Jack Emerson Read online

Jack Emerson

  Michael Jones

  Copyright 2015 by Michael Jones

  ¶

  “…Manic bipolar, alternating between austere hopeless romanticism, and a sort of jaded but relentless determined industrial autonomy. Which combined, though one side more subconscious at times then the other, they render a demeanor almost all of the time, what a friend put as: auto-didactical heretical maniac; slightly at times more romantic, and at other times a little emotionally cloy.

  The only radical fluctuations in me are blood pressure and gastration... everything else I try to keep in its place… which is a whole battle on its own, where each thing’s place is. Anyway, back to blood pressure, I don’t notice my stress or anxiety until either my stomach hurts, or I feel chest pains. Ironically I’m the only ascetic idealist you’ll ever meet, the rest are probably locked up tight in the loony bin or dead.

  I have a theory that every human being is obsessive compulsive in at least one respect, mine is philosophy. I love to think, and hate it at the same time. Infallible maxims are rarer than I am humble enough to admit… which is what I suffer from; indirectly of course - it is the insomnia and high blood pressure that are the real culprits.

  I probably shouldn’t be the one saying this; it should be some great psychologist that dissects my brain through observation and analysis. For all I know, my perspective, especially of myself, could be skewed. And that’s just the problem; I really don’t think it is.

  I should interrupt this narration to explain: I was asking him what he thought about different things, and I asked him, “What do you think about you…” and before I could catch my train of thought he had already begun explaining his life in a nutshell. I’m glad I brought a recorder, because there is no way I would have remembered the dozen or so words I had to look up in the dictionary… most of which twice.

  “You should write a book… or a couple, I’m sure you could,” I replied after his self-analysis.

  “Oh and if I did, the one poor soul that truly enjoyed it, would worry himself sick whether his new favorite author would completely lose his mind, leaving a series half unwritten.”

  “Okay, well then just write one book, and then it won’t matter if you go crazy afterwards.”

  “There wouldn’t be an after! If I wrote just one book, I would go crazy before I wrote it, trying to put everything into that one work.”

  “I don’t think very many people thought they were going crazy before they did,” I suggested.

  “If anyone truly wanted to read something of mine, I could just publish my journal as A Diary of a Tortured Mind.”

  “Do you keep a journal?” I asked.

  “Only when I’m happy apparently… Like I was saying, I am so detached sometimes, that I won’t notice or acknowledge that I am scared or nervous, until my stomach hurts; it is the same with when I’m happy, suddenly I start writing songs, and journal entries just seem to pop up.”

  “I’m sure you’ve thought about why you don’t write when you’re sad.”

  “Of course, in theory if you only apply paint to the good brush strokes, and only use lighter and brighter colored paints, the painting will look a lot happier. If I don’t want to keep something I don’t.

  I don’t keep ledgers, or grudges; I try and keep the baby and toss the bath water.”

  “Does it work?”

  “Yes… but I’m not sure at what cost. I don’t see any other option, so I don’t worry about it. I do look back and remember mostly happy memories, and I do think mostly they have been. I would say I like my life.”

  ¶

  YES, this is Jack Emerson. My name is Chris Else. I should probably explain how we became friends, well at least I consider him my friend. I really have no idea what he thinks, even when he says what he is thinking, I’m not sure. Not that I think he is a lair, but there seems to always be more going on in his head.

  This started off as a paper for school, but just like anything else in Jack’s life, it’s turning into more… I think.

  I am twenty one years old; I have lived here in Seattle almost my whole life. I took a year off school right before college and worked as a ski bum. It was fun, but I don’t think it’s something I’ll love my whole life. I still don’t know what will be.

  Yes, I am one of those drifters; I haven’t quite found my niche in life yet.

  I love skiing, but it doesn’t really hurt when I hang up the boots; I am excited when the first snow hits, but I’m never scared when I think it’s the last of the season.

  I have taken a lot of classes so far, and not just liberal arts. Any of my teachers would guess I was a microbiology major, and maybe I am. We’ll see, I haven’t decided anything yet, but being a biologist doesn’t sound too bad.

  How my path converges with Jack’s is work actually; I got a job at the bakery close to my apartment. I work early mornings before school. It’s not like getting paid to ski, but it pays the bills.

  Jack had been working there about as long as I had. I later found out, he had switched through all the different shifts for a couple days each before he overlapped with me. Then a couple days later he was gone.

  Early mornings are not really my thing, so I didn’t think much of anything important, or anything at all really. Jack though, did really catch my half-awake attention. He was nice but quiet, confident yet reserved, friendly, but there was also some kind of distance… I don’t really know how to explain it. That was only a few weeks ago now.

  It doesn’t seem very weird to meet someone nice but quiet working in a bakery, but this man is about fifty years old, not married, (well at least that I can tell), and someone came in and called him Dr. Emerson… and he answered to it!

  When my English teacher announced the assignment to interview someone interesting and write a report though is seemed pretty juvenile for a college English class, my first thought still was: “If there is anyone I really would like to interview its Jack.”

  I chose not to interview any pro skiers; not saying I wouldn’t want to talk with them, but I would rather hit a run together, than hear their philosophy on life.

  The only problem was I didn’t know more than his first and last name. I asked my boss about him and he gave me his address. I knocked on his door this afternoon, and there we were chatting it up. I felt like I was in a movie or a dream, but it was much better, I was talking with Jack Emerson. He made me feel oddly comfortable, but also feeling like I was lagging behind the conversation. At times I found myself just asking what ever came to my mind first just to keep up.

  I’ll start back at the beginning I promise, but I really don’t want to forget this part; I asked him what goes on in his head. He led me to the window and pointed down at a young man.

  "Look at the way he keeps looking at his pocket watch. Can you see how he tries to look surprised every time he flips it open? He feigns a smile of confidence, and then just slips it right back into his pocket. It's not 1890, this is 1996. He's too prideful to smoke but oh if he did; with those compulsive nerves he'd be the blackest of the smoke stacks."

  It wasn't that he said it condescending, but he did seem to be right. It made me curious to know how free we are from the fate of our lack of creativity, that apparently is very obvious to some people like Jack.

  I find myself now, not so much in wanting to be a writer, but out of necessity trying to write my best to treasure my interactions with Jack. I think I will have to write a lot, to capture the wealth of experience it has been so far.

  I wonder about his emotion; “it is better to think than to feel” is what he has said already several times, followed usually by, 'feeling is seeing with the mind's blind eye; might as well send it off with a wingless p
igeon!'

  He seems to be a Jack of all trades, 'if someone else can do it, why can't I,' is what he usually responds when I ask 'since when have you wanted to...’ and ‘how do you plan on teaching yourself? You can fill in the blank with musician, artist, writer, chef, scientist or inventor.

  He seems fond of talking about his latest ideas and inventions. His biggest obstacle is probably settling on one, and not leaving one for the next. I can’t stop imagining how he forms all of his thoughts, because he seems to have told them many times.

  ¶

  Are you really a doctor?” I asked.

  “Some people say that.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I went to medical school.”

  “Did you not finish?” I asked hesitantly.

  “I finished.”

  “So…?”

  “So sometimes I work as a doctor.”

  “So doesn’t that make you a doctor?”

  “I guess, but I also worked as a baker, construction worker, and a bunch of other things. Either way I just prefer being known as Jack. I mean Dr. Baker Jack Hammer Jack, would be entertaining, but I think also a little weird.”

  I laughed, then asked, “why were you working at the bakery?”

  “I’ve never really baked before.”

  “…So you wanted to learn?”

  “Yes, and I always wondered why food I bought tasted better than food I would make. I don’t use recipes and though I like the food I cook, I seem to enjoy food I buy more.”

  “Cause you didn’t have to make it?” I suggested.

  “That is one thing, but what if it was also an emotional experience?”

  “So the store and the people increase the enjoyment?”

  “I don’t know, I got sick of sweets before I really could figure out whether a doughnut in the store was better than the same one made at home.”

  ¶

  As somewhat of a disclosure, as Beth suggested and I’ll explain who she is later, I think I shouldn’t include anything not interesting. So if my story with Jack seems terribly disjuncted, consider it a favor that I saved you the boredom of reading those in between parts; not that any time with Jack was dull, but there is a sort of tediousness in preserving chronology that doesn’t add to the story. This is a story about Jack anyway, not about me.

  Oh, I forgot to mention, before Jack stopping working at the bakery, he left me with a riddle. The first part makes more sense when you know that.

  This is the riddle he gave me.

  “On a mountain in China, there is a temple. A man started up the mountain at sunrise, and got to the temple at sunset.

  He stayed the night, and at sunrise he left the temple. Enjoying his descent down the mountain, he stopped more often to talk with those coming up and enjoy the view. He arrived at the bottom at sunset. Was there any point on the mountain that he was at the same time both days?”

  ¶