JacobsBell

A deafening screech, then a loud thud, jolted Jacob MacCallum upright from

his sleep as the freight train pulled into Chicago. It was a frosty October morning

in 1944. The boxcar, which carried him from the West, had a musty stench about

it. Jacob’s head was throbbing. His breath reeked of whiskey and tobacco.

Next to his left leg was an empty scotch bottle, the remnants of a hard night’s

drinking. He laid his head back down on his knapsack and lit the stub of a

cigarette as he watched the sunlight trickle through the cracks into the emptiness

of the darkened wooden boxcar. Jacob had become accustomed to traveling this

way as he criss-crossed the country looking for odd jobs and handouts to

support him.

As the train slowed, he prepared to jump off. It wasn’t wise to linger after the

train pulled into the yard. Though hopping a freight wasn’t a serious crime, they

were cracking down. If caught, he could be arrested, or even worse.

As Jacob slid the door open, the bright morning sun hit his face forcing him to

squint. He raised his hand to shield his eyes while they adjusted to the light. The

sun revealed the weathered skin of a sixty year old man who appeared much

older; the cumulative result from many years of hard living on the streets. Jacob

lived a callous life and he had the scars to prove it. His face and head had more

stitches than a fine country quilt from countless fights, falls and knocks to the

skull.

The son of Irish immigrants, Jacob grew up on the tough side of town. The

skills he learned as a lad with his knuckles proved handy over the years, getting

him out of plenty of tight spots, and in just as many. He spent most of his time

riding the rails and hanging out on the streets with rough necks and hooligans. His

fighting skills were honed in prison, where he fought for recreation and for the

amusement of the guards. Mostly though, his fighting, just like his drinking, got

him more into trouble than anything else.

Jacob jumped from the boxcar while it was still rolling. He stuck a perfect

landing. Standing there proudly, he puckered his lips and drew one last time on

what was left of his cigarette, savoring the last of its nicotine. He tossed the

smoldering butt onto the tracks then, rubbed his hand over his unshaven face

where the white stubble was beginning to sprout. I’m gettin’ too old for this

nonsense, he thought to himself as he walked across the train yard. Jumping

freight trains, sleeping on the ground and enduring the elements was not as easy

as they once were.

He hadn’t lived this way all his life, though. Jacob did have three children who

were now grown. Emma, his eldest, lived somewhere in Baltimore, Maryland.

Frankie was the youngest. The last Jacob heard Frankie was living with his older

brother Tom and his family in Chicago. It was Tom and Frankie that Jacob had

come to see. He needed to put things right between himself and his two sons.

Jacob had been riddled with guilt over the years for the tragedy he brought upon

his oldest son, which would cause Tom to limp for the rest of his life.

A recent near death experience out West spurred Jacob to take an accounting

of his life. He came down with a bad bout of pneumonia and almost didn’t make

it. While lying in a hospital bed in Nevada he came to the realization he needed to

reconcile with his children before his time ran out.

Five years had passed since he had last seen his sons, even longer since he

had seen Emma. He hadn’t seen his granddaughter since she was a baby. Emma

made sure of that. He had yet to meet Tom’s youngest, Michael, who was born

three years before. His relationship with his children was chilly at best. And, over

the years it had thawed immensely just to reach that level of warmth. Tom’s

parting words from Jacob’s last visit still echoed in his head. “Now, get the hell

out of here and never come back again!” His encounters with Emma had a

similar history. Jacob’s family wanted little to do with him, and they had good

reason.

As he made his way through the streets of Chicago, he noticed there were not

many young men about, and the ones that were wore uniforms. World War II

was in full fury. Most of the young men of Chicago, like young men in every

other city and town in America, were being consumed by the Great War. He

wondered about Frankie, was he too, wearing a uniform?

Jacob often pondered about his youngest child. He knew Tom and Emma

were fine. They were strong, sometimes even stubborn, much like him, but

Frankie was different. He was more like his mother, sensitive and overly

generous. Frankie was far less independent that his siblings. The turmoil that

Jacob had brought upon his family seemed to have a more profound effect on

Frankie, but in a quiet sort of way. He never lost his temper or showed anger

toward Jacob as Tom and Emma had. Frankie had always been less emotional,

more withdrawn - but Jacob knew that what he had done deeply scarred his

youngest child. Through it all though, Frankie seemed to show Jacob more love

and respect than Tom or Emma.

The mood on the street was robust and confident, one shared by Jacob,

evident by his cocky gait. Jacob projected a tough exterior, but on the inside he

was hurting. He was haunted by memories of the past, filled with regrets and

what ifs. He longed for love and companionship that had been absent from his life

for so many years. For most of the last two decades Jacob had been in an

alcohol-induced fog, a time of denial and self-pity mixed with intermittent periods

of remorse, sobriety and attempts at reconciliation. After what he had done, he

had little hope of resolution with his children.

Jacob stopped, slung his coat over his shoulder and inserted a crumpled

cigarette into the corner of his mouth.

“Got a light?” he asked a passerby.

“Sure, pal.”

Jacob leaned his head into the palms of the stranger’s hands as they cupped

the matchstick. He drew the flame onto the end of his cigarette then, stood

upright and inhaled deeply.

While exhaling, he asked, “Know a place where a fella can get a drink this

early?”

“Down the street, turn the corner and at the end of the block is a joint called

Kelly’s.”

“Thanks.”

Jacob headed to Kelly’s for a morning fix of liquid courage before he would

begin his quest to find his sons and attempt to extinguish the burning in his heart.

As he strolled through the warehouse district of the city, his memory took him

back to a distant time, some thirty years before. He was dressed in an expensive

suit partially hidden by a fashionable woolen topcoat. His shoes were shined and

made of expensive Italian leather, his hair full and slicked back in a way that

accentuated his chiseled features and a strong jaw line, features that attracted the

attention of the ladies when he walked by. He was surrounded by associates,

greeted warmly by those who passed him, and regarded with much respect.

After all, he was among the most rich and powerful men in Chicago.

“Hey, old man, watch where you’re going!”

Jacob was startled back into the present as he bumped shoulders with a man

on the sidewalk. In his younger day, the guy’s rude remark most likely would

have put him on the receiving end of one of Jacob's well-established right hooks.

But ol’ Jacob was tired, tired of fighting, tired of running - just plain ol’ tired. He

let the incident pass offering a muted apology.

“Sorry. I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Well why don’t you watch where you’re going?”

“I said I was sorry.”

The encounter caused Jacob to drop his coat onto the ground. He stared

down at the pathetic piece of cloth, riddled with holes, the pockets ripped at the

sides. Honestly, it wasn’t worth the effort to bend over and pick it up, but it was

all Jacob had, a far cry from the fine woolen topcoat he once wore.

He stopped in front of Kelly’s and looked up at the sign over the front door.

Flicking his spent cigarette out into the street, he opened the door and walked

inside. The place was practically empty. The bar keep, chewing on a half

smoked cigar, was sweeping the floor. Five shabbily dressed patrons sat at a

table playing poker, and there was a guy in the corner booth sleeping. The place

smelled of stale beer and cigarette smoke. The glow of the morning sun, which

crept through the pub’s smoggy windows, provided the only light in the dim

establishment. The sunlight, which flowed into the smoke filled room, gave the

illusion of beams of light spilling onto the dirty wooden floor.

Jacob pulled out a stool and bellied up to the bar. The bartender disregarded

him and just kept sweeping. Jacob sat patiently for a few moments before

becoming irritated at being ignored.

“Hey, Buddy!” Jacob called out.

Still, the bartender kept sweeping.

“Hey, Buddy. I’m talking to you.”

The bartender looked up and said, “I’m not your buddy.”

“Well, I’d like a drink. You are the bartender aren’t you?”

Without answering, the man walked behind the bar, stopped across from

Jacob, leaned in and said, “What’ll ya have?”

“A tall glass of whiskey.”

The man poured whiskey into a dirty glass and put it on the bar in front of

Jacob. As Jacob reached for it the man pulled it back.

“You pay first, then, you drink.”

Jacob rummaged through his pockets for the price of the booze. Finding it, he

slapped it down on the bar. The bartender released his grip on the glass, grabbed

the money and slid the drink toward Jacob. Friendly place, Jacob thought.

As he sat there sipping his whiskey, Jacob listened to the men playing cards as

they cursed loudly and laughed at the punch lines of off colored jokes. He

grabbed a box of matches sitting on the bar and fumbled through his pockets for

a smoke. He searched frantically, checking his pants, his shirt, his sweater and his

coat - nothing. He was out. He wouldn’t mind bumming a smoke from one of the

guys playing cards. But that could lead to trouble.

He looked in the bartender’s direction, who was now wiping off some tables

behind him. Out of the question, he said to himself. Then he glanced at the man

sleeping in the corner booth. Sitting on the table by the his elbow was a half a

pack of Lucky Strikes, Jacob’s preferred brand, but these days he wasn’t too

particular. I could sneak over and snag the pack. The dope probably

wouldn’t even notice. A smoke sure would go good with this whiskey.

Jacob looked down at his feet. This must be my lucky day, he laughed

inwardly. There, just below the bar, was a long cigarette butt. Someone had

taken just a few drags on it and snuffed it out on the floor. Fortunately for Jacob,

the bartender wasn’t that conscientious about his cleaning. He bent over and

lifted the discarded cigarette to his lips. Lighting it, he smiled, and then resumed

sipping his whiskey.

His thoughts returned to his past, to happier times, like the day, more than

thirty years before, when he and Nick, his best friend and business partner, made

that big deal. Wow … we sure were flying high that day. We really hit the

jackpot. A slight smile creped onto his face, then quickly disappeared. Yeah …

and where did all that get me in the end? Where I am today … in a run-

down bar sniping cigarette butts off the floor.

Whatever became of Nick, he wondered. He’s got to be doing better than

me. He thought about the beautiful home he once owned. Some called it a

mansion. He drove fancy cars and wore imported suits with silk shirts and ties.

He looked down at his clothes, all tattered and torn, pants with patches, worn

out shoes. He had cardboard stuffed in his shoes to cover the holes in their soles.

He laughed out loud then joked to himself; I’ve got holes in my soles and a

hole in my soul. All of the sudden, it wasn’t funny anymore. He did have a hole

in his soul, and it ached.

How could my life have turned like this? I had it all - everything. Now I

have nothing … no money, no home, no fancy cars, and most importantly,

no family. Nothing!

Of all the things he missed, it was his family that he longed for the most. But he

knew that part of his life he could never recapture. Jacob took another swig of

whiskey and swallowed hard. He puffed on his cigarette and blew out a ring of

smoke, watching it rise toward the ceiling where it disappeared in the slow

whirling blades of the ceiling fan. As he gazed upward, he drifted back into the

past.

He and Nick had known each other since they were boys. It was Nick who

introduced Jacob to his wife, Amanda. That was a day Jacob will always

remember. She was stunningly beautiful with her pale blonde hair and blue eyes.

They fell deeply in love; a love that still caused Jacob much anguish.

I should have listened to Nick. My life would be far different today if I

had.

“Ouch, damn it!” Jacob’s cigarette had burned down to his fingers. His yell

caused the men playing cards to turn and stare. The bartender dropped the glass

he was washing, and the gentleman sleeping in the corner began to stir. Jacob felt

rather uncomfortable. He extinguished the cigarette then, tilting his head back, he

poured the remaining whiskey down his throat. He put the glass on the bar,

picked up his coat and walked out the door.

The light of the outdoors glared in his eyes. He staggered slightly for a brief

moment, partially because of the gleaming sun, but mostly because of the whiskey

he had consumed. He sat down on a bench in front of the building. A few

minutes later, the front door of Kelly’s swung open. It was the man who had

been sleeping in the corner.

“Hey, mate,” the disheveled man said with a British accent. “Mind if I sit

here a spell?” he asked, while lighting up one of his Lucky Strikes. “Care for a

smoke?”

Ah ... That was music to Jacob's ears.

“Sure. Don’t mind if I do.”

“I haven’t seen you around here before. You from Chicago?”

“No,” Jacob said. “Just passing through. I’m here to see my sons. How about

you?”

“I live down the street. I rent a room there. It isn’t much, but it’s a warm

place to bunk. Would you care for a nip?” the British gentleman said as he pulled

a bottle of scotch from inside his coat.

“No. I’ve got to get going. I have to get to my sons’ place.”

“Oh, come on, mate. A few nips on the bottle will warm you up inside.”

Jacob thought for a moment. He wanted to find Tom and Frankie and

straighten things out. He had so much he wanted to tell them. But he was afraid

… afraid that Tom would reject him again. After what Jacob had done, and all

that he had not done, he couldn’t blame Tom for his feelings of distain, though he

wished they were different.

“Maybe just a few nips, then I have ta go.”

Actually, this was exactly the excuse Jacob was looking for, a kind stranger

willing to share a bottle of scotch and his Lucky Strikes. This was a perfect

reason to put off his meeting with Tom and Frankie. The truth was Jacob wasn’t

up for rejection today, anyway. He spent several hours with his new found

friend, long enough to help find the bottom of the bottle of scotch and to empty

the pack of Lucky Strikes. After bidding the man goodbye, Jacob staggered

down the street and into another bar where stayed until he was thoroughly

inebriated.