Jackie Quinn would walk the neighborhood, his acoustic guitar tight to his chest. He would improvise songs about what was going on around him. “It’s a sunny day/Aaron’s drinking pop/if the pop goes flat/it turns into to communists.”
I knew Jackie as long as I can remember. I watched as his light brown hair turned gray. He was always around like a member of the family. He was there when I learned to ride a bike and when I got my first job. When I worked at the drug store, he’d try to return hamburgers for cash.
“I’m not satisfied with this. I would like to return it.”
“Ah, come on Jackie, I’m trying to work.”
“Are you saying the customer is wrong?”
Jackie spent his life in and out of the mental hospital. He would typically spend a few weeks there and then return. He would behave for awhile and then get sent away again. I asked my mother once why this was.
“They don’t know what to do with him. The doctors treat him and then ship him off. He can’t stay there forever. Who’s going to pay for it? It’s really sad. And with all those brothers and sisters, no one wants him.”
After Mrs. Quinn died, Jackie would still return to the house, even after it was sold to new owners. He had no where else to go.
It was a sunny summer day. I was sitting on the porch, skateboard at my feet. I heard a bending of metal. I looked to the Quinn’s house and saw Jackie prying the screen from the window with a butter knife. He was in his room on the second floor. Suddenly, a steady stream of debris came rushing out of the window. I watched as papers, boxes, clothes, drawers, and even a lamp shoot from the window like fireworks. Each item hanging in the air for a split second before coming to rest on the lawn. I looked up to catch glimpses of Jackie with armfuls of junk. He would extend his arms and then recede for another load. My mother came storming out of the house.
“Jackie! What in God’s name are doing?” she called up.
“My mother said to clean my room.”
“Knock it off. Don’t be such an idiot.”
“Okay.”
“And get down here and clean this up. And stop tormenting your mother.”
“Okay. You’re right. I know.”
Jackie always listened to my family, especially my mother. He was a pacifist who seemed to always get himself in violent situations. He always seemed to force himself to the edge of destruction and it was consistently my family who was able to talk him back on step at a time.
Once, he was in a standoff in his driveway with police. Three cops were surrounding him. He was holding them off with a screwdriver. Before the cops could pounce, my mother walked up and snatched the screwdriver out of his hand. She gave him a stern look of disappointment. Jackie dropped his head in shame before being hauled off once again. He made sure he said goodbye from the back of the police car.
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