Jack Be Nimble

By Jeffrey Morgan

A coming-of-age odyssey, where two born-again rebels break rank with no destination known—in search of Oz: Testing the twists and turns of fate; chasing dreams, jumping hurdles and crossing borders—brick by brick their karmic puzzles unfold. Slim aspires to become a musician—takes up employment at a bowling alley before trying his hand at migrant work to finance his dreams. His cohort, Lewis, is a thrill-seeker who has the knack for finding trouble, then mysteriously disappears... Meanwhile, Slim flies off to Europe in search of his destiny, and teams up with several creative individuals of import. On the side, he strikes up an intimate relationship with Hildegard, who makes his pilgrimage complete. Upon his return stateside, Slim eventually rendezvous with Lewis who has a master plan. Lewis fills him in on what transpired after his fateful disappearance, the current situation, and his design for future enterprises while en route to Belize via Las Vegas. In addition, there is a "Sound Portrait" link to SoundCloud, and a tracklisting provided by the author, for those who may have an interest in his music.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jeffrey Morgan
• Release date: Feb 20, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215304952

Book preview

Life in a test tube—doesn’t get me down

Stopper on top, swish it round, swish it round

Part I

Home Turf

1

A man with shoulder-length strawberry blond hair, wearing a tan leather jacket and a black Stetson, leaned over the bar to catch my eye while simultaneously flagging down the bartender: Anyone sittin’ here?

Nope, not anymore—help yourself! I said.

The bartender was one of those class acts: Professionally dressed in a ruby-red vest and a black satin string tie, probably in his late forties, with his hair greased back. He made his way over to us after drying a wine glass. We’re closing in on last call, Jack. Name your poison.

Wild Turkey. Make that a double, Fred, and hold the ice. Thanks! he ordered. Then turning to me, How ’bout you, champ, can I buy you a drink?

I ain’t no champ, chump, I conceded. You can call me Slim though, and I’ll take you up on your offer. I’m not the kind of guy to refuse anyone’s generosity. Another pint of Guinness would be grand. Thanks, man.

You got that, Fred? A pint of the Irish for my new friend here, he said to the bartender before confronting me again. By the way, Slim, where did you find that brim you’re sportin’? At the Salvation Army? he said in jest before driving his point home. It doesn’t exactly fit in with the given terrain.

Maybe you’re right there, I said, "but for the time being I feel quite comfortable in this here pork pie hat. My clarinet teacher once told me: ‘If you wannabe a musician, then it helps to carry yourself like one.’ You have to admit, it does have character.

Actually, my last girlfriend bought it for me at a flea market in Portland before she kicked me out. She was on the rag, telling me to get real. That life’s too short to sit around waiting to be served from a silver platter, et cetera. Anyway, I decided she wasn’t the one and only, after all, and hit the road . . . Jack. That’s your name, isn’t it? Jack? At least that’s what I gathered from the bartender. 

He reached out to clasp my hand in a brotherly fashion, "You’re nobody’s fool, Slim. I like that. I’m Lewis, Jack Lewis, nice to meet you. You know what they say: Can’t live with ’em—can’t live without ’em."

Meanwhile, Fred had placed our drinks in front of us, and then jumped into the conversation after following the line of discussion to philosophize for a minute or two. Virgins that live near the sea kiss better—say sailors and vagabonds throughout the ages of time: Myths concerning women that were passed down amongst their ancestry. Paradise made simple . . . and sweet; soft lips, round hips, and eyes burning with desire!

Well, well, well. What do we have here—Shakespeare! exclaimed Lewis.

Women can tell you with a laugh, sneer, or a sparkle in their eye exactly where you stand, continued Fred. You know, they’re coming in and out of here all the time. The ones dressed to kill like Cleopatra often leave somewhat disenchanted, whereas the homely ones tend to stick around long enough to be flattered by a good-natured drunk. You can take it from there.

Ah yes, I love the smell of patchouli in the morning! declared Lewis.

I practically snorted out my stout, Say what?

And for what it’s worth, Elizabeth Taylor was too pale, and sterile I might add, to portray Cleopatra. Sophia Loren would have been the better choice for an Egyptian queen. She’s a work of art, sensuous and vibrant.

What about Gina Lollobrigida, or maybe Claudia Cardinale? I said, adding my two cents.

Lewis cracked a smile. You have good taste, my friend.

Then Fred caught our attention again by nodding over to his left. From time to time, there’s a need to rise above the call of duty. I swear, some of these broads come in just to talk my ear off, but nothing more. I’m not a psychiatrist! He then excused himself before attending to a customer wearing high heels at the other end of the bar.

We watched him as he sauntered away, clearing off a few glasses and wiping up as he went along.

Fred doesn’t miss a beat! said Lewis in passing before turning his attention to me. How ’bout a round of eight-ball?

Why not, sounds good, I replied.

So you’re a musician, huh?

Not really, at least not yet anyway, I replied. When I was ten, my father gave me his clarinet and said I should take some lessons because he thought it was important to learn something about music. I started off on the right foot, but a couple years later I was more interested in sports and didn’t feel like practicing anymore. Just recently got going again on the thing and decided to take some private lessons over at the community college. What about you, you play anything?  

I’ve been known to pluck a note or two, and winked. Why don’t you rack ’em up and I’ll put a quarter in the jukebox. Anything you’d like to hear?

‘Dock of the Bay,’ I answered, before turning toward the pool table.

Oh, so that’s what you can identify with, huh? A dreamer! he asserted. Then he started whistling the melody to Sittin’ on the Dock as he walked over to the jukebox.

Maybe so—why, you writin’ a book? And what tune, might I ask, do you have an affinity with, Mister Know-It-All?

He was hunched over the jukebox studying the selections before he turned his head over my way to say, Sugar Man!

2

It was at the apex of the psychedelic revolution when I first met Jack Lewis: The generation of love and peace, seeking spiritual answers, and protesting against the Vietnam War. More and more people were listening to the likes of Dylan, Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Joan Baez, The Dead, and Pink Floyd, and experimenting with all kinds of chemical variations of LSD, or chocolate mescaline.

He was living with Donna Mason, a portrait artist, who was just about the sexiest thing in blue jeans. She liked to wear Western-style shirts with the two chest pockets and those pearly button snaps, and rhinestone belts which were like icing on the cake. She had curious, penetrating dark brown eyes and reddish brown hair that was pulled back into a neat ponytail most of the time.

Her father was a trumpet player who worked in and around Los Angeles as a studio musician, and her mother was a photojournalist. They were always on the go, so she acquired a rather cultured upbringing.

We often referred to Donna as the trumpet player’s daughter when she exhibited her booming authority, saying stuff like: Hey, guys, I’m not your mother, especially when there were too many beer bottles lying around, or the dishes were stacking up.

Donna’s best friend, Rhonda Brackin, was also living there. She was a tall, curly-haired, blue-eyed blond with the figure of an Olympic high jumper. A rich girl from the Bible belt no less and very attractive at that; however, aloof and intractable. Not to mention we never knew her to have a boyfriend. She was more inclined to isolate herself, to study up on Chinese mysticism, Nietzsche, and witchcraft. It was her preconceived notion to encompass their essential elements and devise a modern philosophy for contemporary man.

Rhonda bought her first Super 8 film camera around this period after attending an independent film festival. She was full of inspiration, and nowadays bent on mobilizing her concepts and ideas into a black and white format.  

Rhonda and Donna were inseparable soul sisters. Together they shared some secrets which were never discussed in front of us. We caught wind of it by the way Donna would cast a mesmerizing glare across the room, signaling that something heavy was going down between them and it was no concern of ours.  

Rose Martino was my most enduring female companion. We had grown up together on the same block and conspired on many accounts throughout our teens. She was rather robust, but blossoming more and more by the day. We were never sexually involved even though I loved her jet-black hair, which was obviously bequeathed from her father—a pure-blooded Italian, who had the air of a Mafioso kingpin.

Rose had a red and white Ford Squire station wagon that we were always bombing around in, passing joints, and drinking beer. Sometimes even high on acid. Born to be wild, it was a party on wheels.

On cold winter nights, mostly around the holidays and the postseason playoffs, a few of us would get together to play poker, but only for small stakes because none of us had money to burn. It was usually a foursome: Rose, Lewis, me, and Troy Richardson, one of my old high school buddies.  

We played a number of games and variations thereof, though each of us had a favorite. Troy’s game was Baseball, although he detested the sport. He announced the rules every time the same, even though we knew them by heart. When someone else called it, the rules would undoubtedly differ from that of Troy’s standard: 3s and 9s are wild, 4s get another card, and 7s up . . . You’re out!  

Lewis often chose Jacks or Better – Trips to Win, where someone had to have at least a pair of jacks in the first round, or the cards were returned and dealt again, thus doubling the ante. When someone could open, then everyone asked for the number of cards they wanted. But if no one was holding at least three of a kind after the second round, the game started over again with yet another ante. In this case, the stakes could run quite high whenever the game dragged on and on.

The real reason Lewis chose this game was not so much about his first name, but rather to have more opportunities to practice his fancy card-shuffling tricks when there was an existing stalemate. He was a card shark all right, but it was good to keep an eye on him because he had this nasty habit of dropping a card on the floor—to snatch up later when no one was looking. His favorite wild cards were deuces and the one-eyed jacks, but never in the same round.

Troy never could manage a good poker face, even if his life depended on it. Lewis, on the other hand, often bluffed his way to victory. He had the knack to catch Troy off guard, who might have been holding the better hand, but tended to fold all flustered, slapping the cards down on the table and grumbling: Shit be boogers!

My favorite was Seven-Card Lowball, laid out like Seven-Card Stud. The object of this game was to assemble your five lowest numbered cards: aces counted as one; therefore, ace, two, three, four, and six was ideal. But sometimes you could even win with a face card.

Rose called out, "Seven-Card Stud, nothing’s wild," about every other time with a little smile on her big, round face. On one occasion she dressed up like a circus fortune teller, with a red bandana tied up in her hair and a black stole with embroidered red and white roses draped around her shoulders, and went to great lengths to entertain us with her prophetic interpretations while taking her sweet time to deal out the cards.        

The Seven of Clubs, she announced before placing it in front of Lewis. Then, lifting both hands in the air as if summoning the oracle, she said, You will encompass financial gains in the distant future, but you will experience hardships thereafter.

That’ll be the day! laughed out Troy.

I was next. Rose peeled off the next card and stared at it, and then pressed it against her forehead. The Two of Hearts, she said, placing it down in front of me. You will meet the woman of your dreams in a faraway land. Do not let her slip away!

Oh, okay, I said, scratching my head.

The next card was for Troy. The King of Clubs! exclaimed Rose. You will become a good businessman, and a good father with three daughters.

It sounds like you’re gonna be outnumbered here pretty soon, hey Troy, Lewis said in jest.

The next card was meant for herself. Rose laid it very carefully on the table. I don’t believe this. The Ace of Hearts! she cried out. I’m hearing wedding bells. But the question is: Where’s the guy who’s gonna sweep me off my feet?

Lewis laughed immediately, but I wasn’t so sure if she was taking herself seriously, or not. A moment later she cackled hysterically, then dealt the remainder without a word.

Patience is a virtue, Rose, said Troy. That’s what they say, anyway.

One day your prince will come, I added. That’s for sure.  

3

Lewis had an old Martin guitar that he took just about everywhere, even to the bathroom. He seemed to take great delight in serenading Donna’s girlfriends too, sometimes strutting around stark-naked, imitating Chuck Berry or Elvis, especially when Naomi and Janice from the beauty parlor came by to visit. Donna would tell him to get dressed and act decent in front of her friends, but he would still find ways to intimidate them because they were such prudes.

Lewis always reveled in being the life of the party. He would grab me by the arm when he really wanted to enliven things and egg me on to sing our favorite number: Back on the Road, Again. On occasion, Rhonda would fetch her camera to catch us in action. Now this wasn’t an ordinary tune, and there was no reference to the Canned Heat version. It was more or less a spontaneous monologue of epic proportion, telling stories about desperados seeking asylum and, of course, love.

This all began when Lewis and I hitchhiked together, trying to fight off the boredom while waiting alongside the road. Sometimes, when we were deep into the rhythm, we might not even take notice if someone had stopped until they honked. And when they did, Lewis would shout out, Glory Hallelujah!

One time, after smoking a joint, a black Plymouth came screeching to a halt—right in front of us. I went around to his window to ask, Where you headed?

Seattle, said the driver, so we piled into the back seat.

We’re on our way to Pike Place Market, to test our luck at busking . . . that is, weather permitting, offered Lewis.

The driver, wearing a white shirt and tie, punched the accelerator. Moments later, he said he could smell the weed we had just smoked. We glanced at each other, saying nothing.

I work for the FBI. If you have any more of that stuff, I could easily turn you in but it’s not worth the trouble—all that paperwork, he stated.  

We tried to relax. Then he added, Personally, I don’t care if you boys smoke that stuff. It’s the hard drugs I’m concerned about. Junkies dig themselves into a hole until they’re in over their head, like six feet deep. But you guys seem all right. When we get to Seattle, I’ll buy you a drink. Then Lewis nudged me and nodded to check the speedometer: 90 mph!

We arrived in record time and proceeded to The Hen House Lounge. We had the sneaking suspicion that he came here to meet a contact or find a prostitute, though we never found out. He ended up buying us several rounds. Lewis and I were a little more than tipsy, and never once realized that he had paid our bill and left.

We were about to drag ourselves out of there when three half-naked women came out of nowhere, prancing through the crowd before they went onstage. My goodness gracious, I muttered.

Glory Hallelujah! bellowed Lewis. The last thing I can remember was three or four guys escorting us out to the sidewalk after Lewis jumped onto the stage, causing chaos and confusion in their routine.

On a serene morning, leaving the Arboretum near Lake Washington, there was a trace of salt in the air and the birds were chirping away when all of a sudden someone in the neighborhood started up a chain saw.

Whaddaya say, let’s head over to Discovery Park and drop some acid, proposed Lewis. I feel like flying above all these lines and wires of the material world. It’s the perfect day for it!

Not me, not today anyway. I’d rather spend the day out in the University District. And tonight, Alfred Brendel, a classical pianist, is supposed to give a concert on campus. I wanna catch that too, if it’s not already sold out.  

Brendel was one of those world-renowned musicians, particularly noted for his Beethoven Sonatas, and I wasn’t about to miss out on this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

I told Lewis I would meet him around midnight at The Central in Pioneer Square, where the Portland-based band Upepo was slated to play. Then we went our separate ways into the midday sun, whereupon I caught a bus to the U District, and Lewis vanished into thin air.

One thing that always annoyed me about classical music concerts was the exorbitant prices they generally charged. For some strange reason, tickets cost at least double for a reserved seat somewhere out in left field of a concert hall—compared to some hot, high-quality jazz club, where one might be lucky enough to sit three tables away from the bandstand, witnessing the sweat pour out from the likes of Rahsaan Roland Kirk, Art Blakey, or Oscar Peterson. The more I thought about it, the more determined I was to take the no-budget approach.

When I arrived at the music auditorium, starting with the main entrance, I circled the building looking for a way to avoid paying through the nose. I tried all the doors as I went along, but they either led to a dead end or I found them locked in the first place. Finally, the last existing possibility was the door leading into the basement. It was free and unattended. I opened it and immediately heard someone playing Beethoven, then went about to find the source.

Peeking through the crack between a set of double doors, I saw the Meister in the flesh, brushing up for his concert program. He seemed to be struggling through it though, reading passages from the score to refresh his memory—cursing every once in a while when he made a mistake.

I stood there for five or six minutes. All of a sudden, he packed up and was about to leave. Perhaps he had sensed that he was being spied upon. I moved nonchalantly across the hallway to read the advertisements before he came out; then glanced over my shoulder just as he gave me a double take prior to boarding the elevator.

Lingering throughout the lower level chambers, waiting for the concert to begin, I eventually crawled under the stage and sat down in complete darkness for his recital. I could hear the crowd pouring in to find their seats, and about fifteen minutes