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Little Jack
Jack is the guy who walks around with the two-headed quarter. At times, if he's waiting in line, for example, you might see him tossing it in the air, just a few inches, and catching it in his palm. "My dad gave it to me," he'll say as he turns it end to end to show you the double heads. Been carrying that quarter for years, most of his life, really. He's not superstitious.
It's a keepsake for a man who doesn't care for keepsakes. He has to be careful when he's paying out in change, but he never keeps it in a different pocket. That would never occur to him, and somehow, it wouldn't be right.
Tuesday night with a heavy snow back in 1997, one too many Budweiser's under his belt, he flips it to a crippled bum taking up space on the corner of H and 9th. Guy looks like a caricature. So many on the streets, it looks like the asylums have all been let loose. Matter of fact, they have.
Jack is halfway to the metro before he senses that the quarter is gone, and so he walks the five blocks back, sobering quickly on the way. Only the fellow ain't there anymore.
Jack was eleven, and sitting in his grandparents parlor, the large black and white television just a few feet away from his white socked feet. Occasionally an adult would walk up and stand behind him, pausing to watch the action for a moment. A lot of things were going on.
The president was dead, for one thing, and the images on the screen were more real than the death of his own Papaw. Papaw was in a closed mahogany box, laid out in a church up the street - at least that's what they had told the child, and there was no reason for him to express doubt. They would be going up to see Papaw in the early afternoon.
But the box would not be opened. The mortician had only been able to do so much with the remains of Papaw's face, so the lid would stay forever shut.
Jack's dad stopped by the sofa with a sticky bun and a Lucky Strike. He sat the sweet on the side table and gave a nod to his son. His own father was dead, but Jack hadn't seen him cry, and he knew that he never would. Jack couldn't. And Jack was quite sure that when he grew up he would never cry again, either. It took him far too many years to accomplish his goal, but eventually he did.
There was a table piled high with food in the kitchen. He could smell ham. Still, Jack had no desire to leave his seat. He was safe.
"Want to flip for the roll," his dad asked, pulling out a silver coin. His dad's name was Jack as well, but everyone called him Jojo, except for family, on days like this, today. Then he was known as Big Jack.
Little Jack, as always, chose tails.
"Heads it is," his father said, taking a large bite out of the bun. "Best two out of three?" And heads and bite and heads and bite.
"Here you go son," he laughed, giving Jack a closer look at the coin. His face was alien, all wrinkled and blotched. "In life, you've always got to hedge your bets." Big Jack returned to the kitchen, leaving his cigarette to burn itself out.
Papaw and Kennedy, struck dead on the same day, both with a bullet in the brain. It made you wonder. Kennedy was shot by a stranger, that was the big difference. Papaw pulled the trigger on himself. No one told this fact directly to Little Jack, but adults were careless, and talk was all around him. It didn't take him long to piece events together. Jack knew that what Papaw had done was very wrong. It seemed to him a mystery, an impossible event. How could... He could not formulate the thought.
Little Jack pocketed the quarter and turned his attention back to the screen. The police were escorting Lee Harvey Oswald, a man with three names, the man who had shot the president. Jack suddenly felt very angry with this man, and wished he could hurt him badly. Kennedy and Papaw had merged into one man.
Thirty-four years later, it all came flooding back. The quarter. Suddenly superstitious, it seemed like a frighteningly bad sign. Jack freaks. Quarter that his Dad gave to him. 1963. The year Kennedy was shot. Stands there looking at the spot where the bum was sitting. The snow has not yet covered it. There are footprints everywhere, leading in every direction. The cripple's cardboard sign has been tossed into the slush. 'Vietnam Veteran - Please Help. God bless you.'
'He stole my luck,' Jack thinks, and then he shouts. 'He stole my luck.' Such an irrational thought, but it rang like a phone. | 
