Psycho Jack Turns 44 - (Part 1)

This first posting is one of a series of true life stories I've written about my friend Jack. I submitted this to 'Storymania' and it is currently posted there, along with occasional comments from people who visit that site. Your comments are welcome, of course.


(My best friend Jack has a distinctive personality. He is loud, boisterous and often profane. Some would say even, well, somewhat...Psycho. Coined by a mutual friend, I think this is an overly strong descriptive for Jack. But the name sounds better than ‘Crazy Jack.. or ‘Wacky Jack’ to my ears. When I become bored with the day to day existence of being a ‘normal person’ I call up Jack and by the end of the day I always have something to commit to the hard drive.

Hence, the inception of what I call the ‘Psycho Jack Series’. A true-life running diatribe on my misadventures with the big, pasty-faced lug.{The names have NOT been changed. There is no innocence here.} Enjoy- S.A.R.


Psycho Jack Turns 44 (Part 1)

In the world of inebriates like Psycho and myself, the rule goes like this: ‘As long as nobody gets hurt, it’s a good reason to have a drink.’ And mostly, this rule has held true in my outings with Psycho. However, there is another, lesser used but no less important rule that states: ‘Oh fuck, lets get the fuck outta here.’ I knew when Psycho called last Friday that at least the first of these rules would be followed with fervor. I didn’t know that in the bacchanalian, booze swilling loudfest process that we would end up using both. My usual pattern when visiting Jack starts with the perfectly 1973 white boy high five, an insistent fraternal smacking of flesh that Psycho lives by, and after a few warm-up micro-brews (J, for as long as I’ve known him, prefers quality alcohol to pollute with), we run the gamut of horribly cruel sex jokes, racial slurs, Death before Dishonor rants and at least one impossible, bragadoccio story of ironworker derring-do all while lurching and nearly sideswiping our way to some concert, greasy spoon eatery or dive bar in PJ’s 81 Diplomat Ex-Police Pursuit Cruiser.

I end the night, always, by refusing more excellent Italian espresso laced with huge dollops of Jack Daniels and demanding my jacket, which Psycho always hides in some out of the way closet, why, I do not know. Psycho Jack Turns 44 - Page 2In this way, I’ve always gotten home in one piece and been richer for the experience, as long as I can remember whatever it was we did. Saturday was Jacks 44th birthday and, oddly, the first time I can remember ever being invited to celebrate it with him. To clarify, I’ve known this miscreant old pal of mine since we were too short to steal candy off of the 7-11 gum rack, and I’ve probably spilled more beer with him than a few of these Yuppie-brew-come-and-gone-distilleries ever made, but in all of this time, he has never told me, nor requested my partying presence when his actual birthday was due to arrive. This is part of PJ’s ‘Don’t ask, Don’t tell’ policy, and if you ask him, he’ll be glad to not tell you why he won’t tell you. Of course, I had to be there and on the way, I promised myself that I would remember everything this time because I had eaten a big dinner in order to better soak up the quantities of booze I knew I’d soon be tussleing with.

As soon as I stepped out of my car I knew tonight was a little bit off. I could hear Jack bellowing from inside his little nondescript frame house like an enraged bremaloe. Chuckling my way to the back door,(Psycho never receives guests at the front door- Booby traps, reportedly), He was just stumbling out, flailing his meaty arms in a haze of smoke. ‘Fuck!... Gawdamn it... I thought that bad boy was open.. Gawdamn it!’ I rounded the corner, up the step and peered in to see the usual. Psycho had lit the fireplace up before opening the flue, just like always. He didn’t see me pass him in the smoke-dark, unlit entryway and I was sitting on the couch, below smoke level when he came back in. ‘ FUCK.. Buddy!..Wow.. fuckin’ magic, man.. ALRIGHT!’ High fives follow, Jack stomping to the fridge, Sam Adams presented in a proper Irish bar glass. As soon as the uninitiated are in Jack’s inner sanctum, they notice one thing right off the bat. The room noise volume goes up dramatically. The decibel level of PJ’s voice is directly proportionate to the amount of joy juice he has infused. Tonight, he was already at a six beer din.

Fortunately for me, I am 20% deaf in my left ear and to Jack, my head is always angled away from his blast source voice to save my good ear. I end up looking like I have a permanent crick in my neck, but the alternative is worse. In the smoked room I make out two other old pals of Psycho’s, Deano and Ron. They are a welcome addition in my mind because of their tendency to act as buffering bookends for Jack to bounce off of in lieu of me alone, absorbing the worst shocks and saving the public from too much Psycho babble. ‘HEY MAN.. LETS GO GET SOME FUCKIN’ CHINESE, MAN!’ Jack blats, ‘MAN, I KNOW THIS GREAT FUCKIN’ PLACE IN RAT CITY.. C’MON MAN.. LETS GO!’ We all agree to go, but Ron says, ‘ Open yer stuff dude, we got ya some shit’. Ron points his beer at the table full of booty. Strangely, Jack’s voice sloughs a few db’s, embarrassed I suppose,’ SHIT MAN.. You fuckers didn't have to..’ and at this PJ already has the first package torn asunder to reveal a spanky new bottle of JD, his favorite. ‘A MAN AFTER MY OWN HEART’, Volume boy chorts. And as Deano pushes another gift at him, Psycho deftly spins the cap off of the thinly disguised Grain Alcohol and snaps off a swig, rotating the bottle towards my face. ‘ BUDDY.. HERE MAN!’

Who could resist the male bonding primalness of a scene like this. I hoisted the rude poison and self-administered. Deano’s gift was a perfectly-preserved WWll 50 Cal. Ammo belt, each slot filled with a 4 inch chunk of Pepperoni Stick. ‘AW FUCKIN-A DEANO...’ Psycho feigns speechlessness for a millisecond, ‘C’MON.. CHINESE..’ then at even higher volume, ‘ I’M BUYIN’!!’ ‘Hey..Scotty got ya somethin’ J..Check it out.’ Deano shoved the small bag towards Psycho with his foot. “ FUCK MAN..WHAT IS ALL THIS SHIT.’ He picks up the bag and guffaws. A huge likeness of Stone Cold Steve Austin the Wrestler raged back at Jack, bald pate, like Jack’s, skimpy mustache like Jack’s. These two could be brothers, which begs the question: Why isn’t Psycho a professional wrestler? I don’t think too long about this because Jack is ripping open the stuff inside like a drunken mandrill. ‘ Hey Numbnuts!’ I gentle, ‘ there’s some fragile shit in there.’ He paws more slowly at the wrappings and pulls out my gift to him. A 1942 Army Issue Harley Davidson Model,1/16th scale, fully assembled, in olive drab, black out lights, saddle bags and topped off with a rifle scabbard laced to the forks. ‘Buddy!..shit man.. ‘ Jack assumes a semi-reverent tone.

He marvels at the detail like King Kong sniffing at Jessica Langes panties. ‘That fucker’s got some amazin’ detail’ Ron says, and PJ carefully swings the little kick bale down and sets the toy gingerly on his fireplace mantel. Reverance aside, the Birthday Boy resumes bellow.’ OK.. SHIT..LET’S GO EAT FER CHRISSAKES.’ Deano has a company mini-van from his job at the La Mexicana Tortilla factory so we all pile in, Jack riding shotgun so he can manhandle the radio. Before we hit 4th Ave, J has changed the stations four times. ‘Gawdamn it.. theres virtually NO GOOD FUCKIN’ MUSIC on the radio anymore!’ Inside enclosed, padded spaces, Jack’s tone is gratefully muffled. He settles on some REO Speedwagon and rolls his window down, frosting me in the ambassador seat, with the wind-chilled 40 degree December night air. The radio is too loud to attempt to get Jack to half-glass his window hole, so I console myself with a snort of the JD that Ron has smuggled into the car. Deano wheels the Tortilla truck into a space near the corner of 16th and 98th and we pile out, Psycho pulling on his hat and leading the way across the street. I recognize where we’re going now.

The Emerald Dragon used to be The Epicure Restaurant, the place where my Dad met his wife and courted her to marriage a million years ago. I’m enjoying this little mental diversion, my brain snugly laced in Jack Daniels as we go through the door.

Now we’re in Hong Kong and nothing looks like it did when I was 12, eating french dips and cadging gum from the waitress. Jack is nothing if not good at picking places to eat. He favors oriental fare predominately, but his sense of good value and good flavor are as dependable as the next thing he does, which is to begin to yell. ‘ HEY... HOW ABOUT A FUCKIN’ SEAT IN HERE.’ And before Ron, Deano and I can admonish him, we see that the proprietor has come around the corner, a smallish older Chinese man,(who else?) who immediately slaps Jack on the back and smilingly says. ‘ Hey.. you clazy assho.. you wan dinna or not!’ ‘VU... JUST GET MY FRIENDS AND ME SOME TSINGTAO’S, CHOP CHOP.’ Jack has a huge grin on his mug, massively pleased at this exchange of old patron, old Chinese pal. Vu seats us at a traditional Dim Sum table in the very back and within seconds a comely young Chinese girl is pouring tea. ‘Now you aren’t gonna give us any trouble tonight are you Jack?, she says in perfect White Center english, her beautiful almondine eyes flashing. Jack says nothing but smiles broadly and nods knowingly at me, then towards the girl. This is supposed to mean that Jack knows this creature carnally, which is a complete falsehood, but which is part and parcel of Psycho’s ongoing self-image propaganda campaign. I nod back half wishing it was true, just for the proximal thrill.

The Tsingtao’s arrive in seconds more and Vu appears and says, ‘ Jack.. you wan regla deal?’ Vu’s teeth are widely gapped and yellowish. His smile is so wide it looks painful. Jack horfs, ‘ YEAH, YEAH VU..BRING US THE MOUNTAIN!..And VU..ANOTHER BEER AND SOME CLEAN GLASSES! Psycho’s most identifiable habit is ordering two drinks for himself as soon as he sits down, one drink usually being quaffed solely as thirst quencher, no matter the poison. If bounty hunters ever wanted to find Jack in a crowded bar, this is the way they’d start.

Vu leaves and in lowered tone Psycho explains, ‘ The Mountain is a fuckin’ PILE of fuckin’ food man!.. and it’s CHEAP!..Cheap..but GOOD MAN!.. We’ll be takin’ a shitload of this stuff home tonight man!’ Ron and Deano laugh at this. Deano is 250 lbs of eating machine with a Buddha-rivaling gut and pate to match. Ron is as skinny as Deano is rotund but eats like a teenager. They are not impressed with the threat. Ron promptly produces the Jack Daniels and pours the first boilermakers. In the process of boilering my head with JD and Chinese beer, I make a mental note to avoid the foods that have legs and to eat lots of rice. I figure I’m going to need the extra stuffing to keep par with the swillers to my left, right and middle. China Girl gets lovelier with each pass through the room until she begins to look like Audrey Hepburn’s and Joan Chen’s love child and then the Mountain arrives: plate after plate of beautifully prepared dishes - Kung Pao Chicken, Oyster Fried Beef, Sweet and Sour Prawns, a whole fish in a red sauce, mounds of noodles and vegetables, something yellowy with legs and and an eye and lastly, a giant-ass bucket of white rice.--- Part II to follow