One Act

Scene: Dan’s office

DAN:

None of us could stand the SOB. But of course, we all have to go. They’re even closing the office early. Really, there’s no way to get out of it. Especially under the circumstances.

Of all people, Jack-O, to die a so-called hero. It had to have been a freak accident. No way would have thought there was the slightest risk to himself. Not Mister He-Man, Me-Man. No, it was a walk in the park. Rather, a dip in the pond—jump in, yank the kid out, get his pretty picture in the paper, and come back to brag about it.

Not that Jack-O ever needed a reason to blow his horn. He’d go on about his weight-lifting regimen, pump his biceps a la Jack LaLanne. Fancied himself a ladies’ man—though none of the women could abide him. Despite his good looks and great physique—witness his continual show-and-tell—Jack-O was what in the seventies would have been called a Male Chauvinist Pig. Nowadays, “pig” for short.

No one could figure it; Jack-O was barely 25; he wasn’t even born until twenty years past the Age of Enlightenment. Besides, with all the harassment hoopla these days you’d think he’d have the sense—though not the decency—to keep his mouth shut and his hands in his pockets.

Nothing could cramp his obnoxious style. He’d tell crude jokes, share sordid stories of purported exploits in explicit detail, make suggestive remarks and practically trip over his tongue leering. He was damn lucky all the women chose to ignore him—he’d have long since been out of a job for sure and likely sued to boot.

At least the ladies got a measure of—inadvertent—revenge. One of them, in response to his brush-on, sputtered in spoonerism: Jack off, Back. He’s been called Jack-O ever since. Shortly after Jack acquired his “O,” some proposed that it be sandwiched between, respectively, an “S” and a “B.”

Jack-O mocked and mimicked gays; he minced about, flapping his wrists, in his pathetic attempts to entertain. Who knew how many here had taken offense and kept quiet.

He was less blatant as regards racist remarks, restricting himself to some stereotypical mutterings when the coast was clear of “immigrant cargo.” He must have figured—and rightly so—that our major “minority contingent” would have taken him on.

Jack-O told one joke that was quite humorous in itself: Two guys pissing off a bridge, one remarks that the water is cold, the other replies: Deep, too.” Jack-O superfluously made them “COLORED” guys—he couldn’t resist the stereotype that black men are well-hung. And wherever he learned the term “colored” God knows—that went out at sixty years ago.

Ironic that the child Jack-O saved is black. Certainly, he’d have had no way of knowing that ahead of time; the other kids with him were white.

It is a miracle that the boy lived. He’d been underwater for several minutes by the time Jack-O got to him. The child had been unresponsive; fortunately, he emerged from the coma two days later. No brain damage at all; children can survive without oxygen far longer than adults and suffer no lasting effects.

As for Jack-O, none of us can fathom how a ten-ton toad like him up and croaked. They’d ruled out a heart attack. Indeed, he’d recently been boasting about the results of a stress-test. Besides, how much exertion could it take to fish a thirty-pound three-year-old from a lake? They say Jack-O found the kid quickly, hoisted him up, and handed him off—then, suddenly he went under. By the time they realized Jack-O was in trouble he had already drowned.

(Enter Rob, holding a newspaper)

ROB: Still front page news. Probably because the funeral is set for this afternoon. Look—Dan—here’s a photo of the boy, Tommy, with his brother, Charlie. Charlie must have already run off for help before Jack-O happened upon the white kids by the pond…

…But no. Charlie says he was the one who ran to Jack-O. Quote: “I screamed, ‘Mister, my brother’s drowning.’ And he jumped right in. Didn’t even take off his shoes like they do in the movies.”

I don’t get it, Dan. We were at the gym, just last week, me and Jack-O. Bench-pressing, free-weights, the usual. I’d worked up quite a sweat, figured I’d take a dip to cool down. So, I asked Jack-O if he wanted to come along. And the Sonofabitch tells me he’d never learned to swim!