The House that Jack Built

by Malcolm James

  "I never go to a party without bringing a present," laughed Jack, speaking to the young hostess. She stood there, staring at him with big, lust-filled blue eyes, "And there was no way I was going to give you my Jaguar, so..." A jubilant roar erupted from the crowd.

  As usual, he made a deft impression when no-one else could. Jack was young and had a sparkle in his eyes that bespoke youth in action. His grin was handsome and indelible, he rarely had to work for anything, and he enjoyed life and let people know it. He was impressionistic.

  Yes, he made an impression on the hostess. Thankfully too, for they spent every waking hour together. The relationship gave me a much-needed break and my studies were grateful. And while she was one of many conquests, their tryst – although brief – was one more step down a path littered with used bodies. Jack may have been carefree, but his demons governed him with insidious prejudice.

  As for me, I was young and didn’t take much heed of Jack’s troubling habits or even my own common sense; and the more I fell into his mesmerizing web, the more it got me into trouble.

  That problem would follow me like a stalker, well into my adult years.

  Chapter 12

  Jack and ‘Tiger Lady’ made it to summer break before he kicked her to the curb and laughed about it. Her friends told anyone who would listen what a prick he was. He didn’t give a shit though, and who could blame him? He was going to Europe for the summer.

  Elizabeth and I breathed a sigh of relief when he decided to go. It killed me that I couldn’t tell him about us, because he often tried to set me up with his consorts’ friends – often the ugly stepsister. I rebuffed every effort. He scorned me for it, but I couldn’t tell him why I wasn’t interested in anyone else. For all his faults, he was my best friend. I just didn’t have the balls to come clean.

  I had no idea how he’d react if he knew. He was unpredictable, especially since his alcohol and chemical abuse had soared to unprecedented heights.

  I was certain that he stopped taking his meds and started to use other pills to keep himself up. He needed something for the incessant nights of partying and occasional studying – although I never saw him pick up a book. Even so, he went to most of his classes and managed passing grades, and I despised him for it. Everything was a lark to him and while I toiled and struggled, he sailed through somehow.

  My time with Elizabeth was the only thing that kept me remotely sane. Masturbating three times a day didn’t hurt either. If I didn’t masturbate frequently, Jack’s attempts might have worked sooner. His constant offers to help me ‘get some ham on my bone’ were unending and often tempting, even though I kept the Vaseline people in business.

  But I kept her close. I dreamed about our encounters and relived them in my head as I brought myself off. I fantasized about seeing her again, and I reveled in the sound of her voice. A couple of times we even had phone sex, and while nothing like the real thing, doing it with her – a receiver in one hand and my member in the other – was far more glorious, in my mind anyway, than having real sex with some freshman I didn’t even know.

  One benefit of Jack’s incessant womanizing was that he wasn’t around much. So I didn’t have to worry about finding phone-time with her. We racked up the bills, too. It raped my bank account, but it didn’t matter. I badly needed to have sex.

  We spent the summer together. She turned down a job in Boston so that she could come back to Detroit to be with me. The entire school year had been peppered with a ridiculous amount of love letters and phone calls. God, I still have the box. I just don’t know where it is.

  She had gained weight since I last saw her, but it didn’t matter. Initially surprised, I quickly got over it when I looked into her smiling eyes. And when we fell into bed, our lovemaking took on whole new meaning. What had started out as awkward fumbling and nervous caressing became soft, tender, gentle expressions that explored souls far deeper than any verbal communication could have. Our sessions became protracted symphonies of foreplay, with intercourse being the denouement of a long and glorious novel that you never want to end.

  Summer passed quickly while I was buried inside warm, moist lips. Jack was away for most of the summer so by the time he got home, she and I shared our last hours together. Thankfully so, because their combined presence in Detroit terrified me.

  When she got on the plane, amidst my relief that she and Jack wouldn’t see each other, my heart broke all over again. I didn’t want her to go. I wanted to hold her close and whisper that we would never be apart again. But I had to let her go. And if I knew then…knew what I know now, I would have asked her to stay. Or moved myself to Boston.

  It was my biggest mistake, next to being his friend.

  ***

  Autumn came like Napoleon’s retreat from Russia. Leaves dropped off the trees, reminiscent of lost casualties. They turned from green to gold, orange, umber and fiery red. The slight chill in the air was a prophecy, even though days in October and November were deceptively warm. Just enough to pretend that summer was reborn.

  But extreme shifts to chill evenings and the shortening of the days were evidence enough that autumn in Detroit was nothing more than a cock-tease. On some mornings the sun seemed garish; and the only evidence of summer’s demise was the color of the leaves, frost-caked windows and the thick fog that emanated from my mouth. It was enough to remind me that it wasn’t long before a protracted winter would beset me with a vengeance.

  Our sophomore year loomed. Jack was back, and we were moving in together.

  We chose to reside on campus. I suppose I thought it would give me freedom, liberate me from the shackles of home – even though Father’s absence allowed freedoms that most boys my age would have killed for. On the other hand, Jack was more practical. He liked the idea of being within ‘fucking distance,’ of the women’s residence.

  Like most of Detroit of the Nineties, Wayne State was behind the times and still had segregated dormitories. We were in the South Residence, which was the men’s residence. The women’s residence was called Ghafari Hall, but a time-honored tradition amongst men at WSU was to call it ‘Giraffe Hall.’ All neck and no tail.

  There was a stringent sign-in policy and curfew at Giraffe Hall. It was a double-standard, but it didn’t deter those who were filled with youth, vim, vigor and more than a few raging hormones. Young, dumb and full of cum.

  Jack epitomized that truism and grew legendary status for finding ways around the curfew. Night after night, I didn’t see him until the dwindling hours of the morning, when he returned just in time to get ready for first class.

  As for me, I was just excited about sliding into my father’s business and the nice cushy career that went with it. He made it very clear that I was taking an MBA when I finished my undergrad degree. Since he was considering retirement, he chose life in Quebec over the insane hustle and bustle of Detroit. Assuming I got passing grades, the mantle would be mine when the time was right.

  While Jack wanted College chicks, I looked forward to the new experiences College promised, and the chance to focus on Liberal Arts. Finally, no more biology, chemistry or physics. I’ll admit it: I’m right-brained, and I don’t have the necessary focus or mental discipline for science.

  I’ve always had a thing for the Arts. As a child I was absolutely fascinated with tales of mythology and epic stories. I’d fixate on paintings in the pages of books. The splendor and color dominated and captivated me.

  William Blake inspired me. His poems were so expressive, but his paintings…ah, his paintings were storm-filled expressions of evil and doom. The Great Red Dragon and the Woman Clothed with the Sun was my favorite. I’d stare at it for hours. The imagery…so graphic, so tormented in its composition, made me feel like I could actually put the palms of my hands on the page, close my eyes, and feel my fingertips sink in. My hands, wrists, elbows, shoulder, chest and head would follow until my entire body was sucked into the painting. I became the angel cowering under the menacing loom of the Red Dragon.


  Yes, I know. It’s a metaphor whose irony is not lost on me now.

  I especially enjoyed Blake’s poem, the Sick Rose, although I didn’t fully understand its meaning until my sophomore year.

  O Rose thou art sick.

  The invisible worm,

  That flies in the night

  In the howling storm:

  Has found out thy bed

  Of crimson joy:

  And his dark secret love

  Does thy life destroy.

  I was pleasantly shocked when our professor explained that the ‘sick rose’ Blake wrote about was a hymen. She didn’t go as far as explaining what metaphorical role the worm played, but her suggestion that half the room was made of worms caused an eruption of guffaws and chuckles from the class.

  I loved it. This was my element. Studying literature, art, philosophy and history were my forté, and they gave me a reason to focus on something other than trying to get laid.

  Believe me, that was still a priority. But university had commenced, and a brand new chapter in our lives had begun. For me, I just tried to enjoy university life, even though being apart from Elizabeth was driving me crazy. I tried to focus on my studies, but my thoughts drifted far away to Boston.

  Unfortunately for me, Jack wasn’t about to let me get off that easily.

  Chapter 13

  I curse myself for being unfaithful to her.

  But idealism is inversely proportionate to age. The young are idealistic but aging teaches the harsh realism of life. Idealism fades. Therefore, idealism is a lie, and those who succumb to lies are stupid. So it stands to reason that the younger you are, the stupider you are. Right?

  Okay. If not stupid, then naïve as Hell.

  I was the poster child for youthful stupidity. There was little influence in my life that filled me with wisdom or kept me honest. And regardless of how smitten I was with her, Jack had a far greater influence on me. By virtue of geography, he had my full attention. Whether I realized it or not, he had me by the short and curlies and I was drawn like a magnet to anything that involved him.

  The aura he gave off stunk of fornicating and drinking. His contagion spread, until the Bohemian in me began to manifest itself into something which clawed and screamed and fought from deep inside, to get out.

  I used to think that he and I had developed some kind of codependence. For the more I was around him, the less I thought about Elizabeth, my career, my hopes, and the future. And the more I thought about the narrative possibilities of ‘target-rich environments.’

  But I was kidding myself. It wasn’t codependence. It was my dependence. Jack wasn’t dependent on anything that existed outside of his twisted sphere of understanding. His dependencies were far too powerful to be shared with anyone else. The bastard lived and fed off of his own lascivious cravings, and off of anyone who was stupid enough to get close to him. And – fuck him in the heart – he knew it.

  God, even now he won’t leave me alone. He’s here with me. His voice laughs in my head. At least someone’s appreciative of the irony.

  I try not to listen to his voice, but most days it dominates my waking hours. And if I refuse to let it dominate me when my eyes are open, then my sleep becomes his bitch. I can’t take it anymore, waking up in the cold lather that usually results from the time he spends in my unconscious mind. Wandering the hallways of my psyche, looking for a way to torment me. Searching for the dark, ugly secrets that he’s hidden there.

  I can still feel him today, even though it’s been almost seven years. And he knows it. But he stays there because he can’t get out. If I wasn’t so filled with disgust at what he’d done, I think I’d pity him. But I can’t pity him. He’s responsible for everything that’s happened to me.

  Nor can I excise him from my soul. He made sure of that. So about three years ago, I finally gave in and stopped trying to drive him from my conscious mind. At least there I can control him, somewhat. But I digress.

  It was our sophomore year and we were embroiled in a seemingly endless string of parties and nights of drunken stupor. He would end up with a different woman almost every weekend night, while I had a guaranteed date with the palm twins. And even though they were good at what they did, they weren’t really my type.

  As my summer with Elizabeth had progressed, it became easier to remember her as the person with whom I had fallen in love. Her facial expressions, voice, eyes and soul hadn’t changed. They just had more volume.

  For the most part, when we made love it was with the lights out. But I grew accustomed to her new look, and it wasn’t until after I cheated on her that I fully realized the truth. My feelings for her had never changed. They were stronger than ever before.

  Maybe this was the conscience that I had so desperately looked for when she came back for the summer. Or maybe I felt a resurgence of feelings because of the distance that was between us again. When she was in Boston, I could imagine her to look any way I wanted her to look. I still have the vivid image of her naked body wrapped around mine, from the night in the cabin, and that memory kept me warm. It protected our relationship.

  Jack however, did not protect me.

  Believe me, I tried to remain faithful to her. I was enamored with her. It wasn’t like I was chasing a fantasy anymore. She was mine. All I had to do was keep it in my pants, right? All I had to do was remain faithful. It was my game to lose.

  But in the same way that Smoogie screwed-up our Ninth Grade hockey game, Jack was about to land the hit of all hits on me. It was about to be game over.

  Youthful stupidity, remember?

  It happened in mid-November, at a frat party. Phi Kappa Pi, I think. Although it was a test tube party – shots of Cuervo served in test tubes – it was a huge waste of time. There were three guys for every girl, and I now know what pigs on tequila look like. Not a pretty sight.

  So we hopped a cab and went to Windsor. For a small city, Windsor is peppered with lots of nightclubs, a great Casino and fantastic strip clubs. It’s entirely possible to start at one place, have only two drinks at each one, and still be totally hammered by the end of the night.

  We began at Casino Windsor and after losing a few hundred bucks there, we went to a strip club called Cheetah’s. It was well-known in Detroit, for Michigan has a lot of stupid laws. There, they’re called ‘tittie bars,’ and for good reason. At a tittie bar in Detroit, you can watch crack whores prance on a stage wearing a G-string. Or you could go to Windsor and leer while gorgeous strippers waved their pussies inches from your face.

  Cheetah’s was okay, but Jack grew tired of flirting with strippers.

  “I’m tired of looking. I want some doing,” he nudged me and downed his beer. We went to a place called Rosa’s, in the Via Italia – the Italian Quarter. We talked to a few Canadian girls, but it got tired, so around 11 PM we hailed a taxi and took the tunnel back to Detroit.

  We went to a dance club called Woody’s. It was on Woodward Avenue, and the cartoonish character on the marquee left little doubt that the club’s name was a double-entendre. Jack knew all the bouncers, so we never got carded or cued. Waiting patrons were pissed when we strolled right in – especially since Jack rubbed it in like the prick he was. On a cold winter night it was a blessing, but that night it was warm enough for jackets.

  It was fairly quiet – the real action didn’t start until after midnight – so we sat at the bar and Jack struck up a conversation with one of the bartenders while I peered around the room with disinterest. That was when they sat down next to Jack.

  There were three of them, and while they seemed attractive, I had several beers and a couple of tequila shooters swimming around my head in a riptide. My judgment was compromised. But when Jack leapt on the opportunity, the fog in my head sighed with relief that my beer-goggle eyes weren’t lying to me. Even drunk and stoned, his vision for beautiful women was always 20/20.

  He didn’t waste any time. That was one thing I loved about Jack, and possibly the number one
reason that I kept him around for as long as I did. He could have written the ‘How-To’ book on descending upon prey. But he cut me off from them, and I had to force myself into the conversation. Since I had to raise my voice and stand up on the edge of the barstool as if I was getting ready to catapult off of it, I probably looked pretty stupid. But I didn’t care. Horniness doesn’t go on vacation when alcohol attacks. Alcohol just makes you stupid-horny, as opposed to sobriety’s normal state of dumb-horny.

  Elizabeth was far, far away and her memory drifted off on a sea of tequila shooters. All the while, the stupidity of youth stood on the shore, waving and laughing at me.

  I didn’t catch most of the conversation. Drowned by pounding music, mostly I heard Jack’s laughter, his gregarious affectations, and the odd word here and there. Of course, he didn’t introduce me and barely acknowledged my presence.

  I knew him. He was considering which one – or more – he was going to have that night. If it would have helped his cause, he would have knocked me unconscious and propped me up in a corner. But occasionally and in a calculated manner, he’d look over at me and make a comment or slap me on the back.

  I could have been a stuffed mannequin and he would have had done the same thing, if it would have helped him get laid. He wasn’t doing it because he was trying to involve me. It was his way of showing the ladies that he was an amiable person. Added points, just in case.

  Just when I was bored enough and considering getting out of there before someone poured me out of the bar, they excused themselves and went to the Ladies Room. Conference time, for them and for us. Jack took a long draught from his beer and punched me in the arm.

  “We’re in there,” he chuckled and I took this to mean, ‘I’m in there. You can come along for the ride as long as you stay the fuck out of my way.’