Jack, and Ms Ida
The Terrible
by Dan Senn

Jack,
a criminal from the start,
befriended me
in the fourth grade,
during the reign
of Ms Ida’s terror.

What attracted
Jack to me,
was that I had
walked out
of Miss Ida’s class
… to the edge of town,
where JFK’s sister lived,
and my mother labored.

It had been
a break down.

I was breaking down,
as I ran miles
to my mother side,
for she was as muscly
and meaty
as the royal Ms Ida.

As I ran toward
the Lutheran home
on the gravel road
‘long side the river rapids,
two inmates
spilled down
the terraced lawn,
shoe laces between
their finger tips.
They’d come to bind
and take me inside.
Wearing helmets,
I convinced them
that I would go
unbound,
to their leader,
nurse Ratchet,
who phoned
my mother
a building away.

The next day,
at school,
a timid teacher
patiently awaited
my next infraction.

A never ending hell.

You see,
I was raised Baptist,
before the Baptos
took over the earth,
rendering me
a freak
in Ms Ida’s domain
at Webster Elementary.

Not allowed to dance,
go to movies,
play cards,
or abide curse words
in any variation,
these, my crimes,
I was a pretty lad to boot
playing ball
just well enough
to piss the woman off
in spades.

Ms Ida the Terrible
would say things like
“heck-a-copter”
instead of “helicopter”,
in front of the class,
cold staring me
into soiling myself,
almost.

She elegantly avoided
elegant gestures
lest she lapse
lightly ...into
a smart polka.

Ripped from
the same cloth,
Jack got on well
with Ms Ida,
but was enchanted
more by adventure,
the kind found
in Mark Twain’s books,
and my shocking
act of resistance
had qualified me
for attention.
Jack wanted to know
the details
of my “jail break”
…“my great escape
from the cops”
and how the “loonies
almost nabbed me.”

And so,
we became pals,
… me often going
to his house
… his fancy nice Mom
cooking
fancy nice meals
like hash,
on fancy plates
with shiny silverware,
… cloth napkins
perfectly ironed.

Where his Dad,
with a Tom Waits voice,
missing two fingers,
rolled cigarettes
like the hobos
down
by the railroad tracks
and to whom
I was soon introduced.

Jack
was well-read
already at 9.
He knew all about
Confederate soldiers
… how they screamed
to scare crap
outa the Yankees.

He told me everything
and it was new to me,
this world of cigarettes,
sneaking out at night,
swigging pretend whisky,
wearing Civil War hats,
peeping in windows,
breaking into houses,
“stealing what others
had already stolen”,
Jack said.

What’s not to like?

Once, ‘bout midnight
I put a ladder
to his 2nd floor window
on Sunset Avenue,
and soon
we were lifting
the security fence
'round the old
water tower silo
on Octagon Hill.

Inching to the top,
50-60-70 feet up
with little to grab,
the smooth,
slippery dome,
scared heck outa me
as my cohort screamed
like a Jack Pot winner
at the glow of Milwaukee
50 miles away.

For him, these
were notches in his
Confederate pistol.
For me,
they were things
to be hidden,
from my parents.

Jack loved
Beattle tunes
singing “Twist & Shout”,
head bobbing
like Paul McCartney
to a spinning 45
next to in his bed,
out of tune.
And he loved
Nathan Bedford Forrest,
wore a grey Rebel cap
insisting I wear
the Yankee version.

In ’64, when
Jack and I were 13,
my folks,
who didn’t know the half it,
invited him,
with the family,
to the New York
World’s Fair,
which we saw little of.
Jack and I
would sneak off,
on the subway,
to Manhattan for adventure,
to see the naked lady
movies and peep shows.
And Jack
was often polite,
a book reader,
…good athlete,
but, over time,
he tired of me,
thank God,
…started drinking for real,
taking bigger risks,
and soon ended up
in reform school
…and then plain ole jail.
When I saw him,
just after high school,
his eyes
were so glazed
it frightened me
...all over again.
And then
I ran into Ms Ida,
The Terrible,
on a construction site
I was working.
She told me,
with watery eyes,
that I was
the best student
she ever had.

Seriously.

Many years later,
… married,
… with kids,
… teaching at University,
Jack showed up
on my porch
in Illinois
polished and clear eyed
with a degree
in literature,
he said,
from a school in Florida.
…stayed a few days.

He was driving
an old silver Volvo,
spoke well,
and seemed fine
until one day
I came into the TV room
where he’d been
camped out
and was now urgently
packing his things.

On top of his luggage
was a 45 caliber
hand gun
as big as
Nathan Bedford Forest’s.

No cap.

That I was there,
he didn’t care
as he checked
the chamber
to see if it was loaded
and then,
taking a capsule
from his pocket,
broke it in half,
sucked up
the white contents,
one nostril at a time
lapping up
the leftovers
while grunting
“It’s vitamins”
and then
scooted out the door,
pistol in his wastband,
roller bag in tow,
never looking back.

Another adventure.

Don’t think Jack
had a conscience.

DS 011519
©Dan Senn 2019