Well, it's all right, even if the sun don't shine, because my beloved comrade, Chuckles, is riding his bed while going to the end of the line

 

Jerry "Chuckles News Brother" is doing all right as he sleeps all day in his home that is carrying him toward the end of the line.

I've emotionally missed my weekly/twice-weekly visits to see Jerry during the nine months he lived in a room with Milford/Bob in the Memory Care Ward a few miles from my humble home and office (AKA "Da Basement”).

I’ve even had to explain to my friend, Quincy, the Shell Station manager, that he no longer needs to stock the Diet SunDrop. He had special ordered it for me so, during the nine months I visited Jerry in the cuckoo’s nest, I had his favorite beverage – and some peanut butter crackers or somesuch – to give him a break from cranberry juice and institutional slop.

When Quincy ran out of Diet SunDrop, he suggested some of his vintage Diet Mountain Dew for Jerry. He liked the change. Me, I wouldn’t ever buy any of that swill for old Flapjacks. A guy has to be fucking nuts to like that stuff.

Quincy asked if my friend in the nursing home is dead. “No,” I said. “He’s only sleeping,” but not in the nursing home.

“Good. Those damn places are worse than prisons,” Quincy said. I do continue my long-standing tradition of topping off the gas tank on the 1985 Saab at Pump No. 8, and I continue to get pissed if someone, especially anyone with Alabama plates, blocks my pump.

I say “Alabama” plates, but they could be from any state or country, even my neighborhood. I am an intense creature of habit.  Don’t fuck with my pump.

I don’t go into details with Quincy, but Jerry was evicted from the nursing home for uncommon violent behavior: At least twice, he got mad at Bob, who was sitting in Jerry's chair, and he picked him up and threw him to the floor. That is one of the sad results of dementia or Alzheimer's.

Milford/Bob probably misses me, too, since for some reason I could speak his garbled language and make him laugh. Seventy-five pounds, dripping wet, I’ll bet 250-plus-pound Jerry had little trouble doing one of those big-time wrestling body slams or pile-drivers with the little guy.

Actually, it was not that violent, apparently. Milford/Bob wasn’t hurt. But he was frightened as he looked up at the fat guy in the reclining chair where he’d been sitting up until then.

Jerry had nowhere to go but home after they threw his fat ass to the curb (he had similar treatment 14 years ago at The Tennessean.)

 So his nephew, Steven, took custody of him and hauled him to the house Chuckles owns halfway between the edge of nowhere and a pile of dead cows and a slave cemetery, in too-rural Tennessee. I would not go out there unless I had a white sheet in the back seat, so I could blend in with the citizenry.  Actually, I made that part up, and I will, perhaps, drop in and see him sometime. I’ll need my Dad’s WWII MP’s billy club handy, though.  

Even if I wanted to go, I’d have to ask for directions, and I’m not sure Jerry knows where he is or who he is.

The first thing he’ll ask me is where I been. And I don’t know. Haven’t for a long time.

 Steven, had been living in the house with Uncle Chuckles for years prior to his lockup in the looney bin, and he voluntarily decided to turn his life upside down by taking Jerry back home and caring for him. He was the only family member willing to make that commitment.

"It's been better than I thought it would be," said Chef Steven this morning, September 11, 2024, when I called him at the restaurant where he works.

"So far, he just sleeps all day," said Steven, who rousts old Chuck when he gets home from work, when they eat and watch movies together until bedtime.  They used to enjoy beer, whiskey and more, but I promise, after being around him for most of a year, such activity would find him face down on the floor.  And I’ll bet Steven can’t pick him up.

Steven does worry what will happen if Jerry ever decides to escape his snug bed during the daytime and wander out into the living room, wondering "Where I been?"

"I may have to get someone to come in during the days, then," said Steven, adding that if necessary, he'll quit his job to care for his uncle.

That's a pretty big burden for a younger man to bear, but he loves his uncle and does not want him back in the looney bin. Manley blood apparently carries with it large responsibilities down there in too-rural southern Tennessee or wherever the hell the shack is.

Jerry used to have a dog down there, with Steven. “His name was ‘Snow’ or ‘Frosty’ or ‘Snowy’ or something like that,” Jerry used to guess. “I can’t remember. White dog. Nice dog.” I hope the dog is still there to provide company if Jerry ever gets out of bed in the daytime.

By the way, I'm sure Milford/Bob, who I miss since my visits to the nursing home have ended, is glad Jerry's gone, too. Now he’s got two chairs he can pee himself on, while riding and clicking his false teeth, remembering his days as a ribbon-winning horseman.  Those ribbons decorated the walls.  There was plenty of room for Jerry to add his own decorations, but he never could remember what was important to him. Believe me, I asked.

Jerry is shown in a photo here riding on a Clarksville Fire Department truck to the world premiere of "Flapjacks: The Motion Picture" on November 12, 1982.

Rob Dollar -- aka "Death News Brother" -- and I had arranged for our arrival on the fire truck, since the Firemen's Christmas Toy Drive was among the beneficiaries of the less than $3,703 we raised for charity during our all-night showing of the movie at The Roxy. We also saved The Roxy, but that’s another story.

Rob and I also gave money to the Police Department Widows and Children's fund. The police participated in our Bullitt-like chase up and down the hills of the Queen City and they also "arrested us" at the end of the premiere to make sure all of the money got out to safety -- they kept it at the Clarksville Police HQ until the next day.

There also is a part in the movie where police, unaware that we were just making a movie,  pulled us over, stole our props and beat the shit out of us. “You don’t do things like that in Clarksville, boys,” they screamed as their billy clubs made Jerry cry.  Well, the beating part is untrue. Jerry’s crying has more truth, since we were riding in the back of his old, orange Datsun mini-pickup when the sirens and blue lights came at us.  And the thunder rolled.

The final beneficiary of our charity film showing was The Mustard Seed, a Goodwill-type food and clothing agency that was on Third Street, across from the Courthouse. It also is where we bought all of our costumes during the film shoot that lasted a few months of Saturday early mornings.

Of course, I remain "Flapjacks," the title character of our little character study. Jim Lindgren ("Flash") was the fourth primary News Brother, and he's in Sweden today. It is a family ancestry hunt, as Flash, like so many of us wonders where he been.

I think of Jerry often. I miss him, even being with him while he made little sense and had no clue as to whether it was day or night or where he been for months.

I love the guy. And, now that it’s been a month since he was thrown out of the nursing home for unseemly behavior, I really do wonder if he remembers I was with him all of those mornings. And the fact it doesn't matter to anyone but me. Does he even remember who I am? (At least I do, and I'm a pretty decent guy, most times.)

“Maybe somewhere down the road aways, he’ll think of me and wonder where I am these days.  Maybe somewhere down the road when somebody plays Purple Haze.”

That’s not my quote. It’s from The Traveling Wilburys. I thought of it while I was writing this little tale today and pondering Jerry’s life and future. My own, for that matter.

The name of the song is “End of The Line.” I play it every day.  Just in case.