It's a pretty regular occurrence to see an ambulance pull up to a certain house on our block. Two of the sons living there are extreme alcoholics, and the daughter has a drug problem. One of them pretty regularly overdoes it, and call in the ambulance. The mother, an elderly woman with her own issues, has needed assistance from time-to-time as well. Since they have no car, they call 911 whenever they have a problem.
So last night I wondered who had overindulged when I saw an ambulance roll up in front of their house yet again. I expected the Detox van to be close behind. It didn't take me long to realize things were more serious this time, as I saw someone getting CPR on the porch. The daughter was hysterical and running up and down the block. I couldn't make out who it was as they were taking away in the ambulance. All I could see was a pair of feet--Skinny legs, white tube socks poking out from denim jeans. Could it be Jerry?
Unfortunately, I just learned that it was, and he died last night. I don't know the causes, but I know he wasn't well for some time and didn't take very good care of himself.
Jerry has been a friend of ours since we first moved to Cole and he shouted across the street as we walked our dogs: "Is they spaded?". He and his family had lived on the block for over 50 years. According to Jerry, his granddad built several homes on the block, including ours. He used to tell me about how he remembered our block in the good days, when it was shady and tree-lined, and when the residents all got along and often had block parties. He had been witness to a lot of Cole's history.
He fought in Vietnam and the French Foreign Legion before becoming a hydrology engineer or something similar. He had a property in sunny, quiet California, a place that would have been a lot better for his health than Cole, yet he stayed out of love for his elderly mother. He shared our love of the Rottweiler breed, of James Brown, and of fresh air. And he was an amazing artist. He often shared poems and pictures he had created, and I was consistently shocked at how the partier across the street was so talented.
He had a drinking problem and hung out with a lot of the old-timer riff-raff on the block, but was a good man. In a way, he was trapped in limbo. He was a throwback to the seedier days of Cole, and experienced that side of things every day with members of his own family. But while he stayed friendly with the old-timers he also embraced changes to the neighborhood as a positive thing. He frequently told us how much he loved us, and that we were good people, even though his sister was convinced we had it in for her and that any time the police showed up it was because we had called them. That didn't bother Jerry. He cared about everyone--old and new--in the neighborhood. And he had come to peace with a lot of the bad things he'd done, as he frequently told me. But he had really cleaned up his act, except for the drinking.
The last few years he's been hobbled, because his drunk brother had thrown him down a flight of stairs and severely broken his ankle in a drunken disagreement. Along with his COPD and his drinking, he had his good days and bad days the last couple years.
I'll never forget how he would go sit on the street corner with the old-timers and drink for hours--He was frequently drunk--But he was courteous to the police officers that often came and cited him for public intoxication. He couldn't change his habit, but he was very realistic about it and the consequences. He also called out other guys on the block when they got too drunk and got into trouble, not allowing them to play the victim card. He's also the only person I ever loaned money to on the block more than once--Because he always paid me back before I had to ask. He was all about personal responsibility. But bottom line, drunk or sober, no matter what was going on, he was a super-friendly man with a huge heart and a great sense of humor.
Jerry loved spicy food--I always shared my garden-grown jalapenos and habaneros and home-made green chili. We'd often chat over our fences about this and that--We didn't have much in common, but you couldn't tell. I remember when my wife bought me a "stingy brim" (fedora) hat, and when Jerry saw me in it, he complimented me on it. The next day he handed me three of his own, really nice ones, from the 60's. Jerry was a great, if unorthodox friend.
I just told Jerry last weekend that I wanted to sit down with him one afternoon with a bottle of his favorite Kentucky Deluxe and document some of the history of the neighborhood he always talked about. I had also always wanted to talk to him about the war, as it was clear he was deeply affected by it. I'm deeply sorry I missed that opportunity.
Some might look at one fewer drunk on the streets as a good thing. I might too, if I didn't know Jerry. But he truly was a bridge between old and new--Between black and white, and young and old. A lot of Cole's history--Good and bad--died last night. I've already caught myself looking for him up the block when I go out and get my morning paper.
We'll miss you Jerry.
