New Jersey Me

by Ferguson, Rich;

  Jimmy, who’d been pacing the small room to pieces, swiped some paper towels from a gleaming metal dispenser on the wall. He handed them over.

  Again, I caught his eye. Instead of guilt-tripping me, he offered in a low voice: “Try to relax, dude. It could’ve been me instead of you.” He paused, then added: “Or maybe it was the…you know…”

  Even in my massively messed-up state, I understood one thing for sure. No matter what Jimmy said, no matter what his dad or anyone else said, this all had to do with the way I’d been wired. Just like how guns will continue to fire bullets. Or how people will continually leave one another. Or how nuclear bombs will always obliterate. All it seemed I’d been programmed to do my entire life was get wasted and watch my world slip away. That’s what really fucked up Mr. Jeepers, I concluded, as I threw up once again into the trashcan. It wasn’t so much the alcohol. Wasn’t even the pet jinx. It was more the way I’d been living.

  Chapter 34

  Come the next day, Monday, I was back at Rainbow. It was a slow morning, thank God. Still, it was wall-to-wall caskets and burial urns. Stargazers and Softique Kleenex. For the last ninety-six hours, practically all I’d had in my system was drugs and booze; little sleep, little food. I drifted through the showroom as if I were bareback riding an earthbound cloud, a three-legged one at that. My brain kept replaying the last four days on an endless loop. My head ached. My sweat reeked. The combination of my lingering hangover plus those hellacious Stargazers equaled me rushing for the toilet every few minutes. When I wasn’t in the john I’d continue drifting. Would continue mentally kicking my ass for how everything had gone down. At least my nightmare had a silver lining: the vet had said Mr. Jeepers would pull through. I did my best to hold on to that thought as I continued pacing and beating myself up. Through it all, however, I’d somehow managed to keep my black suit clean and wrinkle-free. Yet, my haggard and worried face was far lousier than a driver’s license photo.

  Instead of passing along a joke or wise words, Mr. Delaney asked: “What’s up?”

  I wasted no time in relaying the entire Mr. Jeepers saga.

  Once done, Mr. Delaney’s thin lips got a little thinner, more pinched at the edges. He glanced down at his well-polished black Florsheims. They reflected shards of the early-June morning light spilling in through the huge storefront window. Still looking at those shoes, my boss didn’t mince words, when he said: “I know you and your friend meant well. But it seems you both have some growing up to do.”

  I couldn’t argue with him, at least when it came to me. So much of what had happened with Mr. Jeepers, my car accident, and all the other crash-and-burn moments in my life had come down to choices I’d made. And others I hadn’t made. Though I was my father’s son—the son of a cop—in no way had I retained any of his upstanding DNA. My moral compass was on the fritz. My up was my down. I’d been left stranded in a no-man’s land where it seemed no guardian angel or North Star could get me back on the right path.

  And though I hadn’t said any of that to Mr. Delaney, he must’ve sensed some of those dark thoughts when he offered: “At least it’s good that Mr. Jeepers is on the mend.”

  I flashed a relieved smile, told Mr. Delaney that Doc Morton had even made a few calls while I was at his office. He’d phoned a friend of a friend that runs a chimp sanctuary deep in the Pine Barrens. Once Mr. Jeepers was up and about a bit more, the vet had said, the chimp would be transferred to that sanctuary to spend his remaining days in leisure. I considered what I’d just told my boss, then said: “Mr. Jeepers is tough. Also lucky. He’s escaping Blackwater.”

  Mr. Delaney offered his own satisfied smile. “Reminds me of a trip I took,” he said. A few years back, Delaney had visited his sister in Clearwater, Florida, not long after she’d left Jersey to retire in the Sunshine State with her second husband. That trip, Delaney related, had been the first time in a very long time he’d allowed himself to leave his business behind for a few days and simply relax. In Florida, he said, he’d experienced loads of sunshine; blue skies; people greeting him with smiles, saying hello; and orange trees everywhere. “Even pretty girls on the beach in bikinis, if you’re into that sorta thing,” he offered with a wink.

  As he continued speaking, he walked through the showroom. While I felt like fried death with a side of shit, I did my best to keep up with him. My hope was that his story, which had been pretty boring so far, would somehow offer a wise gem like so many of the other anecdotes he’d passed along during my time at Rainbow.

  I shadowed Mr. Delaney as he moved past the Legacy casket and Starlight Slumber. He paused at the Silver Gemini, shook his head. His voice grew somber and gravelly: “Then I had to go and ruin my great vacation by returning to Blackwater.” He continued walking past the Blue Moon, the White Lily, and Ambassador. Finally, he came to rest at the Heaven-Sent. “I never realized how terrible it was here,” he remarked. Then, realizing how he could’ve been misinterpreted, Mr. Delaney rested a hand on that child-sized casket. “I don’t mean here in the shop,” he said. “Sure it can be heartbreaking at times, but I love what I do.” He explained how it was Blackwater that had felt so bleak with its power plant, and drunk Pineys armed to the teeth, speeding around in pickups and hotrods. “Even a killer tree,” he added, “if you believe the local lore.” Again he paused, shrugged. “Who knows,” he offered softly, as if speaking to himself. “Maybe I’ll leave one of these days.”

  To anyone else hearing Delaney’s story their reaction might’ve been something like yeah, so what? But when he said those last few words—the words I’d been telling myself, and so many others, for so many years—they hit me hard. Those seven words—maybe I’ll leave one of these days—dug right through all my bullshit, all my good and bad intentions, and suddenly unlocked something deep inside me. Recalling that moment, it was like everything in that Rainbow showroom—all the caskets, burial urns, sickly sweet flowers—along with all the bright sunlight outside had flooded into me, formed very distinct boundaries. On one side of my life: shadows and ghosts. On the other side: golden light and wide-open road. Once and for all, and without any hesitation or second-guessing, it seemed I had to pick one of those sides. Truly believe in it. Fight for it with all my life. That fight didn’t necessarily guarantee me true freedom either. But it did guarantee action. Motion. Delaney’s words—which had been my words for way too long—had lit a giant rocket under my ass. Made me realize that the last thing I wanted was to be a Blackwater casket pusher for the rest of my days. It was finally time to escape my dumpy little town’s grim, flat, boxed-in radioactivity, and experience California’s fresh-aired, wide-open spaces. See if they could open my mind to a new way of life. Sure it was all a long shot. But up to that point in my life, all it felt like I’d ever done was roll snake eyes. Right then, a long shot seemed like a sure win. I was ready to take a chance, shed the skin of my losses. Not so much to shake my name or memories, but instead to take the subterranean route far from my homesick blues, and arise in a new land where the sun would shine down on me most every day. And while Mr. Delaney had in no way offered his story, or those ominous words—maybe I’ll leave one of these days—as a means to start the chain reaction of thoughts and events that would greatly affect the rest of my life, that is indeed what happened when my hangover fog suddenly lifted, I finally woke the fuck up, and told my boss in the kindest, most respectful way possible: “I quit.”

  Chapter 35

  That day I quit Rainbow officially marked the fourth day of June. Just twenty days shy of my twenty-first birthday. Like all the other Junes I’d witnessed in my dumpy little town, lawns smelled sweeter, greener. Bluebirds and warblers sang louder. Tulips and roses exploded in Technicolor bliss. And the way everyone dressed: it had been one long, slow striptease since December. Sweaters, wool pants, heavy socks, and boots had been shed for shorts, T-shirts, halter-tops, and flip-flops.

  While those changes of seasons had been quite
captivating at times, they amounted to little more than a fleeting pop song on the Billboard chart of life; a sickly-sweet melody reminding me I’d been stuck in Blackwater still another year.

  Finally, all that was about to change. First things first: once I left Rainbow, I bolted over to Jimmy’s.

  As usual, his house was filled with all those amazing Missing Mom smells—simmering garlic, sausage, onions, and tomatoes. While Mrs. Gigliotti tended to her cooking, Jimmy’s dad sat in his living room easy chair, taking slow, easy breaths off his oxygen tank. On the tube: John Wayne’s Rio Bravo.

  Mr. Gigliotti—decked out in his trademark outfit, which had been fitting him a bit better as of late—observed me in my black suit. His still intense Dillinger-like eyes creased into a slight smile as he slipped off his oxygen mask, and asked: “Going to a funeral?”

  “Actually just leaving one,” I said. I got down on one knee by his chair. Caught a slight whiff of Joe Camel. Nowhere near as noxious as the old days when Jimmy’s dad would chain-smoke three packs a day or more. “How’re you feeling?” I asked.

  While he’d been up and about a bit more—eating better, getting rest, and breathing easier—he knew better than to sugarcoat the truth. “Getting older every day, son.”

  For a moment, we remained quiet. Quiet as all those animals surrounding us in Mr. Gigliotti’s taxidermy jungle.

  Jimmy’s dad broke our silence by saying: “I’m glad your chimp’ll be okay.”

  “Me too,” I said. Then I offered: “How’s Jimmy?”

  Mr. Gigliotti shrugged a who knows with that boy?

  On the TV, Dean Martin—the town drunk and former deputy sheriff—along with John Wayne—the sheriff—were shaking down some sinister cowboys in a bar. John Wayne, with that classic voice of his, was urging those cowboys to get out of town.

  That’s when I told Mr. Gigliotti I was leaving soon.

  Like his son, Jimmy’s dad had heard me utter those words countless times before. But there must’ve been something in the way I’d said them on that particular day because a seedling of a smile bloomed across Mr. Gigliotti’s face. “Good for you, son.” But then that seedling smile withered. “Jimmy won’t be too happy though.”

  Again, silence. We surveyed that quiet jungle surrounding us.

  Standing in the corner: a mounted gray fox. Hanging on the wall: a huge striped bass. On another wall: a ten-point buck head. Through the years Mr. Gigliotti had given all those unclaimed animals a home. Through the years he’d done the same for me.

  As for Jimmy, I found him downstairs decked out in that photocopy outfit of his pops. He was sweeping up hay, branches, and pillow feathers while Sly & The Family Stone partied out on the Sears with “I Want To Take You Higher.”

  I grabbed a second broom from upstairs. Then I stripped off my tie, suit jacket, and joined Jimmy.

  It was an odd thing with the two of us. Practically all of our past conversations had focused on getting wasted. But since neither of us felt like partying right then, it was difficult for us to address everything that had occurred over the last number of days. So we just kept sweeping.

  Every so often we’d glance up at one another, thinking that might be the moment when we’d find the words to speak. Still a no go. So we just kept sweeping.

  But when Jimmy’s broom kicked up a tuft of Mr. Jeepers’ hair, that’s when he finally uttered: “This sucks harder than the Blue Hole.”

  The Blue Hole was a body of water located deep in the Pine Barrens. Legend had it that the mysterious swimming hole was not only a hangout for the Jersey Devil, but would also suck unlucky swimmers down into its chilly depths.

  “You got that right,” I said.

  We continued sweeping.

  As we did so, I recalled a Bruce Lee quote: “To know oneself is to study oneself in action with another person.” It was so true. All those moments Jimmy and I had spent with Mr. Jeepers—playing Twister, bounding through the basement, chilling out, never going to bed angry—had been rare and welcome instances when we’d felt truly human and alive. Not the lost losers we’d felt like so many other times in life. Over the sounds of the crappy Sears and our brooms’ scritchy-scratchy soundtrack, I told Jimmy I was leaving.

  That’s when he got that sad smile on his face, the one I’d first noticed back in fourth grade—the one that broke my heart if I stared at it too long.

  “You should leave, too,” I said. Right as I’d offered that suggestion, I knew it would be a tough sell.

  Just as I’d predicted, Jimmy said: “I can’t leave until my pops gets well.”

  I stopped sweeping. “Do you think that day’ll ever come?”

  Jimmy plopped down on the floor. Said he needed a hit right then. As I continued working, he fired up a bowl. At first he didn’t say a word. But after a few hits he became more talkative than I’d ever seen before. Hit after hit, his words got all tangled up in the pot smoke and dust clouds drifting through the room. “I’m sorry you weren’t ever close with your pops like I am with mine,” he began. “And I’m sorry your mom left. But my family needs me. I don’t care if I don’t fit in here in Blackwater. I can deal. I’ll miss you, but I’d miss my pops tons more if I left and he died on me.”

  When he was done, it dawned on me that all those times I’d tried to hook him up with girls, or score him a chimp companion, had been for naught. Jimmy never needed my saving. All he’d ever wanted was to be right by his dad. I couldn’t argue with that. So the two of us hung out in silence while the pot cloud, music, and stray dust particles drifted around our heads. And while part of me couldn’t completely shake the idea that he’d probably never break free of our backward little town, another part of me admired the hell out of him for staying with his family. With Jimmy, blood was far thicker than water. With me, leaving had always been in my blood.

  Just as I was heading out, Jimmy asked: “Want your Ouija board back?”

  While that board had done well by Jimmy, practically all it had ever offered me was that one useless word E-A-T whenever I’d asked it when I’d know things were going to be okay. “Keep it,” I said. “It’s all bullshit.”

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  That evening I didn’t bother knocking on my old man’s study door. I just walked right in. Hefted a stack of Police Chief magazines from a wooden chair, and pulled up next to him. Before I could get too comfortable, I said: “I’m leaving.”

  My old man rubbed his tired face, chuckled through his hands.

  “I’m serious this time,” I said.

  My old man leaned forward in his chair. The lines across his forehead dug in deeper. His button-up grew more wrinkled. The gray around his temples: grayer. My old man minus Mom: rough. The sine of him strapped with solo parenthood added to the cosine of me: a thousand times rougher. “Your whole life you’ve gone from here to there,” he said, “drugs, drinking, screwing up. And I’ve always been the one left to clean up your messes.”

  “But I never asked you to do any of that,” I countered.

  “It’s because I love you, Mark.”

  With those words, I spied that dreaded photo on his study wall. The one that most summed up our relationship: him handing me back over to Mom in those first few hours after my birth. Referring to that photo, I said: “Look at you. You couldn’t even hold me.”

  My old man removed the print from the wall. “I was handing you back to your mother,” he said. “You’d just pissed yourself, and I didn’t know how to change you.” He handed over the photo so I could see for myself.

  Up close and personal, that picture told a different story. There was Tiny Seed Me. My face was more bunched-up than a busted balloon. I was crying hysterically. My old man—only twenty-five at the time, not much older than me—seemed equally as lost and clueless. Like he didn’t know the answers to life’s big questions. Or didn’t even know the questions. Couldn’t figure o
ut his left from his right. Couldn’t find the exit door, the escape hatch. Yet through it all, his meaty hands remained gently secured around my waist. He was passing me over to a very tired, but relieved, Mom. Her hands were reaching out to me, but not quite holding me. Captured in that moment, suspended in mid-air between the two of them, it seemed I’d already found a home in my old man’s secure grip, and it was Mom I’d never truly reach.

  “What’s the deal?” I asked. “If it’s me just pissing myself why’s it even on the wall?”