Jack

From July 17th, 2009

I walked into the locker room at the Santa Monica YMCA. My pal Jack was waiting for me. Without hesitation, he bee-lined it to me on 87-year-old spindly-legs and in his loud, room-filling voice questioned, “Pal, did you hear about me yesterday?”

“No what happened,” I asked?”

“I passed out in the whirlpool,” he relayed. One of the guys had to pull me out.”

I looked for acknowledgment from some of the other fellows. Several nodded in agreement.

“Well, I didn’t really pass out,” Jack continued, remembering we were in the locker room and deciding to hold onto his machismo. He looked around. No one contradicted him.

“But I couldn’t remember anything or call anyone’s name,” he said. “The Y people pulled me out and got me to the hospital.”

“Where were you Pal,” he questioned?

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here,” I said.

Apparently I was one of the few who had not witnessed “Jack’s event.” The next three guys to come into the locker room all echoed, “Jack you’re back.”

“Yep,” he beamed, wearing it like a badge of honor.

The YMCA personnel had rushed Jack to UCLA Santa Monica Hospital where the emergency room doctor determined he was dehydrated. A subsequent visit to his personal doctor brought more cautionary advice for the 87 year old who religiously did what he considered a “workout” three days a week.

I met Jack five years ago sitting naked in the sauna. I was sweating it out when he came in cussing loudly about something or another. The first words he said to me were “Damn it, I’m 82 years old and I ought to be able to cuss if I want to.”

I agreed with him.

We talked. We bonded. Jack an 82-year old white man from Los Angeles and me a 52-year old black man from Alabama.

Jack explained, his wife’s dying seven years before, had left him lonely and sad. He would talk often of being depressed. He’d had to stop drinking his “beloved Jim Bean,” because he’d gotten drunk and fallen into the fireplace. The thrice-weekly drive into Santa Monica gave him life. “Jack often repeated to me, “Damnit Thom,” he’d say, “you all keep me alive. If I didn’t have you guys at the Y to come and kid around with I’d probably be dead by now.”

Over the next five years, Jack and I came to be close “Y” buddies. I learned about his love of baseball as a teen and how he came to love the Boston Red Sox. I learned he did not know his father, but loved his mother dearly. He saved his money from selling newspapers at the Hollywood studios to buy his Mom a house.

We were not phone buddies or visiting buddies. Our relationship was a full one, but geographically it was limited to the YMCA. He looked for me when he hit the locker room.

A slight man, he would threaten to whip me the bigger and younger man over his “girlfriend,” the middle aged black woman who worked at the reception desk. She hailed from Chicago and that became her name. “I better not catch you talking to Chicago,” he would point his finger at me and say.

“I won’t. I promise,” I’d return.

When we were kidding he would remind me he didn’t hear well. I would speak loudly and he would turn his head to me with his good ear.

If someone came up and started talking to me about a ball game or any subject, Jack would talk louder, I was his pal and he was proprietary about me.

Throughout our many conversations, he found out I played football in the 1970’s at Auburn. Like many Southern Californians, Jack loved Southern Cal football. In the early 2000’s Southern Cal spanked Auburn in a home and home series. Jack ate it up and me along with it.

He found out I’d spent time in camp with the Buffalo Bills. Auburn and the Buffalo Bills became my introduction for
anyone new. “Hey,” he would say, “this is my Pal, Thom. He played for Auburn. Don’t hold that against him. He also played with the greatest running back of all time, O.J. Simpson.” Murder charges not withstanding Jack thought and would tell anyone who would listen that O.J. was the best runner ever.

I learned Jack’s last name from his magazine subscription.
He received a free magazine subscription for buying girl-scout cookies from the little girl that lived next door to him. Mistakenly, he’d chosen ESPN magazine. The magazine is oversized. It was too big and cumbersome for Jack. He’d package his magazines in a bag and bring them to me. If I missed him on some days he would save them for me, until the next time I saw him.

I doubt if Jack ever knew my last name. It wasn’t necessary. Anything beyond Jack and Thom was superfluous. That was our relationship.

The last time I saw my pal was a couple of months ago at the Y. As I was leaving, he double-checked with me, “You’ll be here tomorrow.”

“Oh yeah Pal,” I responded. “I’ll be here.” Then I remembered, “No I won’t be here tomorrow. I’m heading out of town for a while.”

“Where are you going” He wanted to know.

“I’m going to Florida,” I told him.

“Okay,” he mustered.

The last week of June, I received a call in Florida from another one of my Y buddies, Irish Joe, from Belfast, Ireland. Joe, a talented artist and another Jack fan bought Jack an authentic Boston Red Sox Jacket while he was in Boston visiting museums. It was beautiful and Jack wore it proudly every trip to the Y.

Joe in his Irish brogue began, “I’ve got some bad news.”

“Oh no,” I cut him off. Something told me, I already knew. Many times when I was away from California for a prolonged period, I wondered if my pal would still be at the Y when I got back?

Irish Joe, knowing how close Jack and I were, gently delivered the news. Jack’s heart had given out. My pal had died the Friday before.

“Damn,” was all I could murmur.

I thanked Joe for calling.

My pal Jack was gone and I was not there. I still hear him, “Thom you all keep me alive. I love coming to the Y.”

Except this time I was not there.

Jack’s adult son held a memorial reception for Jack at Jack’s house. Family and friends were invited. He also invited Jack’s Y friends. Irish Joe made it, paying his respects to our pal. I did not get to go. I wish I could have.

The Santa Monica YMCA will never be the same for me. The machines are the same. The same people work there. Ms. Chicago is still at the reception desk. But, I’ll never see her the same. Neither the locker room nor the sauna will ever be the same.

I’ll miss Jack. I’ll miss his loud cussing voice. “Hey Pal, did you hear what happened to me.”