Gentleman Jack
Old Man River languidly meanders against the muck-filled slopes harkening the mosquitoes. The humid, saturated air leaks a drizzling rain on an overcast day. Beside the river a triangular tarp, attached to trees by parachute cord, covers a camping hammock. Circling around the clean, crisp hammock is a plethora of dirty, empty cans: bean cans, potted meat cans, beer cans, label-free cans, and more cans. Within the hammock is a corpulent man in his late twenties, Gentleman Jack, who rolls over in my direction, "Hey."
"Hi, I'm Dr. Mazzella. Do you need any medical attention? "
"I'm okay, other than living by the river. My Mom kicked me out right after my heart surgery." The Gentleman maintains a forced nonchalant expression to this obvious non-threat, me. He invites more questions, clearly wishing to chat despite his aloof tone.
Getting to it, “You look too young to need heart surgery. What happened?"
Gentleman Jack shrugs his shoulders and grunts, "Ah, ya’ know..." The Gentleman tacks the conversation to the nearby homeless camp from which he has separated himself. Three other men, pretending not to notice us but probingly noticing us, walk by as we chat. "When I go to the store or find a bathroom, those guys raid my camp." In his camp among the empty cans are two pots, a pan, a firepit, books under the tarp, and two pairs of dirty socks- apparently ‘cleaned’ in the river and hanging to dry. “They play innocent, but I know it’s them.”
“What do they take?”, I inquire.
“They take my pans, my socks. Once, they took my hammock.” The Gentleman maintains focus on me, harkening more questions. Each question brings a bigger smile from his bearded face as he gives a livelier response each time. I begin to understand that I stand humbly in the Court of Gentleman Jack while he allows me both to serve him and to entertain him.
I comply, “Did you get the hammock back?”
“No, I ordered this one from Amazon.”
“Did you pick it up from an Amazon Locker?”
“No, I had it delivered to a friend’s house.”
I notice his cell phone. “Do they take your phone?”
“No, I keep it with me.”
“Where do you charge it?”
“In the store, or a coffee shop.”
“Do you have cell service?”
“No, I get wi-fi access at the store or the coffee shop.”
The Gentleman beams proudly at each rejoinder proving that he is the master of this house. Indeed, I receive an education as I play the Court Jester. While I am happy to provide entertainment, my mind returns to serving the master, which creates a pause in the scene. I am bereft of words.
The Gentleman does not seem to want this play to end, so he launches into a monologue flourishing his own trumpet. “Yeah, I’m an expert at survival. I’ve been in every different environment. I can survive anywhere. I teach other people.” He reaches a crescendo of pride and enthusiasm. “In fact, I have a YouTube channel where I have a series of survival videos to teach people.”
“What is your YouTube name?”, I ask. He answers, hesitatingly.
I query again, “Do you need any medical help?”
Gentleman Jack responds, “No, but I could use some rubbing alcohol for my alcohol-burning stove. Do you have any?”
While there a firepit, there is no alcohol-burning stove visible. When ingested, rubbing alcohol (i.e. isopropyl alcohol) is more dangerous than liquor (i.e. ethanol). As isopropyl alcohol courses down the gullet, through the esophagus, and into the stomach, it rapidly removes the protective mucus coating of the gastrointestinal tract thus, exposing the underlying cells to a devouring attack. The isopropanol quickly rips open the cell membrane and pours into the cytoplasm like a medieval invading army breaching a city wall. The sensitive innards of the cell cytoplasm cannot repulse the onslaught. The Golgi bodies break open no longer able to produce the body’s energy-providing adenosine triphosphate (ATP). The ribosome components, the 30s unit and 50s unit, are torn asunder rendering them incapable of transcribing RNA into proteins. Lastly, the protective wall of the nucleus fails under the attack exposing the forty-two pairs of chromosomes to decimation.
Onward, onward to the next cell and to the next. Onward into the blood stream where it hits the brain producing a deceptively lulling effect of stupor before arriving at the liver where alcohol dehydrogenase turns it into acetone, the universal solvent. Quickly formed, the acetone takes much time to metabolize and excrete, giving it ample time to dissolve anything within reach of the blood stream, which is everything. Neurons, hepatocytes, cardiomyocytes, and life itself all dissolve into the clear liquid onslaught.
I respond, “No, I do not have any rubbing alcohol.”
The Gentleman presses, “Can you get some?”
I pause pensively, “Probably not the safest cooking fuel to use.”
He acquiesces, “Maybe not.” Gentleman Jack changes tack again, “Do you have a blanket?”
Happy to oblige my host, “I do, Sir.” I pull a thermal space blanket out of my black bag, which seems to amuse his inner survivalist. He accepts the offering with a smile. As my audience has come to an end, we exchange salutations, and I exit.
Later, I go to his Youtube channel to further my street survival education. I find the channel and see Gentleman Jack. His library contains only two videos. One video demonstrates an inebriated Gentleman Jack unboxing, evaluating, and repeatedly demonstrating a marijuana pipe. The second video shows the Gentleman inebriated and tasing his brother who screams, then acquiesces to another trial of the product over-and-over again while Gentleman Jack roars in laughter each time.
I cannot watch the entire video. My black bag sits open beside me. Whatever in my black bag can help Gentleman Jack? I see bandages, antibiotics, medications, diagnostic tools, another thermal blanket, and more. Useless. All useless. I dig further into the black bag and find a small, black Bible.
Episode 5: Count of Monte Cristo
more to come…
We encourage you to take to the streets and get to know the people, the struggles, and the stories for yourself. Bring food, socks, and an open heart.