Copyright 1992(c)
                       JACK'S LAST FIFTH 
                       By Franchot Lewis 
 
     Pop, Jack. Now, we are alone. Mrs. White was here. I 
caught her laying a dozen stinking flowers on top of your 
grave, directly above where down underneath your nose is. 
ACHEW! The old crow knows that hay fever runs in the 
McGregory family. ACHEW! I called a little colored boy over 
from the section over that way. He was with his family 
standing over their relative's grave. The boy was happy to 
get five dollars and quickly disposed of those stink weeds as far
from the vicinity as his little black legs could run. Some of
that damn-stinking-pollen still lingers. Pardon me while I wave
it off with my hands and elbows. ACHEW! Pardon me while I sneeze.
ACHEW! 
     Pop, had you been slipping the old tally peeler to Mrs. 
White? At the age you were you couldn't have done more than 
gum her old lily-watt. That last day you shut your eyes she 
went bonkers. I understand that she's been out here a lot, 
bringing the stinking weeds with her. I wonder why? You 
didn't leave her anything as far as I know. There was no 
mention of her in the will. You must have paid that old 
crow something extra by the week. She must have plenty 
stashed. 
     She was going to join me in a toast when she heard 
giggling noise from the adjacent grave site. The young 
relatives of your next door neighbor were amused. Nothing 
unusual in that, but the rather rude talk that accompanied 
the giggling peeved me off. The older members of the group next
door were not giggling. The three children giggled. The three
adults were rather nasty and angry. Mrs. White shrank away. She
told me she would see me later. I hoisted a nearly finished fifth
of vodka up so that your neighbor's folks could get a good look
at the few ounces left, and I shouted out, toasting you: "Pop!" I
wonder if you heard. 
     The three adults grouped around the grave next door 
circled the grave as if they were drawing a defensive shield 
around hollowed ground. They looked peculiar. The tall woman, 
a flaming red head, was at the center of a dark cloud. She was 
dressed, or more correctly, assembled, in a dreary black 
shroud, pretending to be a mourning dress. She was covered 
from ankles to neck. She had round, hard, high riding eyes 
that don't look at a human being in the eye, but fires eye 
crap over the top of people's head. The man next to her had a 
flat nose. I figured she had punched it a couple of times. 
The other adult, a stout woman, had curls of red hair peeking 
out the bottom part of her large black hat. The kids were 
blonde. One girl had a short hair cut. The boy's hair was cut 
so short that he had no hair at all. The other child, a girl, 
had hardly any face; she was one large reddish pimple. 
The tall woman spoke for the group. She shouted at me, 
"Don't you know where you are?" 
     "Sure," I replied, softly, "I'm at my pop's grave." 
     "Show some respect for your father," she shouted. 
     "That's why I'm here," I spoke even quieter. 
     "But you are drinking," the woman yelled. 
     I whispered, "Pop knows I drink." 
     "You are drunk," she screamed. 
     "You are a busy-body," I whispered, very softly, barely 
speaking. I was fully ready to cuss her if pressed but she looked
ready to attack. So, I just reached into the shopping bag I 
had, took out another fifth of vodka, uncorked the bottle and 
gobbled down a hefty dose. 
     "You are vulgar," the woman said. 
     The stout woman joined in: "He has no shame, look at his 
legs wobbling. The man has no self-control and no self-respect, 
and no respect for a graveyard." 
     Needling them to farther displays of disgust I let a 
large vodka drop run down my cheeks and fall to the ground. 
My tongue was pink, wet, and looking very loose as I turned 
the last of the drink around in my mouth. The redheads' necks 
were ruby red, dry and stiff, looking like the red-necks 
I'm sure their daddies had. I started to belch. The tall 
woman rolled her eyes. From her clenched teeth and tight 
mouth, I think I heard a four-letter word trying to escape. 
I couldn't hear well enough to be sure. The stout woman was 
muttering, and the kids were giggling. The tall woman stiffened 
and struck out, smacking each of the little pups hard on the 
sides of their faces. 
     She scolded them, "Ignore that man! He is not funny." 
     Each kid slid one hand along his smacked cheek and I 
slipped one of mine back into the shopping bag for another 
fifth. Pop, the faces of the folks next door were as red as 
the hair on the tall woman's head. The red headed man, seeing 
how agitated the women were, began to nag them to let him take 
them home. 
     "Leave this worm to himself," the man said. 
     I ignored him, held the last fifth up over my head, 
gazing at its pleasing liquid as though mesmerized. The 
redheads muttered, uttered, grunted and groaned. I held the 
vodka higher. The tall woman stopped the mumbling about six 
minutes later and left, taking her family away. But, not 
before she fired a parting shot. "Sir," she addressed me, "You 
are a skunk." An obscenity followed. It erupted, burst in full 
force and vigor like a release of long suppressed gas. Though, 
just one cuss word. I suppose Heaven only allows her one. 
     Still, before the cuss word broke loose, she wrestled it 
around her lips as if trying to suck it back down and swallow 
it before the kids heard. I eagerly unscrewed the top of the 
last fifth and raised the bottle to my lips and leaned back 
on my heels. 
     Pop, when Addison, your lawyer, called my apartment that 
morning and told me you had died, I wanted my feet to grow 
wings so I could fly off this world where you were not. I 
watched goggle-eyed at the reading of your will: Two million 
dollars in cash. Six million dollars in property. A million 
dollar-a-year business. I was never good at math. My fingers 
only went up to ten. I knew you had hoarded a lot, as much 
as you could from every dollar that passed your fingers, but 
I had no idea you had hoarded that much. I should have 
expected something. At the wake, your faithful retainers, your 
lawyer, your employees all had that silly grin spread across 
their faces, and their lips opened wide when they spoke. I 
leaned back in the chair as each of them expressed the utmost 
sorrow and wished me all the luck in the world. Only a week 
before, none of those people bothered to look me in the face, 
much less into my eyes. They considered me a waste from the 
neck up. Then, at the wake, there they were, thrusting their
hands forward and gripping mine, clutching my fingers, pulling on
the folds of my skin. There was no loose talk, none of the
sharpness I overheard through the years, that "Junior wasn't as
tall as his papa." With their grins and grips they thought they
could smooth out the folds, tighten up the loose threads, heal
the cuts, cover over the scars. Your male employees thought they
could become men and not bastards; your female employees 
thought they could become ladies and not crows. 
     At the reading of the will it all popped out. Every 
single penny was left to me. Old Sonny boy had it all! Nothing 
was left to them. Your lawyer, your employees, your retainers 
couldn't do a damn thing without my signature. My pride popped 
out, swollen and glistening like a rod of solid gold. How many 
years did I whimper that I was dying for a big believable hug 
from my pop? A pat on the back? A kind word in private? A 
kinder one in public? I waited and waited until I started to 
diddle myself. I was fifty-two years old when you died, Pop. 
At your office I was still sonny boy, junior, the Mr. 
McGregory who wasn't quite Mr. McGregory. I worked for you for 
five years before I quit. Of course, you always said that you 
fired me. Old McGregory who fired his only son was tough 
enough to handle any business. Sonny boy wasn't tough enough 
to manage his own life. I was married three times, and each 
time I failed to give you a grandchild. Something you wanted 
the most, Pop, was another chance with another McGregory 
child. I failed you. You let me know and your employees 
overheard. But, Pop, you know now that I refused you. I didn't 
want to give you another chance with a McGregory child. Really, 
Pop, I didn't want children. What would I have done with them? 
Teach them to drink vodka? Anyway, I disappointed you. You let 
me know it ten thousand times. Ten thousand times your 
employees overheard. I can even now hear the muffled sound of 
insect mumblings when I last visited your office while you were
alive. It was a year before you expired. You worked on me, worked
on my mind like it was a cow's udder, a wet thing whose function
was to be milked dry. You left my mind drained; leaving a vacuum
that brought throbbing pain to rush in, that the vodka helped
ease. I have not forgotten the way you raised your voice and the
strange noise that came from your employees's throats as I made
my retreat, looking reluctantly at the floor as I walked away
from a father who could cuss like a rotten sailor. I could have
been your friend, a best buddy, but you had a friend, your money.
Your buddy was your anger. You kept yourself locked in your
office until six or nine at night, and you counted ferociously
your profits. I suppose we had each other's anger. The sight of 
me believing that there was life after work set you to fury. 
     To you there was work, work, work. My disagreement made your
temper swell ever more than it normally did, and you had to 
rip into me like I was a small boy who belonged in short 
trousers. You took it on yourself to take my trousers down so 
I could be told that I was still a boy. I was a man of the 
world -- twenty-thirty-forty-fifty, but with my pop I could 
not get out of grade school. So, I couldn't take it, so I 
took up the bottle. That was too much for you, Pop. And in 
your eagerness to keep me in short pants you dropped me. 
     Pop, you left me with a business you built for sixty years. 
I was in-charge of the office. Nothing could be done without my
signature. The first day in-charge I walked into that office.
Everybody there pulled out their necks and watched Jack Junior
being the boss. Your Mrs. White wasn't there. She was having a
nervous breakdown. She took your passing hard. That other blonde
crow you had working in your office, a bit younger, was there.
She grinned, gave me a wide smile as if she was offering to serve
me in more ways than one. I looked at her flat, flat chest and
groaned in obvious pain and I grunted disapproval. She shrank
back from me. I could see those witless employees of yours were
all shooting their best shots, happy to get me to be gullible and
swallow their crap, and declare that they were all now employees
of mine. I jumped up on a desk in the middle of the largest 
room in your office and shouted: "Screw you all!" And before 
they could open their mouths I jumped down and walked out and 
never went back. Never answered their calls, never had another 
thing to do with that office or your business. Your lawyer 
called me. I told him to screw himself. Eventually, Mrs. White 
called. I told her to buzz-off. I don't know what happened to 
your business. I suspect it collapsed since everything was in 
my name and I wouldn't sign my name to any of the many papers 
I was sent. I wouldn't sign the payroll. I wouldn't sign 
contracts. I wouldn't sign papers to sell the business. I let 
the thing die like it had killed me over and over again during 
the years. 
     Pop, I met this brunette, a waitress, who was full of 
curves, and bent over at the time, to pick up a towel. Her 
body begged me to love her. The sight of her naked: shiny 
brown eyes, brown hair, brown hair, was enough to get me away 
from the city and the country. I sold the property you left. 
I took the cash, and I began to have a ball. 
     Money never meant a thing to me. Even eight million 
dollars glaring at me wasn't enough to get me money crazy. 
But, it drew women to me, lots of pretty women. Women love 
boats. I got a boat. I sailed to Florida and on through the 
Caribbean. I felt wonderful. The way I hadn't felt since I 
was six and Mom was still alive. I found my place. It wasn't 
behind you, Pop. I didn't have to push my way against your 
frightful persona. I was it. It was a very carefree and 
wonderful time and I just slid straight into it. The women 
were squeezing me with their infernal machinations to milk the 
inheritance. I had to tip because I was rich. Waiters 
demanded good tips and gave good service. Hangers-on demanded 
generous freebies. The women, I don't know how many there were. 
I didn't care. When they swarmed and squirmed against me and 
jerked me back and forth as I jerked myself, I paid. I paid 
because the money meant nothing. I paid for women who were 
women. I paid for women who were whores. I paid for women who 
were hags, but never for crows. Speaking of hags, pop, I got 
a kick out of romancing a hag. I mean a real hag. I am no 
looker. I never was. I always could afford women who had some 
sort of face. I spent the money romancing a few hags for 
the hell of it, and because the money meant nothing. 
     Finally, I settled on this one chick, the brunette, the 
waitress and ex-stripper with the body of an angel and the 
heart of a slut. She kept arguing for me to give her more and 
more, to spend the loot faster and faster. She started a 
diamond collection and a fur collection, though we were 
spending almost all of our time in South Florida and the 
Caribbean. She kept announcing that she was pregnant, and 
fortunately, the baby never arrived. She attributed this to 
false pregnancies and to freak early miscarriages, or 
whatever. In some ways she was like you, Pop. She hoarded and 
she drove me to drink, really drink. Did I tell you her name? 
She called herself Lulu. That isn't her real name, but that 
should have given me a warning. But, what the hell. 
     I tried to oblige Lulu as she worked her arse to get me 
to make a bigger and bigger one out of myself. I should have 
turned my back on her. I was trying to engulf every last penny 
of your money the best way I could into something I knew you 
were incapable of having: fun. I held on to Lulu until the 
money went. All eight million dollars. When the money was 
gone, Lulu nearly broke her hip pulling away from me with 
both feet and scampering away on both hands too! I did not take 
her leaving hard. I took it philosophically. She was there to 
help me have a ball and when the ball was over she was gone. 
The infernal revenue service is the culprit that stuffed 
the ball. When the infernal revenue service comes, all kinds of 
crap starts to come and keeps coming. One day, out of the blue, 
a pointed-head revenue man showed up, announced to the world 
with screams and threats that I was a tax crook and all the 
money I had given away as gifts would have to be returned and 
all the stuff I had purchased with the loot would have to be 
sold to pay the government. The tax man screamed: I had paid 
no inheritance taxes. I had filed no tax reports. I had paid 
no taxes, period. When the tax man stopped screaming the boat 
was gone, the women were gone, the new friends I had acquired 
to join in my ball were long gone. A line started forming 
of people who began calling me a jackass. The ranks of this 
line swelled, and everybody, people I don't know who pass 
me as I walk down the street, have begun to fire insults at 
me and fill my life with their foaming filth and bile. 
     Pop, what can I tell you? Over all it's like this: It 
took you fifty-sixty years to hoard eight million dollars, it 
took me roughly fifty months to spend it. I don't know where 
the money went. I guess what the government doesn't recover I 
blew. But, Pop, I had a ball. 
     Some people are saying that I ought to go to a 
psychiatrist, that I blew that money because I hated my 
father. Nonsense, those people don't know me. They should 
have seen me when I learned you had died. Only God in 
Heaven knows how hard I cried. I mean, pop, I thought you 
would live to be a hundred. There you were, and I hadn't 
told you, anything of how I felt. You didn't know that I 
loved you. I think you loved me, I think, but shit, pops. 
I think you see how I blew it, you see ... 
     Oh, wee, Pop. Wait a minute. I have to take a leak. I 
wonder where are the nearest facilities? Oh, what the hell, 
when you got to go, you go to go, right? We're both men here 
and we are alone. I know you won't tell if I take a wee-wee 
on the grass. 
                               END