Excerpt from "Jack" -- A Theme Thursday Post

Today's Theme Thursday topic is "(Wh)oops." For the full, somewhat intriguing story of how that topic came to be, click here, and then here.
What follows is a segment of a story called "Jack," which I co-wrote with my former writing partner, a talented writer and even more talented cartoonist named Skip Simpson.
I'll spare you the intricate details of the project's genesis, but basically it boiled down to this: One night circa 1982, I was paradoxically bored and inspired while visiting Skip. Suddenly, I sat down at the typewriter -- remember them, fellow babies? -- and wrote about a page and a half of... stuff. I handed it to Skip to read.
After reading it, and noticing that it ended with a mini-cliffhanger, Skip looked at me and said, "Okay, now what?"
I replied, "Now it's your turn."

Skip added about as much as I had written before him, leaving me with a cliffhanger.

We handed the story back and forth this way until we'd completed "Jack," which ended up being about seventeen pages long.

So today's entry, as stated above, is just one section of the whole, and naturally (because it's here, on my blog), it's one of the sections which I wrote. Not Skip!
The setting: The summer cottage of John Sylvester "Jack" Parmenter. Jack is wallowing in self-pity sometime after being dumped by his girlfriend, Arlene... a break-up due in part to the influence of her obnoxious brother, Bernie.

And in keeping with today's theme, it kinda/sorta starts with an "oops." And it kinda/sorta ends with an "oops." I hope you enjoy it... kinda/sorta.

Other than that, I only need to add the following incidental comments:

1. At several times during the story, Jack receives phone calls from people asking for "Roland." (Jack doesn't know anyone named Roland.)
2. At this point in the tale, Jack has just made a disastrous attempt at preparing a supper of Spam. Don't ask.
3. You'll probably notice the constant use of the term "damn," or a variable. That was a running schtick between Skip and myself which seemed a lot funnier then than it does now.

* * * * *
Shaken and more than a bit exhausted, Jack made his way back to his study, the study with the thick shag rug upon which he had so callously thrown his last cigarette more than half an hour ago. No Arlene, no Spam, no Marlboros... What else was left? Not even Bernie, for that matter, not even damnable Bernie.

Jack leaned against the study table, reminiscing about when he and Arlene, in a moment of idealistic romantic fantasy, had planned to marry and buy a beach house, one with a large picture window overlooking the sea. In his mind's eye, Jack could not only see that picture window, but could see through it. He envisioned Arlene strolling arm-in-arm with... Bernie, walking along the shore on a sticky summer night, barely visible but for the orange dot of Bernie's ever-present Marlboro in the distance.

Unfortunately, Jack's cozy little three-room cottage, which he had bought after recognizing his occasional need to get away from it all, was situated in the backwoods of Connecticut. Therefore all of Jack's meandering thoughts were reduced to pure bull-feathers, best left to screenwriters in search of time-consuming visuals rather than plot.

Abruptly, Jack found his attention riveted to the floor, or more precisely, the carpet, which had smoldered for roughly forty-five minutes and had now, finally, burst into flame. Evidently, he had not fully extinguished that last cigarette, as he had thought. "Damn!" he shrieked, as he realized that the aforementioned "getting away from it all" had insured only that there wasn't any water available in his cozy little shack.

Or wasn't there?

After a few moments' deliberation, Jack thought of the nearby fishing pond he so enjoyed. By that time, however, he'd been backed up against his study table. The phone was within reach, but by the time he could summon the fire department, he knew it would be too late.

Where could he find liquid, any kind of liquid? Ah-HAH! he thought, perhaps the sparsely-stocked liquor cabinet, conveniently located beside the study table? Hopefully, he hadn't polished off all of his expensive stock while wallowing in self-pity.

He rushed to the liquor cabinet, which also contained his small but valuable assortment of collector's item LPs. First he found the bottle of Dom Perignon champagne he'd bought in a nearby village and brown-bagged for breakfast. Empty. Damn! Quickly, he checked the other bottles in his small but high-priced collection. Irish Mist, empty; Chivas Regal, empty; Seagram's Crown Royal, empty; Chateau Mouton-Rothschild '29, empty; Tango, empty! Now, the entire cabinet was empty, and the only nearby portion of floor not yet burning was covered by discarded bottles. Jack leaped onto the study table. The closes door was ten feet away, separated from Jack by a roaring sheet of flame. Was there even a slim hope for survival, he wondered desperately?

The telephone rang. "Damn!" exclaimed Jack, reaching down to grab it.

"Hi," said a cheerful voice. "This is Roland. Any messages for me?"

"Yeah, some guy called earlier." Jack could feel the flames licking at the soles of his bare feet. The smoke grew thicker.

"Well, who was it?"

"I don't have the slightest idea. I didn't know him." Jack thought for a moment, then added, "I don't know you, either, for that matter!"

"Oh, yeah? Well, up yours, Jack!" said Roland angrily, before hanging up.

How did he know my name, Jack wondered. Suddenly, his attention was brought rudely back to the towering inferno now threatening life, limb, and record collection. He had to take action now.

One slim hope existed, decided Jack: the snow on the roof! It could extinguish the blaze. From atop his study table, Jack studied the study. Although he himself was surrounded by the fire, most of the rest of the room was as yet unscathed.

He grabbed his dictionary from the study table, weighed it carefully in his hand, frowned, put it down, and reached instead for his Thesaurus. Testing it, he decided it was perfect for what he had in mind. Taking careful aim, he hurled the Thesaurus at his large framed print of Norman Rocckwell's little-known version of The Last Supper, where Jesus and all twelve apostles smiled brightly as the turkey was brought to the table.

Just as Jack had intended, the book hit dead center, causing the print to fall to the mantel below. The sudden jolt knocked the imitation marble mantelpiece off of the fireplace, crashing to the floor and knocking over the cheap metal cart holding Jack's croquet set.

A red wooden ball rolled from the overturned cart and across the floor, nudging the brass coat rack forward a few inches, where it struck the ornate molding and fell over, slamming against the study window. As the window shattered, a stray piece of glass flew across the room and onto the hair trigger of Jack's shotgun, which Bernie had carelessly propped up against the side of Jack's favorite rocking chair.

The shotgun fired a deafening blast into the ceiling, causing a great hole to appear even as plaster and chips of wood rained down upon the blazing study. But no snow.

Jack suddenly realized that since it was August, there was no snow on the roof.

Damn.

* * * * *

"Damn," indeed! Or, if you prefer, "(wh)oops."

Thanks for your time.

P.S. ~~ Okay, okay, suffice it to say that Jack didn't die. Skip explained that Jack had taken an elective college course in Native American Rituals, y'see... so Jack did a little table-top rain dance which saved his life. Happy now?

("Jack" copyright © 1982 David M. Lynch and Andrew G. Simpson.)