Jack

A few years ago I worked as a barista in one of the last vestiges of Amazon’s domination of the book-selling industry. The café was fairly autonomous and the small group that worked in it were mostly left to their own devices, which means that we saw the same rotation of customers on a semi-daily basis.

There was the lady who jogged every morning whose vice was a sugar-free Frappuccino for breakfast, the Italian lady with the big hair and her bratty beauty pageant contestant daughter, the ex-firefighter with the motorcycle, the angry old man who whined about how hard his life was compared to the younger generation, etc.

One of the regulars in particular, a man in his 70s named Jack, always came in around lunch time for a coffee frappe with protein powder. Jack was friendly, polite, and liked to chat, but never overstayed his welcome. He was also firm in his beliefs and had a bit of a temper when he felt slighted. He had worn a lot of hats over his lifetime, including that of an English professor and a concert pianist. He had played for royalty and celebrities, and was considered one of the leading authorities on George Gershwin’s life and stylings. Over the few years I worked at the cafe, Jack and I chatted on almost a daily basis and got to know each other fairly well.

One summer, Jack asked for my help moving some furniture at his apartment. Jack was frail and built like Mr. Rogers and couldn’t do it himself. I agreed, not really sure what to expect. His apartment was full of framed pictures of him and celebrities and statespeople he’d met, military trinkets that had belonged to his father, and an enormous piano. He told me stories all day and paid me well for my work (despite my protesting about it). He had so much to say, and wanted to set time aside to write his memoirs about music, Gershwin, teaching, and random stories about his life.

Since those glory days, Jack had settled into work at a car dealership. He stocked the waiting area with coffee and donuts and kept it clean. He hated it, and he knew he was wasting his time and talent there and wanted to get back to music. He once told me about a Christmas party at the company where he played the piano all night and the company president asked him why he was bothering with the dealership when he clearly deserved to be elsewhere. Every time he came into the café, he would ask how my writing was going, and I would ask how his music and memoirs were going. He was always working through a snag or organizing his thoughts in preparation. Some days he just couldn’t focus because he had doctor’s appointments to get to, or was recovering from checkups and biopsies.

When I left the book store, Jack and I kept in contact. I’d check in every few months or so and see how he was doing, and he was generally good. Busy, but fine. Not much progress on the writing. He was sick, but he’d fill me in later. Also, we should get together for dinner soon. That’s how it went for a couple years.

Then one day, I saw that Jack had died. The sickness was colon cancer, and he had been battling it for years. I knew it had to be something like that, but I never wanted to pry. I figured he’d let me know if it was bad enough, or if he could work up the courage to share.

Jack died a year ago and I still think about him at least once a week, despite not knowing him very long. 

He was part of a generation that put faith in God and hard work, and was raised to believe that paying your dues to both would benefit you in the end. Instead, Jack died at a job he hated without ever returning to the thing he loved. He never got his thoughts and musings down, and all those stories are gone forever.

He’s a reminder to me to keep working on your art and doing what makes you happy. Slog through the hard times when you have to, but don't get trapped in them. Because a used car lot won’t memorialize you.

Your legacy is the work you leave behind. Your intentions disappear with you.

1942 - 2019