Being Jesus and Other Tales of Failure
Jungle Jim
Corvin Thomas
Nancy always kept in touch, Hawaii, San Francisco, Las Vegas. She moved a lot. It was better that way, better than living in the same town. She drank hard. I couldn't keep up. Which is why she moved. And I needed to get back to work. But we saw each other now and then. She'd pass through town. We'd have a few new laughs. She was working in a New York joint when we agreed to meet at the airport and fly to Florida. I always wanted to meet her dad, an old school boozer named Jungle Jim. He wore it on his cap.
Jungle Jim was a practical jokester. Nancy's family lived on a lake in Michigan. Her dad owned a boat. One day he told a neighborhood kid to tell his wife there had been a terrible accident, that Jungle Jim was dead, lost at sea. The family fell into mourning. An hour later, Jungle Jim walked in, laughing like a drunken Lazarus. Nancy's mom took the girls and moved to Arizona, end of joke.
Practical jokes are like that. They can go too far. Nancy and I went to a wedding reception one night. I didn't know the couple, two bartenders. The booze was free. There was a band, a microphone stand. Half in the bag, I turned to Nancy.
"If they can do it, why can't we?"
Nancy smiled.
"Will you marry me?"
It was good theater, I thought, and downed a shot. But someone heard it, passed it on, announced it. The crowd turned to us, toasted. Hands slapped my back. It was a funny little secret until the next morning when Nancy asked if she should call her folks. I told her to hold off. And then I told her it was only a joke. That's when she told me I was a lot like her dad.
Jim picked us up in his jeep. It looked like a safari rental, washed out with a cover that fluttered at the corners. He was proud of it, proud of his Jungle Jim cap. It sat loose on his head. He was a little man, thin from the booze but wiry. He didn't look like his daughter. But they had the same certain smugness that some drunks have.
It was a half hour to his house. So we hit an Elks Club. Jungle Jim had memberships across the state. He wasn't civic minded. He wasn't a veteran. But he drank like one, solid. I held on for three rounds in the empty bar, sat up straight but felt the spine sag. Jim asked me no questions and I told him no lies. But he knew I was soft. And I was softening by the drink.
"Dad's always ready," Nancy yelled into the wind.
Jungle Jim looked proud, nodding at the can of beans on the floorboard, smiling. I liked his face. It was a melon with a cap. I pulled the tin lid back, inhaled.
"Go ahead," Jim said. "There's more."
I ate with fingers and sucked syrup from my wrist. Jim started a story, harmonizing with the engine's hum, the rubber's whine. I wanted to make a good impression. But my eyes would not cooperate with the beauty.
Jungle Jim's pad was a retiree's dream if the retiree enjoyed his drink. Beer signs, three unmade beds, a trumpet on the floor and a lot of bottles. His claim to fame was the V and V, vodka and Vernor's. We had a few by the man-made lake out back, our feet dangling in the oily water.
"To V," Nancy held up two fingers forming the letter.
"And V," Jungle Jim did the same.
I lost count of the cocktails. But we weren't finished. Jungle Jim's schedule was fluid. And we flowed to the Blue Bird, another joint with a vague affiliation. We sat with our drinks and more stories were told. I couldn't follow the stories. I didn't know what I was drinking. I had one. I had another. It was automatic. I counted the hours. I'd been drinking since the night before. I drank until I couldn't drink anymore. And I was ashamed. I wanted Jungle Jim to think I was a man, a stand up drinker like his daughter. But I wasn't. I was a fake, a bad punch line.
"Another round?" Jim asked.
"Yes," I answered.
And Nancy's cat eyes smiled.
I downed it fast like the others. But I couldn't take the talk. I got up, made for the bathroom but hit the door. I looked around, found a car fender. The asphalt heaved, rolled and settled. I looked into the blue gray day and thought about lying down. There was a patch of grass on the shoulder of the road. I kicked through it for glass. It was soft and green and cool on my back and I let it drift me into black traffic.
I felt a lot better when I opened my eyes to the color of dusk. I didn't think about time. I just felt better, thirstier, like a blue bird.
"Where the fuck were you?"
Nancy ran at me from the end of the parking lot, near tears.
"I took a rest," I said.
"We've been looking for you for almost two hours!"
Nancy was frantic, balling her fists.
"Fucking asshole!"
"I was tired," I said. "I was right over there."
I pointed to the bed of grass.
"Here he is," Nancy yelled to a couple of regulars. "He was fucking sleeping."
I shrugged. They shrugged.
"Here he is, dad."
Jungle Jim walked out with a drink.
"Sorry, Jim."
"Don't tell me," he said. "Tell her."
"I'm sorry."
"God damn it," Nancy said, wiping her glasses.
"Some men enjoy the drink before them," Jungle Jim said, "and some men only think about the drink ahead."
We were going to stay on the beach. But Nancy wouldn't let up and I finally blew. I didn't know I was wearing a hat until she threw it out the window. We pulled up to an intersection. I opened the door, got out and chased the hat. Nancy pulled away and I was alone with a hang over. I called a cab, hit the airport bar, got vague.
The stewardess told me to fasten my seat belt.
"You know," I said "I'm going to remember this."
But I didn't.
I went straight to the bar, walked straight in and ordered a drink, straight, same as any other night. Only I flew to Florida and back to get there. I called work. I don't know why. But I found out Robert Miller died. He was a friend, a photographer. He was doing something in his bathroom when he dropped like a soup bone. And he was only two years older than me.
I hung up and searched for remorse in the bottom of a half dozen glasses. But I couldn't find it. So I danced a little dance in the clearing by the front table where Bill sat with a few faces. They smiled until I slapped him. Ray didn't like it, jumped up, pushed me.
"Knock that shit off," he said.
I kept dancing. Bill put his hat back on. No one smiled. Ray waited but I danced out the door. And seven backs turned to the glass.
Big Mike was working downstairs at the other bar. The dealers had come and gone. Big Mike mixed a cocktail but told me that was it.
"You've had enough."
I drank the drink through a straw and tossed the cup in the trash.
"Finally," I said.
"Finally what?" Big Mike asked.
"I can finally get some rest."
Big Mike handed me water. I sipped it on a stool by the jukebox. I didn't think about the day. I didn't think about Florida, about Robert dying. I didn't think about alcoholism. I didn't think about anything until I remembered one thing.
I never found out why Jungle Jim called himself Jungle Jim.
Big Mike said no charge.
And I walked home because I had nowhere else to go.