--Timothy N. Stely, Sr.

 

 

J A C K D R A G G E N :

T h e D u m b e s t K l a n s m a n

 

 

By

 

 

Timothy N. Stelly, Sr.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dedicated to those who fight against hate.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

-- 1 --

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Jack! Look out! Awww, Dammit, Draggen!"

Jack Draggen snapped back to attention, having nodded off while operating a forklift. By the time he gained his bearings, the auto parts he was hauling had been smashed against the side of the flatbed truck he was loading. Making matters worse, a cup of steaming fell from the front panel of the forklift, right into his lap. The driver of the truck was jumping up and down, and Jack’s boss, Marty Grable, was striding toward him chomping on a cigar. Meanwhile, Jack sat on the forklift fanning his crotch.

"You stupid sumbitch! What the hell happened?"

Jack’s face, already red because it was heavily scarred by acne, turned an even darker shade. He used his hand to sweep his dirty blond locks back, revealing green eyes set a little too far apart, a pug’s nose and scattered hairs that he passed off as a moustache.

"Sorry, boss. I had a long night."

"I don’t give a rat’s ass about that!" Grable cried. "You just cost us thousands of dollars—and this isn’t the first time!"

"Well, you see, there was this Three Stooges marathon on A and E last night…"

"Three Stooges? I thought yer mama, daddy and Grandpa had gone back to Tupelo?"

By this time a small crowd had gathered and was not only surveying the damage, but listening in on the roasting that Jack was receiving.

"I was up late and…"

"Boy, haven’t you ever heard of videotape? A VCR?" He pronounced the latter term, "V-C-owah."

"I was gonna tape it, but I put the tape in upside down and it got stuck…" There was more guffawing, but Jack was oblivious to it and continued. "…so I got a screwdriver and tried to pry it out, but I got shocked something awful and…"

"I don’t wanna heah that shit!" Grable shouted, looking at the scattered auto parts, the large dent in the truck and the bent fork on the lift. "What the hell are we gon’ do about this, Jack?"

"Well, I know from my last accident that the company has insurance."

"So do you. It’s called ‘unemployment insurance’."

Jack’s eyes widened. "Aw, come on Mr. Grable. I cain’t lose ma job. I got a wife with a baby on the way."

"I’m sorry, Jack."

Jack leaped from his seat on the forklift, When his co-workers saw the large stain on the front of his pants, they pointed at him and laughed even louder. Jack managed to ignore them.

"I promise, I won’t do it again, sir. I’ll do anything for a second chance."

Mr. Grable stroked his chin. "Hmmm."

He turned to the crowd and pointed to an unassuming black man, who had stopped to watch the goings-on. The man wore dirty blue coveralls with the name C. JENKINS stitched to the upper left pocket and a cap that read, APL Janitorial Dept He was also toting a mop and bucket.

"Jenkins, get yo ass ovah heah."

The gangly black man ambled over in overalls walked over.

"Yassuh, Mister Grable?"

"Go to the safety store and getcha self a hawd hat and some boots. You’re taking ovah for Draggen." He turned to Jack, who had a look of astonishment on his face. "Draggen, you’ve been demoted to Jr. toilet scrubbah!"

Jack shook his head. "No, Mr. Grable! When I hired on you said you’d give me a job where I could use my head as well as my hands."

"And that’s just what ah’m givin’ ya. I’m putting this hat on yo head—" He took the hat of Jenkins’ head and placed it atop Jack’s. "—and ah’m putting this heah mop in yo’ hand. Now get busy; you can start with the bathroom in ma office—and I left a floater in the bowl for ya."

Grable walked away and the crowd that had gathered followed suit, albeit they were laughing wildly. The truck driver looked at Jack and shook his head. His action was out of anger and pity.

"You remind me of my nephew. That boys eleven yeahs old and in the third grade. His excuse is he ate a lotta paint chips as a kid. What’s yer’n?"

Jack hung his head and as he walked past the driver, he received a hard kick in the buttocks, which wedged his pants between his cheeks. A large, dusty footprint was left on the seat of Jack’s overalls.

This was one of the worst days Jack had in a long time, and he’d always received more than his fair share. But what made this day particularly bad was that it was only nine a.m. and he knew that the worst was yet to come.

At noon Jack took his usual seat in the lunchroom, wedged in a corner between the counter and a vending machine. He liked being isolated from the others, feeling he didn’t really fit in. Second, the subjects they discussed were usually beyond his comprehension: Sports, women and politics. So he sat down in his corner of the world, opened his brown bag and removed his lunch: A sandwich, a tootsie roll, three Vienna sausages in plastic wrap and an orange. Two other fellows, grinning all the while, came and sat across from him.

"So, how’s life been mistreating you, Draggen?"

"You just answered yer own question, smarty-pants," Jack replied, before sinking his teeth into his sandwich.

The man who had spoken to him was a robust fellow named Turk Peterson. When he saw the contents of Jack’s sandwich, he asked, "Boy, what the hell kinda sandwich is that?"

Before Jack could answer, the other man—a beanpole named Travis Burnett, snatched the sandwich from him, turned his back to Jack and opened it.

"Hey! That’s my lunch!" Jack shouted.

"Shut yer yap," Turk ordered.

Jack stood and attempted to retrieve his sandwich, that is until he saw Turk staring icily at him, whereupon he sat back down. Turk and Travis perused the contents of the sandwich and announced the contents loud enough for the other twenty or so diners to hear.

"Let’s see what kinda sandwich Mr. Draggen’s wife packed for him. This looks like jelly…" Travis swiped the bread with his finger and tasted it. "Yep."

"And what are these?" Turk said, pointing at quarter-inch chunks of white that covered the bread. "Onions?"

"Yikes!" Travis quipped.

"And finally…no, it can’t be."

Turk picked up a small, black piece of something and showed it to Travis, who took a close look at it, frowned, then shouted,

"Fucking raisins! This sumbitch is eatin’ a jelly, onion and raisin sandwich!"

Soon the room was filled with laughter. Jack sat quietly, having grown accustomed to a daily dose of humiliation.

"Gawd damn, boy. If yer wife is serving you shit like this, it’s time for a divorce!" Travis cracked.

Again, laughter rained down on Jack like raindrops from a cloudburst.

"Oh, how sweet," Travis teased, picking up the tootsie roll. "Mama’a witto baby wanna peet-a tandy?"

Travis blew him a kiss, making a loud smacking noise in the process. An angry Jack snatched the Tootsie Roll from Travis’ grasp. Travis’ smile vanished and with both hands on the table, leaned forward.

"You don’t snatch nothin’ outta my hand, you low-life, toilet scrubbing, piece of shit!"

"It’s mine," Jack said meekly.

"Anything I have in my hand is MINE!"

Travis pounded his fists onto the table and Jack flinched.

"Now ask me kindly, and I might let you keep yer piece-a candy."

Jack looked up and asked, "Mr. Travis, sir, may I keep my candy?"

Travis flashed a toothy, arrogant grin.

"Sure, Jack. You deserve a bit of good fortune."

Travis sat back down, then he and Turk focused their attention on their own lunches. Jack repacked what was left of his meal, for suddenly he had lost his appetite. He looked at the sandwich Turk had unwrapped: Two pork chops slapped atop two pieces of thickly-cut wheat bread, dripping with mustard and complimented with lettuce. Jack licked his lips and swallowed audibly. Turk looked up and grinned.

"Certainly has jelly, onion and raisins beat, doesn’t it?"

Jack finished showering and punched out of the plant at quarter to five. Though his day had been hectic, for the moment there was a ray of sunlight shining on him. Earlier in the day he’d telephoned his wife, Wilma, and asked her to greet him at the door naked.

"I need some lovin’, little mama."

"Bad day?"

"When haven’t I had one? It’s just that this one was particularly bad."

"I’ll be waiting for you," she cooed. "Nude and in the mood."

Jack crossed the threshold to his trailer at five minutes after five. He tossed his lunch bucket onto the couch and began stripping off his clothes as he made his way down the narrow hallway into the bedroom. He found Wilma—a slender blond with dimples, gray eyes, modest breasts and a "cute little tushy" lying across the bed nude. Though she was two months pregnant, her skin was still flawless and her figure alluring.

When Jack entered she rolled onto her back and kicked back the blankets to the foot of the bed. Jack performed a picture-perfect Jack knife dive, sticking a perfect landing between her legs.

"Ooh, you go, big daddy!" She squealed.

They kissed salaciously, and she eased her arms around his neck. He kissed her breasts, shoulders, and arms. His breath came in uncontrollable gulps, and she was equally as excited. She eased her hand between his legs and smiled. His manhood throbbed and Jack, ever the eager beaver, delivered a rapid succession of "I love you’s" and thrust into her recklessly. She closed her eyes and screamed, near tears, clawing at this back and trying to push him away.

"Pull it out, you moron! You’re in the wrong hole!"

Jack was sweating and bewildered.

"B-but I thought we had a an agreement; that from now on, there was no such thing as ‘the wrong hole’?"

"Only with foreplay and at least a five-minute warning," she grumbled, drawing her knees up and shoving him away. She rolled over and swung her feet onto the floor. "And I was in the mood, too."

"Baby, gimme another chance. I can kiss it and make it better."

She scoffed at his statement.

"That’s yer problem. Ever since we met, you’ve been all too willing to kiss my ass."

"That’s the kinda man I thought women dreamed about."

"Yes, but…" she shook her head. "I don’t know, Jack. You’re like that guy on that TV show I like."

Jack smiled. "You mean Kiefer Sutherland, of ‘24’?"

"No, the one on the cartoon channel; that Pebbles and Bamm-Bamm cartoon. What’s his name…." She snapped her fingers. "Schleprock!"

"Right now my ‘schlep’ is hard as a rock," he lamented. "Please, Wilma. Just let me get a little taste."

"But I’m not in the mood anymore," she whined.

Jack sat up, disgusted.

"Fuck it, then," he said, bobbing his head. "You know tomorrow’s payday."

Suddenly Wilma turned at him with fire in her eyes.

"You threatening me? You insinuatin’ that if we don’t screw, I don’t get my hair-doin’ money?" She put her hands on her hips. "Because if you won’t give it to me, Luther Krebbs will."

"Dammit woman, why is it every time we argue you gotta throw his frickin’ name in my face?"

As she answered, Jack lip-synched her every word.

"If I hadn’t married my cousin Billy Boy first, after I got outta eighth grade I coulda married Luther. He’s a self-made man, selling fruit offa the back-a his truck. But no-o-o, as soon as Billy Boy went to prison and I divorced him, I just had to fall for the likes-a you."

"You fell for my job," Jack corrected. "Yo mammy worked at the credit union. She knew I had savings and that I was simple."

"She wanted me to have the best."

"And that’s what you have—the best kinda love a man can give." His voice had a pleading tone. "I’d die without you, little mama."

"Well, right now you’re a dead man."

"Then how about a little CPR downstairs, honey?"

"I’m not sucking anything," she said with finality. "By the way, I heard about yer demotion. Now how am I gonna be getting my hair and nails done?"

"Can’t you learn to do that stuff yerself?"

"I guess I could…" She let her words linger, then added, "Or I could get Luther Krebbs."

"What’s he know about hairdo-ing and nail polishing?"

"He doesn’t do the makeovers, but he can afford to pay for it."

"And if he does, you’ll owe him," Jack said angrily. "I remember when we was struggling ‘round Thanksgiving and he gave you that turkey and box of guv’ment cheese…"

Wilma smiled at the thought. "All I did was kiss him."

"But did you have to slip him some tongue, and did it have to be below the belt?"

"You’re making what I did sound sordid," she said, turning her back to him. "And I find that insulting."

"You need to forget about Luther and get my dinner on the table."

"You can make yourself some ramen noodles."

"So you didn’t cook?"

"No, but I did make you a pencil holder. I made it from an orange juice can, eggshells, glue and glitter."

"So while I’m working hard all day you’re at home playing in the garbage can and pretending to be Martha fucking Stewart?"

Jack stood and walked over to the rickety dresser in the corner of the room. He went in the bottom drawer and pulled out a bottle of Jerkins Lotion and a copy of Swank magazine.

"Time to let ma fingers do the walking through the fella pages," he said, going into the bathroom and slamming the door behind.

That evening a solemn looking Jack drowned his sorrows at the nearest watering hole—a small, smoke-filled venue called Hoss’s Beer and Billiards. A few minutes later his long-time and only friend, Butch Stoneking, joined him. Butch was a skinny man with a long nose, shaggy brown hair, no chin and had eyes that always looked like they were closed.

"Jack, looks like you’re trying to tie one on."

"Bad day," Jack said quietly.

"Again?"

"This one was a doozy. First I fucked up at work, then I was ridiculed about the contents of ma lunch, then I accidentally poked Wilma in the wrong hole—"

"Whoa; I thought you guys had a deal, that there was no such thing as the ‘wrong hole’?"

"She added a disclaimer," he replied sadly. "Anyways, to top it all off, I lost my job to a nigger."

Butch’s eyes widened. "You kidding me?"

Jack shook his head. "Coon named Choo-Choo Jenkins got ma job."

"What kinda name is that?"

"What, Choo-Choo?"

"No, Jenkins."

"How the hell would I know?" Jack snapped. "All I know is that jigaboo has my job and I have his."

"What’s you do, fuck up again?"

"Naw, man. You know how that affirmative action shit works. The company hires a nigger and low white man on the totem pole gets the shaft—like the nigger’s the fucking President, or somebody."

"That makes no sense. If the darky was President, he wouldn’t need yer job."

"You know what I mean."

That was why Jake and Butch were friends; they were equally dense.

"So you’re off the forklift and are now on toilet patrol"

"Yep. I’m thinking about suing the company for discrimination," Jack said.

"My cousin’s wife’s third husband’s niece won a case like that," Butch said, just as he signaled to one of the waiters. Then he shook his head. "Niggers are taking over—at least in the South. In the West and Southwest, it’s Wetback power."

"These fucking immigrants are taking over our country," Ike said between clenched teeth. "Personally, I’d like to stomp one-a them dumb sumbitches."

"Hey, you sound like I did before I joined up with the Invisible Empire."

"C’mon, Butch. We’ve known each other since our Senior year—the eighth grade—and I know for a fact that you never played for the New York Yankees."

"Not that invisible empire. I’m talking about the KKK."

"The what?"

"The Ku Klux Klan?"

"Who the hell is Kook klook klem? Ain’t he that North Korean feller that Boom-Boom Mancini killed in the ring?"

"No, no," Butch leaned toward Jack and lowered his voice. "That was Duk Koo Kim. What I’m talking about is a white people’s rights organization. The Ku…Klux… Klan. It’s a social organization where a buncha us fellers get together and talk about what we’re gonna do about the nigger problem; we’re no different from the Kiwanis or Elks."

"Oh?"

"We meet once a week. And we got these really cool uniforms with a robe and a cardboard hood. Looks almost like we’re trick and treaters, only we don’t go around bummin’ for candy. We look for niggers, especially the uppity kind, and teach ‘em a lesson about knot knowing their place."

"How?"

"Beat ‘em up, burn up their houses, terrorize their wives and kids, hang or shoot ‘em…" Butch said casually. "It’s a lotta fun. Almost funner than Disney World."

"Sure sounds like it. Where do I sign up?"

"Just go to one-a the meetings with me. In fact, we have one come this Tuesday."

"That’s my wife’s mama’s birthday."

"Oh." Butch replied gloomily.

"Just the excuse I need to get the hell outta the house."

They high-fived each other, then ordered several pitchers of beer. They drank until closing time, but not before performing a woeful rendition of "To All The Girls We’ve Loved Before." The two then staggered home, talking loud and singing off-key. When he arrived at his trailer, Jack climbed into bed with Wilma and talked a big game as to how he would knock her cunt, "Into the next county."

But after three pumps and a grunt, he passed out next to her and snored until sunrise, when he wakened to find her gone and a note attached to the pillow.

Dear Jack: I ran off with Luther Krebbs.

Have a nice life. Wilma

P.S.—Yer supper from last night is in

the oven. I covered it with a napkin so

roaches wouldn’t get to it.

 

Jack re-read the letter, the leapt from between the blankets, ran to the kitchen drawer and took out a pair of reading glasses. He read the letter a third time, and to his dismay, it read the same as it did the first two times he perused it.

"All of this because a fuckin’ nigger took my job."

He grabbed a bottle of Popov vodka and a jelly jar from the shelf and sat at the kitchen tablet in his gray-hued underwear, which he was wearing for the fourth consecutive day. Jack poured the booze, adding neither ice nor chaser. He drained half of it, squinted, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Then his thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door.

"Come in!" He yelled.

Seconds later Butch entered with his own bottle of Popov.

"Thought you’d be needing this," he said, waving the bottle at eye level. "I saw yer wife driving off with Luther."

"Shit!" Jack drained what was left in his glass. "Does everybody in the trailer park know about it?"

"Yep. The human telegram, Lettie Harris, saw to that."

"Damn. I didn’t even have time to think of a decent lie."

Butch walked over and took a seat.

"There’s more bad news," he said.

"What?"

"She took yer hunting dog, too."

Jack looked as if he might start crying at any minute.

"Shit! Shit! Shit!" He pounded the table with his fist. "Man, I’m gonna be one lonely, miserable bastard."

"If’n you get too lonely, Old man Conroy’ll rent ya one-a his sheep for five bucks."

"A sheep?"

"He’s got some nice lookin’ ones. He’ll even dress ‘em up for ya for two dollars extra."

"Buy some pussy from a sheep?"

"You’re not paying the sheep; you’re paying Mr. Conroy. And you act like you never had sheep cunt before," Butch said.

Jack served up a peculiar look. Butch took a deep breath and shrugged.

"First you have a couple-a drinks. Then you put on one-a them See-natra records, spray her with perfume and turn down the lights. It’s as good as a woman. Maybe even better."

"Maybe later, I dunno," Jack said, pouring himself another glass of vodka. Then he looked at Butch’s bottle. "There’s glasses in the shelf. Get a jelly jar. The Mason jars are my fancy glassware."

"I got a set-a them fancy Taco Bell Looney Tunes glasses. Had ‘em since seventy-six. Prob’ly a collector’s item."

Butch grabbed a jelly jar from the cabinet, broke open the bottle he brought over, and began nursing his drink. Jack meanwhile, finished his second glass and poured a third. Butch had a worried expression on his face.

"Trying to tie on another?" He asked.

"Ain’t recovered from last nights," Jack admitted. Then he hoisted his glass in the air. "To freedom, sheep cunt and that group you was telling me about."

"The Ku Klux Klan," Butch said beaming.

They touched glasses and Jack immediately began to feel better. He believed the silver lining to the cloud of desertion was his never again having to listen to his wife compare him to Luther. Even better, he’d never have to look at, nor smell the hated "hot water bottle" that hang from their shower door. He recalled the time he used the hose on it as a straw, only to later find out what the bag was actually used for. He frowned and nearly regurgitated. Butch looked at him, amused.

"You’re thinking about that time you used the hose from yer wife’s douche bag to drink that margarita, ain’tcha?"

Jack pushed out an indecipherable response.

"Put anything on yer stomach?" Butch asked. "Kinda early to be drinking so heavy."

"I’ll eat in a few. You hungry?"

"Kinda."

"Got a couple-a jelly, onion and raisin sandwiches in the box. I was saving ‘em for ma lunch, since I ain’t had time to make groceries."

"You know, we could always go over to ma place and eat. I have some fried baloney left over from last night’s dinner."

"Sounds like a plan. I ain’t had meat in a month-a Sundays." Jack’s statement was a literal one. Wilma never had been big on meat, wanting to maintain her figure. She believed pork and beef were "fattening"; chicken made her think of "chickenshit"; and she claimed that for her, "Eating fish is like having a lesbian experience."

"Grab the bottle and let’s go."

"You drive over here?"

"Yeah; Harley Scott saw my car outside the bar and drove it to my house this morning."

"Nice fella, that Harley," Jack said.

He put the bottle in a plastic grocery bag. Then he went to the back room and got dressed. While slipping into his pants, he discovered he still had twelve dollars. He went back into the kitchen, where he found Butch standing by the door.

"Found twelve bucks in my jeans pants pocket," Jack crowed.

"Wow-wee, gadzooks and whoop-dee-doo," Butch replied. "Now let’s get a move on. We got fried baloney waiting for us."

"While we’re riding, tell me some more about this organization you joined."

"Sure."

With that they were out the door.