He
was a mean man, mean as a summer in the South.
As a
chip-toothed snake.
And his
name, was Jack Pollock.
So you think, well, you mean like Jackson Pollock, the painter.
Nope.
Just Jack. Just-Jack Pollock, and Just-Jack Pollock never even
heard of Jackson Pollock, and the only thing Jack Pollock
ever painted was maybe a barn, or his mother's living room.
Except that Jack Pollock wouldn't paint his mother's living room for
her, that's how mean he was.
Jack
Pollock was so mean he was oily with it, mean just oozed out of
him. He was the kind of man you didn't want to be alone in a room
with whether he was painting it or not.
So
you think, well, what happened. What could've happened to make Jack Pollock mean as a chip-toothed summer.
An
incident from childhood, maybe a brother drowned in Tiller's
Creek.
Some floozy of a wife ran off with a farm equipment
salesman.
Or some
dark secret of abuse, maybe at a father's
hand. Or a mother's.
Nope. Jack Pollock never married, probably because no woman in
her right mind would have him, and he was an only child, probably
because his folks didn't want to take a chance on having another
one just like him and speaking of his folks, they were decent
people who worked hard and paid their bills on time and sweetly
dispositioned, both of 'em.
In
spite of coming from a warm, loving home, Jack Pollock was just a
mean man, he enjoyed being mean and mean ran red through his
veins and was part of him as surely as an arm or an eye. Or a
heart, if he'd had one, mean as he was.
I
say “was”, because Jack Pollock is dead.
So
you think, well, what happened. What happened to snake-summer
mean Jack Pollock.
Maybe
he took hostages at an elementary school, and was killed in a
standoff with the police.
Or
maybe he was drinking, and got mouthy with someone he didn't know
was armed.
Or
a co-worker. Maybe someone he worked with just had enough of
Just-Jack Pollock.
Nope.
In spite of how mean he was, Jack Pollock never had any trouble
with the law, didn't drink, and
most of the time when he was at work he was alone because he worked
as the night watchman for a meat rendering plant.
Why
a meat rendering plant needs a night watchman I do not know,
but there you are, so, early one morning Jack Pollock was driving
home from the meat rendering plant and it was still dark and he was
tired and his car ran off the road and smashed into a huge oak
tree.
Hard
wood, oak. Killed, instantly. With no pain.
So
you think, well, didn't you just tell me, repeatedly, how mean
Jack Pollock was.
Then
you give me dead on impact. No long protracted suffering. Just,
WHAM.
And
that's it. No ironic twist or karmic justice, nothing, so maybe there's a point you're trying to make.
Nope.
In spite of the mounting suspicion you've been hornswoggled and the capriciousness of fate and the fifteen times I've told you what a so-and-so Jack Pollock was, in spite of all that there's not a point.
Unless
it's this.
Explanations
exculpate.
Some
people are just mean.
It
doesn't matter why.