Jack

Jack was washing dishes in the kitchen in the back of Johnny’s Suds and Spuds when Saigon fell
When the news came on the radio, guys all stopped working long enough to raise their fists and holler
Then went back to burning hell
Jack high fived with the guys but he was secretly disappointed
I was born too late, he thought, it’s my time when it’s winding down
His heroes were like Mike the grill cook who had hair down past his waist (when it wasn’t tucked inside his chef’s hat) and who said that represented how long he’d been with the Weather Underground

Jack’s hair was past his collar then, but barely
By the time it reached his shoulders even Mike had sold his soul
Jack kept talking about ‘70s iconoclasts by their first names
But changed the code on hair from politics to rock and roll
By the time his hair was halfway down his back he’d gotten good
He toured with Billy Kitchen, then he moved to San Francisco
Sat in with psychedelic bands on Haight but he was born too late
The only guys working steady were the ones playing disco

Jack was burned out in no time on requests for Stayin’ Alive
He took off on the road playing Dust My Broom and Death Don’t Have No Mercy on the streets of small towns off of I-5
He couldn’t sleep and he had no place to go once the bars closed
So he’d drive all night, buying gas with small change
And drinking no name whiskey until he woke up in a ditch
Hanging head down by his seatbelt while the radio blared out La Grange

When Jack hitchhiked to El Paso he had hair down to his waist
And a little dog named Sampson, half bulldog and half mutt
He took a job with a rancher out of town, hauling hay and working horses
With a bunch of skinhead rednecks out to kick his butt
But Jack was good with the horses and Sampson had a short upper lip and long teeth
Jack got by on hard feelings
Nights he’s drink alone in his flat above the laundromat
Turn his amp up loud until the neighbors hammered on the ceiling

Jack hid his hair underneath a five gallon Stetson
Hitchhiked across Texas, got mistaken for a Texan
By a trucker out of Tucson who just had to call him Bub
He was on his way to Pensacola with a load of bathtubs
Jack was saying “I might like the cowboy life if it wasn’t for the cowboys”
When the trucker looked him sidelong, saying “Bub, you get out now, boy”
So he let him out in Houston with the bar bands and the strippers
And a crowd around the big screen shouting “Win one for the gipper!”

Jack let his hair down at Houlihan’s that night
Sitting at the bar, lining up the Black & White
There was a dark-haired woman playing a vintage Gibson to the tuesday night crowd
Jack switched to Cuba Libras, moved down front and clapped too loud
And because he had himself believing she played Jack of Diamonds just for him
He followed her down the hall at the end of the evening
To that back room where the bands write their names on the wall
Kinky Friedman Kinky Friedman Kinky Friedman Kinky Friedman

Jack’s hair was hitting him in the ass, and so was his reputation
He split town on a Greyhound heading to Fort Worth
He met a guy named Guy who spiked his coffee at the Greyhound station
And told him he’d signed on to work a tourist ranch up north
So Jack bought a one-way ticket, and first thing when they got there
After eating from machines and sleeping wrong for days
They saw a barefoot girl with long red hair riding bareback on a big black mare
“Whoa” said Guy, “Yeah, right” said Jack, “Hippie tie-dye yay!”

Jack broke his second metacarpal on Guy’s mandible
But Guy got the girl anyhow and Jack found himself standing on the shoulder of the road
With a pack on his back, guitar case in his good hand
And his other hand set in a plaster hitchhiker’s pose
Cars were flying by by by and Jack waxed philosophical
Saying - all the things I’ve done in my life and only one I can claim success to a significant degree
And that was growing out my hair - and he saw himself standing there on the side of the road
Doing what he did best while the world passed him by until his hair grew down to his knees

©2004 Annie Gallup

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