JACK JAZZ
Copyright (c) Rick Yost

It was a deep gray, Miles Davis, late October day.
Jack was a forty-five year old, left handed, heavy drinkin', pot smokin', ex-jazz drummer, Caucasian-dude with wet shoes, long dirty hair, and a crooked eye. His shoes were wet from the car wash where he works during the day. Four nights a week, he works in the shipping department at the Rainbow glo-in-the-dark-condom factory. Neither job 'pays for shit' but he knows,
"If you have too much money, you're gonna have too much stuff!" That's what he tells himself anyway; every time he walks past Lou's Pawn over on Duluth St. They still have his old set of 'Silver Pearls' in the window.
"Best set 'o skins I've ever lost!" he mumbles to himself.
He's an ex-jazz-drummer, "Cause there’s no gigs for jazz anymore. Everybody wants to hear that 'techno-pop, Industrial bullshit'. What a waste of stick!" he laments.
He drinks heavy, "Cause it helps." he smokes pot, "Cause it helps." It helps him get through his day of meaningless, mind-numbing toil. It helps him feel just a tad bit more optimistic about the future, his run-down apartment and life, his uncomfortably aging mind and body, and his dog: Bear's-Breath. He let Bear’s Breath out the back door one night to piss and he never came back.
"Stupid shit was probably humpin' some poodle in the middle of the street and got smushed by some pimps BMW."
He steps out of the 'Circle K' on the corner, where he loaded up on munchies and beer. He slowly strolls down the trashy street. This is the shit-hole of a neighborhood he calls home; fully equipped with a high-crime rate, boarded-up buildings, condemned slum-housing, and multi-ethnic neighbors. As he walks he stuffs a fistful of fried pork-skins into his mouth from a freshly opened bag. He still has a bumblebee sized buzz from his usual “leavin'-the-car-wash doobie”.
It’s his night off at the condom factory. His plan for the evening is to go home, get stoned, try to find some cartoons or Three Stooges on the TV, turn down the sound, turn up his jazz, sit back and chill.
It had been a busy day at the car wash. A lot of dirty rides came through today. He shot every one of 'em with the system’s high-tech, high-pressure, power sprayer. This sprayer is powerful enough to take the finish right off of those fancy, foreign, aluminum wheels, and sometimes does when he’s stoned.
"Oops! Oh well, they got the money!"
It's a shitty job, but if he really gets into it, he can just about forget about all the other shitty parts of his life.
On one side of the street he walks down, there are warehouses with plywood-covered windows; on the other side, run-down, broken-window-paned apartments. The boulevard is festively adorned with busted street lights, boxes and bags of trash piled up on the curb, the occasional pile of dog shit, and a tasteful smattering of broken-down, rusting, jalopies. He's lived in worse places, but he was much younger then and it was a romantic adventure. Now it all just made him feel tired.
It was about eight-thirty, just getting dark and the traffic was light. He listened to the breeze blowing the beer cans in the gutter, the distant screams of somebody's ol' lady getting the shit beat out of her for not making her man's life perfect, and the crunch of the munchies in his jaws.
He came upon the alley just before his building and threw a buzzed glance down the narrow run between the buildings. In the increasing darkness, he saw movement down the alley, some kind of commotion. He awkwardly stopped and stood in the middle of the alley entrance, and tried to focus on the activity. Usually he wouldn’t pay any attention to anything he’d see in this neighborhood, but for some reason, this spurred his curiosity. He saw the back of a car parked about fifty yards into the alley. He dealt with cars all day long and out of habit tried to identify its make. It was a 1999 Mercedes 280 with only its gold parking lights on,
"Maan, the rocker-panels on those things are a bitch to get clean!" He said to himself, not quite knowing why he didn’t continue his trip home. There was something strange going on here, and for some stupid reason, he wanted to know what it was. He took a few casual steps into the dark alley. He then hears a woman scream and a man yell. He walks a bit quicker and sees two Latino’s have this chic on the hood of their car, beating the shit out of her with their fists.
"Shut the fuck up!" He hears one man yell as he punches her again in the face.
Jack stops and closes his eyes. He turns around and heads back toward the entrance to the alley.
"Aint none 'o my business." He mumbles to himself, but thinks something else.
"They shouldn't oughta beat up on a woman like that. If a man has to hit a woman to prove somethin', he aint much of a man, I say!" He thought of his Dad and how he used to see him hit his Mom, and he got mad.
He swiftly turned around, set down his groceries, and walked back down into the alley. He was approaching from the rear and it was dark enough, he was not noticed. The girl, if not dead, was unconscious and lying across the hood on her back with her head on the windshield. One guy was sitting in the passenger seat, hitting on a crack-pipe, and groovin' to some Latino-ethnic-accordian bullshit on the radio. The other dude was in the process of cutting the girls jeans off with an extra long, pearl handled 'switch'.
Jack quietly reached the rear of the car and stood assessing the situation. The big guy with the knife wasted no time getting down to business. He stood between the woman’s spread, naked legs. He had her legs up in the air, his hands gripped under her knees like handle bars. He had his post in her hole; bangin' her like a screen door in a hurricane. All the while, the girl was out cold.
"That's sick!" Jack thinks.
The guy in the car, took a couple of hits off his pipe, sat back, closed his eyes, and started mumblin’ along with the loud music. Jack passed right by his open window without notice. The big guy has his eyes closed too, doin' his own bit of mumblin'. He was so engrossed with raping the woman, he was unaware that Jack had walked up and stood right next to him. Jack saw the girl's face was pretty beat up. He thought she might even be dead.
"That’s just all the more sick!" He thought.
He picked up the knife lying on the hood beside the girl and took a second to weigh it in his hand; get a feel for it. All the time he's stood right next to this piece-of-shit, necrophiliac-dude, goin’ at it like a madman.
Jack looked to see the other dude was still chillin’ in the car, and not paying attention to anything at all. Jack took a second to get the timing of the big dude’s stroke. Then, when he felt the time was right, he place the knife, cutting-edge up, under the guys balls.
The guy’s eyes pop open with panic, and he looks at Jack. Jack says calmly,
“What, you can’t get a date?”
Jack then yanks the knife straight up and slices the guy’s entire package from his body in one smooth move. The very surprised dude grabs his crotch and flashes the expected look of horror and man would sport after losing his burrito and jalapenos. He stared at Jack and tried to speak, but could only gurgle and breath heavy. He staggered back holding onto nothing, stumbled over his own pants down around his ankles, and fell to the cold alley cobblestones. Then he let out a blood-curdling scream.
Jack leapt to the passenger door of the car, where the other dude, alerted by his buddy's scream, struggled to unfold his stoned body from the comfortable leather seat and whip out his pistol. Jack shoved the knife blade straight into the guy's throat. The guy gasped, and fell across the console. Jack then leaned into the car and turned off the noise on the radio. "I hate that shit!"
Jack walked back to the big guy with the penis envy thing. The poor slob was cryin' like a baby and rollin' around in the mud like he should, "the sick-fuck."
Jack puts his finger on an artery in the girl’s throat. She's alive but out cold. He pulled the dudes now limp dick from the woman's abused 'sweet spot' and walked back over to whence it came. The man was only minutes away from bleeding to death. He lay on the pavement with his mouth open in a quiet scream. Jack leaned over into the guy's face and yelled,
"You don't treat a woman like that, ya' sick fuck!!" He then kicked the man square in the face and walked back to the car. He then gathered the unconscious girl up in his arms and headed toward his apartment, forgetting his sack of munchies and beer.
Jack carried the woman through the front door and down the dark, narrow hallway of the apartment building. His chateau was the garage apartment behind the building. Not really an apartment, more of a storeroom with running water. The ancient, poorly constructed wooden shed had a definite lean to it; seemingly held up by the stacked widow air conditioners and refrigerators outside Jacks door. Jack shifted the weight of the girl in his arms and reached into the pocket of his jeans for the key. He was grateful she was a small chic; he wasn’t in the shape he used to be. He opened the door and lumbered the three steps distance to the other side of this one-room hovel. "Welcome home darlin'." he joked to himself.
It was a dark, depressing room, ten by fifteen-foot sparsely furnished with items he'd confiscated from the street. There was a lamp with torn shade atop an apple crate, an old brown vinyl 'Barcolounger' with silver duct tape holding the stuffing inside. In the corner stood an antique Syvania TV that offered both picture and sound most of the time. The nicest thing in the room was the vintage, portable, RCA Victor record player. The twin sized, fold-up, roll-a-way bed had clean, yellow, Pokemon, kid's sheets on it he’d found cheap on the bargain table at the dime-store down the street. The girl was resting on them now. He covered her with a thin blanket.
Taking the place of a kitchen was a hot plate on top of the tank lid of the toilet in the tiny bathroom. The cracked, crumbling, leak-stained, sheet-rock ceiling and walls had never been textured or painted and were a dingy aged-brown color. One of the few things Jack appreciated about the place, was there were no roaches. There was an occasional mouse, but no roaches. Jack hated roaches.
Using what he had in an old first aid kit, Jack spent a while tending to the cuts on the girl’s face. He then proceeded to remove the remaining shreds of her jeans and blouse. It was then he noticed she had a cut between her legs. It was not serious, a two-inch slice along her bikini line. Ol’ Cisco must’ve gotten a little anxious with his knife.
After giving her a sponge bath, he dressed her in a clean pair of his briefs and a long tee shirt. He hoped she came through it okay, because he knew better than to try to do the hospital thing, too many questions of a guy that just stepped on two piles of shit in the alley.
After putting his last band aid over a cut on her cheek, he stood up and took a second to notice, "She was probably a pretty little 'castanet', before Cisco got a hold of her." She now had cuts on both cheeks, two black eyes- one swollen shut and the size of an orange. To finish off her late-night makeover, she sported bright-blue bruises all over her face, neck, arms, breasts and legs. She was a mess. He pulled the ragged blanket up over and brushed her matted, long black hair from her face. He turned out the lamp by the bed and settled for the glow of the TV screen to light the room.
She slept soundly while he relaxed from the evening’s excitement with his last beer, a fat joint and an old Bogart & Baccall movie. He checked on her periodically, but she didn’t move an inch. He finally felt she would last the night and sighed deeply. He then leaned back in his recliner and passed out.
The next morning he got dressed and checked on his patient. She seemed to be resting well. He grabbed his keys and headed out the door locking up behind him. With an unexpected house guest, he decided to call in sick at the wash. He planned to make the call from the booth outside the 'Circle K'. While he’s there he'll do buy some more groceries. "She's gonna be hungry!"
Low on cash, he stopped by the condom factory to get last week’s check. It’s only seventy-eight dollars, but it will help.
It's nine a.m. He walked across the small gravel lot from his place to the rear steps of the apartment building. He then walked back through the dark hall that runs the length of the building to the street out front. He stepped down to the cracked sidewalk into a chilly, but bright sun-lit day. As he began his trek down the street, he zipped up his tattered but warm jacket to his neck and puts his hands in the warm pockets. As he passed the alley, he saw his bag of groceries was gone of course. Some lucky slob had a nice evening on him. He saw the Police wrecker, hoisting the Mercedes in the alley. The shields have come and gone, Cisco and Pancho have tags on their toes by now. As he stepped back up on the curb to the alleyway, he regained his attention from down the alley and thought of last night. Just as he turned his gaze back to the walk in front of him, he stops just short of running into a smelly, bearded, toothless old man's face. The face belongs to Bob. Bob is an old street bum who lives on the curb. Jack knew Bob to be harmless, always bummin', always drunk, and usually fun to shoot the shit with when you're high. Bob burps in Jacks face, apologizes, then speaks in his scratchy, worn out voice.
"That was a good thing you done last night Jack. You're a real gentleman, you is!"
He flashed his toothless smile. "I don't know who got your bag of groceries maan. But I knows theyz gone this monin'!"
Jack thought to himself, “Well if somebody had to get his beer and chips, it might as well have been Bob.”
Jack handed Bob a half a pack of cigarettes he’d pulled from his pocket and said, "Bob; listen dude. If anybody asks, you didn't see a fuckin' thing last night, you hear me?" He grinned at the old man who stood a foot shorter than Jack. Jack realized everybody in the neighborhood knew Bob, “The crazy ol' guy who lives on the curb.” Nobody would listen to that old relic anyway. There were a half-dozen old street bums just like him in the neighborhood. Folks gave them spare change just to avoid lengthy contact.
Bob gave Jack another broad smile and winked in agreement. Then he looked straight into Jack's left eye, his lazy eye and asked, "Jack, does that hurt?" Jack grinned. He thought it was funny the first twenty times Bob asked that question, and he still did. He sidestepped the old man and continued on his walk to the convenience store. The old man turned and spoke to Jack as he walked away, "You're a real gentleman Jack; a real gentleman!"

Bob told the truth. He wasn't the one who snagged Jack’s bag of munchies and brew. It was the cops. Jack didn’t notice the police car parked in the lot next door and reached the front door just as two uniformed officers were coming out. They didn’t pay him undue attention, but he’d committed himself to go in the store at that point and turning to walk away would only raise suspicion. He stiffened his nerve and walked on in. Jack took two steps into the store when the clerk and he looked at each other. Jack swiftly turned and headed back out the door to the street. Jack never turned back to look. He could hear the man had stepped out right behind him and was pointing at Jack and yelling, "There he is! There he is!"
Jack bolted across the street and ran down an alley. He could hear the screech of tires and the scream of the siren as he hurled himself up and over a wooden fence. It's not hard to lose yourself in this kind of terrain, he thought to himself. He hoped he was right.
In a real round about way, he made his way back home. He found the girl awake and sitting up in bed. She was still dazed and confused. She said, “I…have to make a phone call. Can…can I use your phone?” She held her head as she spoke as if it were vibrating with every word. Without waiting for Jack to reply, she laid her head back down on the pillow and seemed to immediately go back to sleep. She was one tired, beat-up little chic. Jack left her there to go try and make it to the Rainbow condom factory for that pay-check he needed.
He stepped out of the dark hallway to the bright street once more. This time he was grabbed by the two cops from the store. Jack yelled in pain as they twisted both his arms behind his back, threw him against their patrol car and put the cuffs on him. He vaguely remembered them reading him his rights as they stuffed him into the backseat for his ride to the station. He hope the girl would be okay there alone. She was pretty messed up.
After waiting in a holding cell with three low-lifes for five hours, they finally came and take him to talk to the Homicide Detectives. Jack had been here before for various misdemeanors and knew a little of what to expect. This time he had actually killed not only one but two people. He worried for the loss of his freedom over last night.
With his hands cuffed behind his back, Jack is shove-walked into the room and stopped to stand facing the desk where a fat cop sat. The Detective takes the cuffs off of Jacks wrists. He then offers Jack a chair, a cup of coffee, and a cigarette. Jack's confused, but he accepts all three.
There are three cheap-suited cops in the room with Jack and the girl. The fat one sitting at the desk does all the talkin'.
"Jack Poole, that your name?" Asks the fat cop, going over Jack’s arrest record through his reading glasses.
"That's me." Jack says; always humble, never ashamed.
"This is Amelia Gonzales, she's one of our under-cover detectives. You saved her life last night." He just looks at Jack, like he's scopin' him out or somethin'.
"There aint no reason to beat up on a woman, or force yourself on her like those dudes were doin'!" Jack replies. He looked at her and smiled. He wasn’t proud of his killing those two men, but no matter what was about to happen to him, he was very glad he had the opportunity to save another person’s life. In his meager, un-savory, bottom-rung life, it made him proud to do something good. Something that mattered. It was especially cool to him, because he didn’t know the girl. He’d fought the urge in the alley to be just another jerk human, and made the conscious choice to get involved in another person’s personal crisis. Jail cell, hand cuffs and all, he was feeling good about himself today. He hadn’t done that in a long time. //////////////////////////////////////////////
The girls, chimes in, "They were directed to kill me, they were just usin' me up first. You arrived just in time Jack." She leans over and puts her hand on Jacks arm and gives it a squeeze, she really seemed grateful.
"So what's gonna happen to me now, am I going to jail?" Jack gets to the point.
Everybody else in the room looks at each other, kinda nervous like, then the fat cop says,
"Well, you tell us Jack, you did kill two people, whether it was self defense or a rescue effort or what, you killed two people and then instead of calling the authorities, you just left the scene. What would you have us do?" He has that practiced, power lovin', 'cop' look on his face, the room is silent.
Jack can tell, this is not the way they'd be talkin' to him in a usual murder situation, he knows they're stringin' him along for some reason and it's starting to piss him off.
He quips, "I think you should give me a bag of the best smoke you've got down in your over-stocked, evidence room, buy me a round-trip ticket to Tahiti and let me use your 'Gold-Card' for a week or two, whadda ya' think?" he gives the guy back a smart-ass grin.
The skinny cop leanin' against the wall chuckles, but is silenced by the fat guy's glare.
The girl, just grins and gently rubs her sore cheek.
To make a long boring story, short, they laid their whole program on him. They tell him about this guy named Barry Frazier, who's some big-time coke dealer from 'Frisco, who they've been tryin' to catch in a deal for almost a year. The girl was put into play and smooched her way into being his girlfriend. Unfortunately for her, her rouse was made by the guy and he had the two 'jumpin'-beans' take her for a ride in the dark. She was not wired, so they had no idea what was happenin' and if Jack hadn't come along when he did, she'd be dead and all their efforts would've been for nothin'.
Here's where it gets real fucked-up.
They tell Jack they've got a new program, one that involves him. They say they know there's a snitch in the department somewhere, who must've told Frazier about the girl. This same person would no-doubt know by now about the events of last night and about Jack. They planned to use Jack as bait to bring the dude out in the open and capture him.
"You're fucked-up maan!" Jack says, as he bolts up out of his chair.
The fat guy retorts. "Look mister, you either agree to help us or we'll bury you under the jail for manslaughter, you got that, 'maan'?"
Jack, weary from all the shit, slumps back into the chair. He doesn't want any jail time, especially that much. He hates jail. He reluctantly agrees.