June 08, 2007
Two Fires, One Very Special Family
When I was growing up in my charming, affluent town, there were two families that everyone knew – the Jacksons and the McDonalds. They were the names most frequently seen in the police blotter. They were the kids our parents wouldn’t let us play with. They were the kind of people who would die and either be eaten by their own cats or have to be removed from the house through at window with a crane. Or both.
Mrs. Jackson was one of those women you hear about but can’t believe, who was pregnant for the sixth time and didn’t know it until her water broke. True story.
I think they were vying for the coveted title of “Trashiest Family in Town.” Literally vying. They lived on the same block and were actually feuding, for God knows what reason. I think the oldest Jackson boy impregnated the McDonalds’ dog or something. They would throw beer bottles and firecrackers at each others’ houses. I think 50% of the calls to the fire department in the 70s and 80s were from the Jacksons. That place was always on fire.
One time, it was on fire twice in one day.
Gary Jackson had a motorcycle. He liked to ride it through residential streets at breakneck speeds. He also liked to ride it through picnics, parades and Easter egg hunts.
One day, he came screaming around the corner, and his hubcap went flying off, into K and Garrance’s yard. K picked it up and beat him on the head with it! No, she didn’t really, but that would’ve been awesome.
She handed it back to him and said, “I have a two-year old that you are going to kill if you don’t slow down!” Because when I say around the corner, I really mean across their lawn. I think Gary inherited his driving skills from his mother, who once drove her car through her back porch. For reasons unknown.
One day, K saw Gary tear around the corner, over the Jacksons lawn, into their back yard and disappear. Followed shortly by a police car.
K was happy to direct the officers to the Jackson home, although they probably didn’t need much direction.
Mrs. Jackson, 6 feet tall and 600 lbs., came to the door and, of course, started telling the policemen that Gary wasn’t there and she hadn’t seen him all day and blah blah blah. But apparently she hadn’t told Gary of her brilliant plan to cover for him because he came down the stairs in a towel and told the police he had just gotten out of the shower.
By this time, half the neighborhood was on their front lawns, and they weren’t even pretending to water the tulips. They were just flat-out gawking.
But before the officers could decide whether they should haul Gary off in his towel or let him change clothes first, smoke started coming out of one of the basement windows. So one of them walked around and took a look. Yup. Something was on fire in the basement.
Apparently, Gary had driven his motorcycle down the basement stairs, laid it down and put a blanket over it. Because, ya know, that’s sure to fool anyone!
The two Jackson girls started screaming and carrying furniture and pets out of the house. And they had some really beautiful antiques, which was ironic. And unfair. They should be living with milk crates and card tables, like normal white trash!
I guess the jig was pretty much up at that point. Hard to plead innocent when your motorcycle is on fire in the basement and your sisters are emptying the house of valuables.
The fire department came and put out the fire. When K asked if they were going to arrest Gary, they said, “I think having their house go up in flames is punishment enough.” And it wasn’t, in my opinion, but I think the police were probably just fed up at that point.
But just as the firemen were putting their hoses away and getting ready to leave, smoke started coming out of one of their second story windows. Apparently, the fire had gotten into the walls and traveled upstairs. Bwaaaaaaaaaaa ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! So the firemen had to get all their gear back out and put out the second fire.
Meanwhile, Garrance went around to the rest of the neighbors to take up a collection. They were hoping, at that point, to bribe the firemen to just let the place burn down. But apparently that's a crime or something, even when half the people living there are on the lam.
And I don't know why I felt compelled to share that story except that we were talking about the Jacksons last week. They come up in conversation fairly often, even after moving away twenty years ago. But the motorcycle story is my favorite.
Hokaaaaaaaaaaay, good story. And then I found five dollars.
Comments
I remember the day well! Actually, here is something good about the Jacksons. Ian was my best friend for about 4 years and because of that (and his older brothers), my earliest memories of music are of the Beatles and Jimi Hendrix! Also, I had my first shoplifting experience with Andy Jackson. When I was five, I took the bus with him to Toys R Us and we stole monchichi paraphernalia. Now that I think about it, I was five, went off with a 12 year old with a rap sheet on a bus for several hours, and was not missed! What's up with that, K and Garrence?!?!?!?!
Posted by: Kelly Garrett at June 8, 2007 07:50 PM
Five dollars? Cool. Take me to Coldstone!
Posted by: Marty at June 8, 2007 08:24 PM
Oooh, post more Jackson & McDonald stories! I love hearing good white-trash stories!
Posted by: Mickey at June 9, 2007 06:19 AM
Um....motorcycles don't have hubcaps. Other then that, that was an AWESOME story. I grew up on 7 acres of old growth trees, so we NEVER interacted with the neighbors. This upsets me now, because I surely missed out on all sorts of stuff just like the Jacksons & McDonalds.
Posted by: elle at June 9, 2007 12:15 PM
Ha ha ha ha! You're right! They don't! Well, something flew off his bike into their yard.
Posted by: Wenchie at June 9, 2007 01:48 PM