Deranged
When I was in high school, back before the days of caller I.D., we got a lot of hang-up calls after midnight at my house. At first we thought it was some kid down the street pranking us. Later, that proved not to be true.
Usually the caller would say nothing. But sometimes a distinctively male adult voice would say something vaguely threatening like: "You think you're so smart!" Click.
After months of this, my parents figured out the caller was likely my father's nephew Jimmy. Jimmy had no reason to be angry at my parents who are two of the sweetest, kindest people in the world. My dad had only seen Jimmy a couple of times as a young child. All that we could figure is that Jimmy was rightly still angry at my father's brother, who'd left Jimmy as a child to marry another woman. We had a listed phone number and my uncle, wisely, didn't. So my Dad was the closest family member with a phone number that he could take out his rage on. It was pretty upsetting at the time. But Jimmy, who was in his 40s at the time, lived states away, somewhere outside of Bloomington, Indiana. And we doubted he'd make a trip down to Texas to settle his scores.
My parents were not fond of being awakened at 1 a.m. three times a week with Jimmy's calls. So instead of changing the phone number they've had since 1966, they had all of Jimmy's calls forwarded to a recorded information line that gave Dallas County pollen updates.
After he figured out the jig was up, Jimmy gave us a bizarre peace offering. We got a letter in the mail with no return address from Indiana. And inside were a set of snapshots of Jimmy and his home life. There was no note, but Jimmy wrote various messages on the back of the photos. Jimmy looked like a paunchy Travis Bickle, sans the mohawk, with a deranged look on his face. In one photo, Jimmy was wearing a red windbreaker with the words INDIANA stitched on the back. The back of the photo said "My alma mater." That degree from Indiana apparently wasn't working out for Jimmy financially because by the looks of the photos, Jimmy was living in a trailer. The photo I remember most was one Jimmy sent of his car, a beat-to-hell 1974 Chevy Camaro. One the back of the photo it said, of course, "My car." Another of the photos just showed the greasy engine compartment of the Camaro.
I'm not sure what Jimmy wanted to show us by sending the photos. "Say, that's a nice 350 in that Camaro Jimmy. Want to come over for Thanksgiving?"
My parents never heard from him again. But I hope the man has found peace.
Usually the caller would say nothing. But sometimes a distinctively male adult voice would say something vaguely threatening like: "You think you're so smart!" Click.
After months of this, my parents figured out the caller was likely my father's nephew Jimmy. Jimmy had no reason to be angry at my parents who are two of the sweetest, kindest people in the world. My dad had only seen Jimmy a couple of times as a young child. All that we could figure is that Jimmy was rightly still angry at my father's brother, who'd left Jimmy as a child to marry another woman. We had a listed phone number and my uncle, wisely, didn't. So my Dad was the closest family member with a phone number that he could take out his rage on. It was pretty upsetting at the time. But Jimmy, who was in his 40s at the time, lived states away, somewhere outside of Bloomington, Indiana. And we doubted he'd make a trip down to Texas to settle his scores.
My parents were not fond of being awakened at 1 a.m. three times a week with Jimmy's calls. So instead of changing the phone number they've had since 1966, they had all of Jimmy's calls forwarded to a recorded information line that gave Dallas County pollen updates.
After he figured out the jig was up, Jimmy gave us a bizarre peace offering. We got a letter in the mail with no return address from Indiana. And inside were a set of snapshots of Jimmy and his home life. There was no note, but Jimmy wrote various messages on the back of the photos. Jimmy looked like a paunchy Travis Bickle, sans the mohawk, with a deranged look on his face. In one photo, Jimmy was wearing a red windbreaker with the words INDIANA stitched on the back. The back of the photo said "My alma mater." That degree from Indiana apparently wasn't working out for Jimmy financially because by the looks of the photos, Jimmy was living in a trailer. The photo I remember most was one Jimmy sent of his car, a beat-to-hell 1974 Chevy Camaro. One the back of the photo it said, of course, "My car." Another of the photos just showed the greasy engine compartment of the Camaro.
I'm not sure what Jimmy wanted to show us by sending the photos. "Say, that's a nice 350 in that Camaro Jimmy. Want to come over for Thanksgiving?"
My parents never heard from him again. But I hope the man has found peace.
posted by john clarke at 6:45 AM
2 Comments:
The call is coming from inside the Zesto!
That's creepy
Hey, how about a Jimmy the Weed story!
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