The House that Jack Built

by Malcolm James

  Here it comes.

  “Cool. I always like to hear interesting news. What’s up? Did you finally get Angelina Jolie to agree to marry you?” He laughed almost maniacally, and I suddenly wondered what he was on. It definitely wasn’t Lithium.

  “Fuck Angelina Jolie! She can suck my dick. This is better. I’m moving to Montreal. The monsters want me to work at our operation there.”

  I let the words sink in. I’m moving to Montreal. I didn’t know what to think. The ‘monsters’ he referred to were his family. Since there was never any discussion of his father anymore, it was all about his family.

  While I processed this new information, waves and waves of everything that had happened to me – as a result of my friendship with him – began to crash up on me. He was moving to Montreal? In a breath it all disappeared. Every attempt to quell a past that lived in my head, like the stench of a body rotting and fermenting.

  And everything that I feared became real. I rubbed my eyes and looked at the Montreal skyline. The pink and purple were now garish red and black.

  “Don’t overexert yourself! I don’t want you busting a gut with happiness!” My solemn thought was cut deeply by the slashing serrated knife of his carefree words.

  “Oh, sorry, an email just came through that I was waiting for. You’re moving here? That’s great.” Enthusiasm: 1, Trepidation: 10. I wasn’t hiding it well. Fortunately, Jack neither noticed nor cared.

  “Okay, okay, sounds like you have other things on your mind. I hope she’s tight as a snare drum. Keep the young ones close, buddy. They’re twice as tasty!

  “I’ll call you tomorrow. I’m arriving next Monday, and I just know that you’re going to have a welcoming committee ready. Right?” I nodded. Right. Welcoming Committee. Fuck.

  “Yeah, you got it. Can’t wait. Gimme a call tomorrow.” I hung up before he could respond. Suddenly, a night with Holli didn’t seem so interesting. Pounding waves crashed against the shores of my mind. They assaulted my soul like the precursor to a devastating storm. They did damage, but it was clear to me that the storm was only beginning to gestate.

  It’s some kind of Dissociative Disorder. Apparently, it’s complicated by a form of Psychopathy.

  Dark skies, an unsettling wind, and a forty-year old bottle of Scotch were to be my whores tonight.

  Chapter 22

  Jack arrived the following Monday but I met him without the ‘Welcoming Committee.’ At first he was upset, but it passed quickly when he muttered that I’d have to make it up to him by introducing him to my stripper friends.

  For a moment – and a moment only – I thought about giving him Holli, but I quickly came to my senses. She was into everything, but she wasn’t ready for Jack. Besides, she was mine. True, she was lots of other guys’ too, but I didn’t think about that. When we were together, she only had eyes – and other things – for me.

  We spent our first night in Montreal at La Rose Noir, a lavish establishment with dozens of the hottest women in the world, ready to give lap dances and more, for the right price. We picked two. Mine was a slender blonde with a thick Czech accent, his a tall French brunette. We got a private room. After ordering a couple bottles of Dom Perignon, he threw $2,000 on the table and told them there was more if they could satisfy us. They serviced us until we were bone dry, and Jack threw in another $1,000 and got the brunette’s number without even asking.

  The first several days were more of the same and I struggled to drag my sorry, hungover ass to work every day. Not that it mattered much. I’d get there, close the door to my office, turn my computer on and doze in my leather chair for most of the morning.

  My boss wasn’t stupid. Father may have told him to make me into a man, but he knew who was going to be heading up the helm after Daddy retired. So he balanced my workload with just enough to appease Father, but let me slide through meetings, conference calls and day-to-day operations.

  I needed it, too, for Jack was relentless and Hell-bent on making up for lost time. As the weeks passed, I steeled myself for what was to come. We were surgically attached, once again. For awhile, I worried about Father and how he might regard this major setback in his plans for my career.

  But he didn’t seem to be bothered by the news that Jack moved to Montreal. Indeed, it troubled me far more than it did him. I suppose that he was confident enough in the knowledge that Jack had completed his education. Perhaps that matured him. We both had degrees, we both grew and we moved on. What happened in the past happened in the past. Or so we thought.

  Even though I was initially scared to see him, I warmed up pretty quickly. I felt a strange anxiety when he called to tell me he was coming. After all that had happened, I expected to hear that he had done something horrible, or that he’d gotten into some new kind of trouble. I felt comforted that he hadn’t murdered anyone.

  I was the ground that would keep him somewhat stable. And while I didn’t want the role, it came with benefits. His charm, ineffable wit and je ne sais quoi (as the French say) compelled me.

  But where women were concerned, I was a rank amateur and he was the Master. The small advantage that I had over him, of living in Montreal for so many years, quickly disappeared, and soon I followed Jack’s lead. Amidst my initial trepidation, it was abundantly clear that our different, yet excessive, personalities continued to draw us together. Like a powerful magnet to steel.

  Eventually we fell into a routine that we were used to, and time passed like a whore doing her job and getting compensated for it.

  ***

  My liver decayed and things with Jack were back to ‘normal.’ As my Twenty-Seventh birthday passed, my father finally placed trust in me and gradually let me assume control of the company. In my stupid young mind, I honestly thought that I could earnestly enjoy all the luxuries of having money.

  I’d buy expensive toys, screw-off for weeks on end, and let everyone else take care of things. Of course, that wasn’t to be the case. Father wasn’t about to let me get off that easily, and newfound responsibilities kept me ensconced in day-to-day drudgery that drove me to drink.

  Well, I didn’t drink more, because I couldn’t have. But I did add my job to the long list of reasons why I drank.

  Montreal was a good place to live to excess. We boozed, gambled and womanized like two cum-filled Bohemians who couldn’t be satiated. As usual, I was a rookie when I was with Jack. But my years alone at school had been beneficial, for they allowed me to develop my own style. I wasn’t quite so reliant on him, and that felt good. So we lived. And so I managed to toil through the pain, drudgery and minutia that was my job, with the knowledge that the brass ring at the end was the only thing that kept me going.

  There were changes in him. I knew that he was off the meds, so if they were chemically-induced changes, they were for the worst. Perhaps he was finding himself, but he wasn’t any better at letting anyone –even me – close enough to find out, so the question burned at me. After all, this is Jack we’re talking about.

  I wanted to know, but I wasn’t going to get the answer from him. Over the years, I’d observed him closely. But it didn’t get me anywhere and finally, I just wrote it off to maturity. Maturity Jack-style, but maturity nonetheless.

  I knew that whatever it was that leveled him off, whatever it was that made him tolerable, made me grateful. And it worked in his favor, because when he turned twenty-five, his family released his last Trust Fund. A condition of the Fund was that Jack proved himself capable of maintaining a meaningful career. Apparently, they approved.

  It must have been Jack’s love of money and his lack of regard for the human condition. He was ruthless in business just like he was in life. That was enough for his family to sign off on the Trust.

  I had no idea how much it was. For while Jack loved to brag, his net worth was one topic he avoided like taxes. But I didn’t doubt that it was in the high eight figures. Possibly even more. It didn’t really matter. Jack was independent, and rich as Hell. And while his newf
ound power scared me, his parties were unbelievable.

  He purchased a mansion situated on the Saint Lawrence River. Opulence was not an issue. As a matter of fact, it was the whole point. Money was no object, and Jack’s ability for swagger took on epic new proportions. The asking price for the home – if it can be called that, for it was more like the Louvre than a home – was $3.8 million. A tidy sum that Jack could easily afford.

  Now that he had come into his own, he was ready to flaunt it. He hosted amazing parties and thanks to them, I got my fair share of blowjobs. So I didn’t complain about his swagger.

  I did alright, although I didn’t have nearly the money that Jack threw around. But I had enough to ensure regular manicures, Hugo Boss suits, a Lexus and a nice townhouse downtown. I flaunted too, and for awhile life was good.

  It was also punctuated by ridiculous excess. One night, Jack poured nineteen bottles of Dom Perignon ’93 into his bathtub, for an impromptu encounter with a nineteen-year-old who happened to be celebrating her birthday. It was the purest Bohemianism, but that’s how we lived, thanks to him.

  But a bachelor shouldn’t own a home like that. The parties were rampant and almost set to a schedule. Practically every night. But as the wear-and-tear of time assaulted our youthful facades, the parties diminished. Jack became reclusive and less interested in pursuing the frequent debauchery. He still drank and whored, but while I suspect that the parties stopped because he didn’t like sharing women with other men, the whoring was no longer a lifestyle for him.

  He was accomplished at staying single and he left an unprecedented trail of broken hearts. I wondered if he was getting bored and preparing to settle down. But I doubted there was a woman who existed who was capable of snaring his heart and keeping it. Nothing that I saw indicated that it would ever happen.

  And so it was that Jack became less interested in lavish parties. And more interested in getting his quick hit of sex, then sitting over Brandy or Scotch and sharing stories, talking about life and most importantly, discussing mythology and mysticism.

  Don’t get me wrong. Jack’s womanizing had taken on new and epic proportions. But they became less of a disease and more of a symptom. It was like a crack fix. A quick hit and then back to more important matters. His newfound love for everything intellectual seemed to be the new epidemic that incubated deep in his soul. Jack became less focused on bragging about his womanizing activities, and instead wanted to talk about things that inspired him.

  He would call me late at night and embark on discussions regarding a myth or legend he had just read, or some philosophical question that revived a prior debate. His obsession graduated from mythology to literature and historical accounts, and I often wondered why he found interest in such things. But I found it intellectually stimulating to be able to have discussions with him on this level, and for the most part I enjoyed this new element of our relationship.

  Jack, on the other hand, seemed to ignore the fact that we had found a new dynamic to our friendship and instead challenged me and picked my brain, as if he was searching for an answer. I found it difficult because I didn’t know what he was looking for. It wasn’t until several years had passed that I fully understood the severity of the obsession that grew inside him. But at the time, I watched him grow and evolve and I considered it to be a good thing.

  Our new stations in life afforded us the ability to travel frequently, and there were protracted intervals where we wouldn’t see each other. More and more, speaking on the phone became our primary method of communication.

  The conversations were no different. He spent less time talking with me about drinking and women, and more time agonizing over why Van Gogh lopped off his ear for a woman. We discussed the madness that overcame Jonathan Swift, Nietzsche and Poe. We talked about tragedy and comedy, irony and pathos.

  One night, while he was full of Scotch and ready to share things that had welled up in his head, he told me that Toulouse-Lautrec was reputed, in Paris of the 1800’s, to bear the nickname ‘little teapot.’ Apparently, Toulouse-Lautrec made up for his lack of vertical height with an incredible horizontal prowess. Rumor had it – or so Jack informed me – that Toulouse-Lautrec would pass out at whorehouses when he got an erection, because so much blood flowed to his member that his brain was deprived.

  I enjoyed these conversations, because they were harmless and in some ways, they helped me to forget about Elizabeth and what we had done to her.

  But he grew evasive over time, while I watched him fall deeper into his obsession for art.

  Chapter 23

  For two years, when we did see each other, it was rarely in Montreal and usually in a foreign destination. He’d show up with rare and expensive curios, newly purchased and ready to be shipped to a warehouse in Montreal.

  I even had a chance to observe Jack on one of his more exciting buying sprees, one hot morning in Istanbul. He invited me to join him at an auction, and since my business had been conducted the day before, I thought it would be interesting to observe the passion that so overcame him. I didn’t understand it, but it seemed to be therapeutic for him, so I was curious to see if I could glean a little from the passion that drove him so. Maybe I would learn something.

  While I didn’t learn anything about myself, I learned a lot about Jack. The transformation that came over him was remarkable. He was feverishly excited, bidding on almost every piece that came to the table. By the end of the auction, he had spent several thousand dollars and acquired fourteen pieces. He excitedly wrote the check and instructed the auctioneer to have the artwork crated up and sent to Montreal. And as if that wasn’t enough, he dragged me out into the marketplace to look for more.

  "I try to buy at least one piece of art a day," he explained, "but you’ve caught me on an exceptionally active day!" During the morning, he laughed and joked, and told me stories of the different pieces he had acquired. I was listening to a child talk about his toys.

  While we walked through the market, he bargained with merchants for a pewter plate, or a clay sculpture. In each case, he would ask if there was a story behind the piece. It appeared to affect the selling price, for the more creative merchants would fabricate an incredible story. And the more absurd the story, the more Jack was willing to pay.

  I’m sure that Jack recognized the fabrications, but romanticism captivated him. He would pull out his wallet and slap down twice the haggling price, and proudly snap up the object being haggled over. By the end of the morning, he traipsed around the square with nearly a dozen pieces lodged under his arms, and he was only out-of-pocket by fifty or sixty dollars.

  It was strange, though. He was as delighted by these purchases as he was by his auction house acquisitions – for which he spent nearly twenty thousand dollars. I was amazed. Amazed by a man who, after having spent an extravagant amount on rare pieces of artwork, now haggled over a few pennies for crude and common crafts.

  One piece, however, did catch my eye. It was a small tapestry which depicted multiple Kama Sutra-type positions: colorful and richly-bestowed with the type of detail that was endemic of Eastern artisans.

  Jack’s exuberance for art progressed at an alarming rate. What had been an earnest but seemingly harmless hobby spawned geometrically, into a passionate and inflamed obsession, particularly for the art of Eastern cultures. He craved anything that depicted sensuality, eroticism, and the concupiscent whims of mankind – its most animalistic, yet seemingly enlightened states.

  But more than just the sensual nature of the pieces, there was a common thread in everything that Jack accumulated. I just couldn’t put my finger on it. In some pieces, there seemed to be a kind of primitive ‘magic’ surrounding their devising; in others, a strong influence of nature and romance.

  While in England, France, Spain, Italy and Germany, Jack collected fabulous paintings, some by contemporary greats and some painted by ancient unknowns. I was shocked, for Jack maintained interest in the art itself and not the artisan or price tag. In fact
, he purchased many of his pieces in marketplaces, flea markets and yard sales. Often, he didn’t know who painted or crafted the piece, or when its inspiration had been consummated.

  Conversely, money wasn’t a problem. In Italy, Jack purchased a pre-Renaissance painting for which he paid millions. A colorful but one-dimensional portrayal, it depicted the court of Rome during the time of Caesar Augustus. The piece, measuring a foot-and-a half by two feet, was hermetically sealed and immediately shipped to Montreal, and I didn’t see it until my third and last visit to the house.

  As time passed and his acquisitions accumulated, our conversations about his buying sprees were the only topic he would entertain, and sometimes the discussions became contentious. I wasn’t receptive to being awakened in the middle of the night to discuss the religious and sociological implications of Adronicus and Apollo.

  Almost overnight, our relationship had changed direction and gone down an unhealthy path from which there was no return. A path that was replete with even more alcohol, more obsession, more sex, and more delving into the shadowy realm of artistic thought.

  As for women, I had to press him to get stories. He would briefly lose sight of his obsession and embark upon a tale about someone he had defiled. But he was not to be distracted for long. He would regain his senses and quickly change the topic back to philosophy, religion and art.

  Just so we’re clear, my reason for pressing him wasn’t because I wanted to hear the stories. I suppose I was disturbed enough by his obsession that for once, I actually wanted to hear him brag about conquests. At least it would have felt like the Jack of old.

  I listened with distaste, but I listened because I wanted to keep him on that track. He was my supplier. The magnetic attraction that drew females to him was the wellspring for my sex life. Without his assistance, I wouldn’t have had free sex for most of my twenties. I suppose I subconsciously convinced myself that without him, I wouldn’t have had a social life or the sex that went with it.