You don't know Jack

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic
If that wasn't bad enough, he'd headed back home, only to find his best friend Walter, that no good son of a bitch, running around the living room playing a game of naked pin the tail on the donkey with his wife, Sissy.

Submitted: April 03, 2008

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Submitted: April 03, 2008

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Jack couldn't believe his luck.  He'd worked for R & R roofers for 10 long, hard, years, sweating his ass off 6-7 days a week in the hot Florida sun, only to show up one day and find the office closed, the trucks gone, and his 401k sitting on empty.  What a shitty way to start the week. 

If that wasn't bad enough, he'd headed back home, only to find his best friend Walter, that no good son of a bitch, running around the living room playing a game of naked pin the tail on the donkey with his wife, Sissy. 

It was abso-fucking-lutely amazing.  Here was the same woman that always had a freaking migraine or wasn't really ‘in the mood'.  Then wham, 30 minutes after he's out the door, on his way to bust his ass make an honest living, she's playing sex therapist with a guy that was the best man at their damn wedding.  For the last 25 years Walter and Jack had only one golden rule between them- don't ever, ever, and I mean ever, fuck with your buddy's old lady. 

For some reason he couldn't stop grinning.  He couldn't stop giggling.  Hell, he couldn't stop laughing out loud.  He wasn't sure what had been funnier, seeing how small Walter's weanie was or the look on both of their guilty faces when he calmly walked between them, and grabbed a Bud from the fridge on his way to snag his shotgun off the mantle.  As he shook open the box of shells, Walter shriveled further so his largest protrusion was his nose.  Sissy screamed as he hid behind her.  By the time Jack locked a shell in the chamber, Walter was rushing out the door, sniveling like baby.  Well to be perfectly clear, he didn't actually rush out the door as much as rush through it.  The thought of Walter's screen burn made him break into another giggling fit. 

"Yes-sir-ee, there won't be Chicken Soup for anybody's soul in this house."

Jack eased all 6'4" of his worn-out frame into his inflatable Miller Lite chair, he stared at the Sunday paper, and drank his beer from the dingy blue igloo cooler.  Every few minutes the cycle repeated.  He started giggling, then laughing hysterically, and finally gulped a drink from his icy brew, hoping to dilute his hysteria. 

"What comes around, goes around." Jack muttered.

He glanced at the stained ivory rug in his empty duplex and then looked one more time at the ‘local' section of the St. Pete Times.  There was a grim picture of a multi-car pileup on the skyway bridge.  A bad one.  Jack giggled again and wondered when sanity had left the building.  He looked closer at the picture, giggled again, and began thinking about the last time he saw Sissy alive.

She had stopped by the day before to load up Walter's shit blue pick up and move out.  Jack had left a message earlier in the week on Walter's machine.  He gave her two weeks to move out or he was putting all her crap out front on a table with a sale sign, $1.00 each--everything must go.  Just the sign and table alone would incite a parade of condo commandoes through duplex row, each one dying to get a great deal on crap they'd never use and clothes they'd never wear.  He mentioned it would be worse than casino night at the church, and then hung up without saying goodbye.  Jack didn't give a rat's ass what happened to her, or her belongings, as long as Sissy and her crap were: G.O.N.E, gone. 

Sissy had reluctantly dragged Walter come along, though he stayed outside for most of the time, safely helping load the truck.  He looked like a spooked rabbit, ready to run at the first sign of a threat.  Jack wasn't too positive why his pal wouldn't come in, but reckoned it had something to do with him cleaning his guns on the living room floor and drinking beer at 8:30 am, or maybe it was just the sheer volume of guilt he felt from getting caught bopping his best friend's wife.  She hauled all her belongings out to the truck, except the mattresses.  This included the bed frame that Jack had painstakingly disassembled.  It had pissed him off so much that he threw out half of the screws and replaced them with ones that would not fit.  He threw them in with the others in a Ziploc bag.

Last but not least, Walter followed her in like a shadow to remove the queen size mattress and box-spring which were leaning up against the wall of the living room. They heaved them on top of the truck to hold down the rest of Sissy's belongings like a cheap roof on a mobile home.

"Walter, you better secure that mattress." Jack's only comment turned out to be his best piece of advice in years.

Sissy harrumphed in disgust, and replied, "Don't tell him what to do."

"Whatever.  You never had any problem telling me what to do," replied Jack as he watched them pull out of the drive way.  Each one held an arm out the window, latched on to the corner of the box-spring.

Yes, that was the last time he saw Sissy alive. 

Jack gulped another mouthful of beer and realized he was slowing down; it had grown warm.  He guzzled the rest, popped the cap on a fresh one, and stared at the picture in the paper.  From what he could take from looking at the picture for the last two hours and reading the article, sometime between leaving the duplex and hitting the skyway bridge at sixty miles an hour, Walter and Sissy must have decided that Jack was right...they needed to secure the mattresses.  They had one problem. No rope. 

The end result was a flawed execution of sound advice.  Walter had Sissy stretch out on top of the mattresses, gripping both windows of the cab, as he drove his shit blue truck towards his trailer in Bradenton.  All was well until they hit the skyway.  The best police could determine, a gust of wind hit the mattresses like wind filling a jumbo kite, and both the mattresses and Sissy sailed off the back of the truck.  Walter continued driving.  So did the three cars behind him.  The Wal-Mart truck stopped.  On the mattresses.  Sissy's worn sneakers poked out from beneath the mattress.  The poor bastard driving the truck was sitting in the cab with his head in his hands.  He was probably crying about the report he had to file with corporate. 

Jack stared at the picture and wondered if he was going through shock.  He giggled, and paused, waiting momentarily for the hysterical laughter that this time did not follow.  Instead, he whispered one last time, "You better secure that mattress."  He put down his beer and flipped to the classifieds.  Halfway down the page he circled an ad for a company looking for a roofer with 10 years of experience. 

Jack couldn't believe his luck.


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