to look me in the face,
much less into my eyes. They considered me a waste from the
neck up. Then, at the wake, there they were, thrusting their
hands forward and gripping mine, clutching my fingers, pulling on
the folds of my skin. There was no loose talk, none of the
sharpness I overheard through the years, that "Junior wasn't as
tall as his papa." With their grins and grips they thought they
could smooth out the folds, tighten up the loose threads, heal
the cuts, cover over the scars. Your male employees thought they
could become men and not bastards; your female employees
thought they could become ladies and not crows.
     At the reading of the will it all popped out. Every
single penny was left to me. Old Sonny boy had it all! Nothing
was left to them. Your lawyer, your employees, your retainers
couldn't do a damn thing without my signature. My pride popped
out, swollen and glistening like a rod of solid gold. How many
years did I whimper that I was dying for a big believable hug
from my pop? A pat on the back? A kind word in private? A
kinder one in public? I waited and waited until I started to
diddle myself. I was fifty-two years old when you died, Pop.
At your office I was still sonny boy, junior, the Mr.
McGregory who wasn't quite Mr. McGregory. I worked for you for
five years before I quit. Of course, you always said that you
fired me. Old McGregory who fired his only son was tough
enough to handle any business. Sonny boy wasn't tough enough
to manage his own life. I was married three times, and each
time I failed to give you a grandchild. Something you wanted
the most, Pop, was another chance with another McGregory
child. I failed you. You let me know and your employees
overheard. But, Pop, you know now that I refused you. I didn't
want to give you another chance with a McGregory child. Really,
Pop, I didn't want children. What would I have done with them?
Teach them to drink vodka? Anyway, I disappointed you. You let
me know it ten thousand times. Ten thousand times your
employees overheard. I can even now hear the muffled sound of
insect mumblings when I last visited your office while you were
alive. It was a year before you expired. You worked on me, worked
on my mind like it was a cow's udder, a wet thing whose function
was to be milked dry. You left my mind drained; leaving a vacuum
that brought throbbing pain to rush in, that the vodka helped
ease. I have not forgotten the way you raised your voice and the
strange noise that came from your employees's throats as I made
my retreat, looking reluctantly at the floor as I walked away
from a father who could cuss like a rotten sailor. I could have
been your friend, a best buddy, but you had a friend, your money.
Your buddy was your anger. You kept yourself locked in your
office until six or nine at night, and you counted ferociously
your profits. I suppose we had each other's anger. The sight of
me believing that there was life after work set you to fury.
     To you there was work, work, work. My disagreement made your
temper swell ever more than it normally did, and you had to
rip into me like I was a small boy who belonged in short
trousers. You took it on yourself to take my trousers down so
I could be told that I was still a boy. I was a man of the
world -- twenty-thirty-forty-fifty, but with my pop I could
not get out of grade school. So, I couldn't take it, so I
took up the bottle. That was too much for you, Pop. And in
your eagerness to keep me in short pants you dropped me.
     Pop, you left me with a business you built for sixty years.
I was in-charge of the office. Nothing could be done without my
signature. The first day in-charge I walked into that office.
Everybody there pulled out their necks and watched Jack Junior
being the boss. Your Mrs. White wasn't there. She was having a
nervous breakdown. She took your passing hard. That other blonde
crow you had working in your office, a bit younger, was there.
She grinned, gave me a wide smile as if she was offering to serve
me in more ways than one. I looked at her flat, flat chest and
groaned in obvious pain and I grunted disapproval. She shrank
back from me. I could see those witless employees of yours were
all shooting their best shots, happy to get me to be gullible and
swallow their crap, and declare that they were all now employees
of mine. I jumped up on a desk in the middle of the largest
room in your office and shouted: "Screw you all!" And before
they could open their mouths I jumped down and walked out and
never went back. Never answered their calls, never had another
thing to do with that office or your business. Your lawyer
called me. I told him to screw himself. Eventually, Mrs. White
called. I told her to buzz-off. I don't know what happened to
your business. I suspect it collapsed since everything was in
my name and I wouldn't sign my name to any of the many papers
I was sent. I wouldn't sign the payroll. I wouldn't sign
contracts. I wouldn't sign papers to sell the business. I let
the thing die like it had killed me over and over again during
the years.
     Pop, I met this brunette, a waitress, who was full of
curves, and bent over at the time, to pick up a towel. Her
body begged me to love her. The sight of her naked: shiny
brown eyes, brown hair, brown hair, was enough to get me away
from the city and the country. I sold the property you left.
I took the cash, and I began to have a ball.
     Money never meant a thing to me. Even eight million
dollars glaring at me wasn't enough to get me money crazy.
But, it drew women to me, lots of pretty women. Women love
boats. I got a boat. I sailed to Florida and on through the
Caribbean. I felt wonderful. The way I hadn't felt since I
was six and Mom was still alive. I found my place. It wasn't
behind you, Pop. I didn't have to push my way against your
frightful persona. I was it. It was a very carefree and
wonderful time and I just slid straight into it. The women
were squeezing me with their infernal machinations to milk the
inheritance. I had to tip because I was rich. Waiters
demanded good tips and gave good service. Hangers-on demanded
generous freebies. The women, I don't know how many there were.
I didn't care. When they swarmed and squirmed against me and
jerked me back and forth as I jerked myself, I paid. I paid
because the money meant nothing. I paid for women who were
women. I paid for women who were whores. I paid for women who
were hags, but never for crows. Speaking of hags, pop, I got
a kick out of romancing a hag. I mean a real hag. I am no
looker. I never was. I always could afford women who had some
sort of face. I spent the money romancing a few hags for
the hell of it, and because the money meant nothing.
     Finally, I settled on this one chick, the brunette, the
waitress and ex-stripper with the body of an angel and the
heart of a slut. She kept arguing for me to give her more and
more, to spend the loot faster and faster. She started a
diamond collection and a fur collection, though we were
spending almost all of our time in South Florida and the
Caribbean. She kept announcing that she was pregnant, and
fortunately, the baby never arrived. She attributed this to
false pregnancies and to freak early miscarriages, or
whatever. In some ways she was like you, Pop. She hoarded and
she drove me to drink, really drink. Did I tell you her name?
She called herself Lulu. That isn't her real name, but that
should have given me a warning. But, what the hell.
     I tried to oblige Lulu as she worked her arse to get me
to make a bigger and bigger one out of myself. I should have
turned my back on her. I was trying to engulf every last penny
of your money the best way I could into something I knew you
were incapable of having: fun. I held on to Lulu until the
money went. All eight million dollars. When the money was
gone, Lulu nearly broke her hip pulling away from me with
both feet and scampering away on both hands too! I did not take
her leaving hard. I took it philosophically. She was there to
help me have a ball and when the ball was over she was gone.
The infernal revenue service is the culprit that stuffed
the ball. When the infernal revenue service comes, all kinds of
crap starts to come and keeps coming. One day, out of the blue,
a pointed-head revenue man showed up, announced to the world
with screams and threats that I was a tax crook and all the
money I had given away as gifts would have to be returned and
all the stuff I had purchased with the loot would have to be
sold to pay the government. The tax man screamed: I had paid
no inheritance taxes. I had filed no tax reports. I had paid
no taxes, period. When the tax man stopped screaming the boat
was gone, the women were gone, the new friends I had acquired
to join in my ball were long gone. A line started forming
of people who began calling me a jackass. The ranks of this
line swelled, and everybody, people I don't know who pass
me as I walk down the street, have begun to fire insults at
me and fill my life with their foaming filth and bile.
     Pop, what can I tell you? Over all it's like this: It
took you fifty-sixty years to hoard eight million dollars, it
took me roughly fifty months to spend it. I don't know where
the money went. I guess what the government doesn't recover I
blew. But, Pop, I had a ball.
     Some people are saying that I ought to go to a
psychiatrist, that I blew that money because I hated my
father. Nonsense, those people don't know me. They should
have seen me when I learned you had died. Only God in
Heaven knows how hard I cried. I mean, pop, I thought you
would live to be a hundred. There you were, and I hadn't
told you, anything of how I felt. You didn't know that I
loved you. I think you loved me, I think, but shit, pops.
I think you see how I blew it, you see ...
     Oh, wee, Pop. Wait a minute. I have to take a leak. I
wonder where are the nearest facilities? Oh, what the hell,
when you got to go, you go to go, right? We're both men here
and we are alone. I know you won't tell if I take a wee-wee
on the grass.
                               END