Here’s a contribution from my old pal Jude Walko. I’ve know Jude since I was a kid back in Georgia. These days, Jude works as a producer, writer and director and spends his time between Los Angeles and Bangkok with his wife and two children. His next two slated projects are The Unhallowed Horseman and Devil’s Corps – both of which he wrote and will direct. You can read more about Jude’s movie career at imdb.com/name/
Jack the Tripper
Jack Grimsby was an ordinary man. So ordinary, in fact, that in and of itself there is nothing out of the ordinary to say about his life, ever … until now that it is.
Jack was an American living a boring life of cubicles and coffee. He pretended to follow sports he knew nothing about and the closest he ever came to being with a girl was a kiss on the cheek by Mary M. Mudderer (yeah you heard that right) at a chaperoned dance in the 8thgrade. Now this would all be fine and dandy under normal circumstances, except the fact that Jack was fast approaching 40 years old.
So it came as a big surprise when Mr. Finley, Jack’s domineering, yet respectable, boss approached him. The conversation that would happen in the next eight minutes and thirty-seven seconds would change Jack’s life forever. Of course, there was no way to know that at the time. Mr. Finley was a man of great stature. He had pressed clothes and smelled of imported Arabian wood oils, no doubt purchased on one of his many overseas sojourns. He was crimped and cropped to the core. Not one stray hair or dandruff flake could ever be found on him. It seemed almost unworldly. Nevertheless, what Mr. Finley told Jack was that he was chosen, through the prudence of the invisible and all-powerful “board”, to be the Company’s representative on a required trip to London. Yes, indeedy; London, England, United Kingdom, Great Britain and all of that. Land of Kings & Queens and Beefeaters and double-deckered buses, fish and chips, blood pudding and something called football that looked a lot like soccer.
Well it is unnecessary for me to delve into the excitement Jack felt. It was his first trip from the icy claw of the Upper Peninsula that he would ever go on. He had only read about such places in tattered hand me down magazines his Mother would bring back from her Bridge game. The only reason he had a passport, in fact, was because that same Mother, God rest her soul, had encouraged him to get one before applying to become an Army reservist. A physical test he failed miserably, by the way. Beyond all the fantasies of travels and newfound things that he envisioned, in his until then sheltered mind, Jack had a personal reason to love England. That’s because he, in fact, as his name implies, was of English stock. He had always wanted to venture to the his Father’s homeland and had til then only read about it in books or commercially-askewed magazine articles. He did know that things like his grandmother’s cutlery and her fine sense or propriety came from England, so he was anxious at the opportunity to delve into this exciting new world of his heritage.
Now I wont bore the reader with the tomfoolery that came next. What with cabs and airliners and the typical melee of “cross the pond” travel, Jack was definitely a fish out of water. If one had only documented his travel and subsequent foot-in-mouth syndrome, as well as his naivete in trusting strangers, it would have made for a right joyous slapstick comedy. But let’s cut to the chase.
Enter Jack. Showered, well-rested, an ample stipend in his pocket from the company, as well as his savings; He was, after all, a single bachelor with a decent income. There was Jack Grimsby smack dab in the middle of the Country, nay the Town, of his forefathers.
“Where to start?” Jack quietly thought to himself. One thing that burrowed in the back of the tiny recesses of Jack’s wandering mind, even after all these years, was something his Father said just before he was to walk out the door to the local pub and consequently from Jack and his Mother’s life forever. That was upon little Jack’s inquiry of why they never tripped to London his Dad replied; “London’s love affair with knives is second only to America’s love affair with guns”. And with that unsound logic, he was never to be seen or heard from again.
In fact, he may have been right. From as far back as the “Leather Apron” upon Whitechapel, to the famed Barber of Fleet Street, bodies being dredged up from the Thames in multiple bags, right up unto a rash of machete-wielding Somalians, perhaps his father was dead-on right. Sharp objects did seem to be the weapon of choice in this otherwise docile town. But Jack wasn’t going to let that kernel of doubt ruin this once-in-a-lifetime adventure. No Siree. For the first time in his life, he would shed his timid shell and venture out like the pirates of old into the depths of still unchartered waters. In fact, no one knew him here, so in a way, other than those he would meet in a few days time on behalf of the Company, he was completely unknown here. There was something indeed quite refreshing about that fact that he could act with a somewhat sense of impunity here.
Jack begin his tour like any other tourist without a clue. He spent way to much on a shoddy map of London and a coffee, but was happy to pay the extra if not for the very fact that he received old and tarnished pounds sterling coins as a keepsake for his coworkers back home. Jack was convinced in the long hours of daylight that are common in London during the summer, that he could see a ton of landmarks within that allotted time. And although the candy apple red, double-decker buses and black Hackney carriages looked fun, he decided the best way to see this glorious city was on foot. Armed with his map and quickly dwindling cup of coffee, he rounded the first corner he came to.
In a sea of street performers, tourists, backpackers and business folk, Jack asked the first person he came to where the London Bridge was. The lad he approached was promoting a local Medieval theatre production and was dressed like a 15th century minstrel playing a Gemshorn. In between blows of his mighty lungs into the crudely fashioned rudimentary instrument, he gleefully pointed Jack into a North-Easterly direction. With a “Cheers” and a smile, Jack so dispersed. After a small detour of the delightful Southwark Cathedral, Jack dutifully headed in the direction to which the minstrel had pointed.
After nearly being ran flat over by the 47 Lewisham bus, Jack scurried across the street and up a small embankment. Then just past a semi-obnoxious glass edifice he found a statue of a dragon atop a shield of The Great City of London’s Coat of Arms. It plainly read “City of London”. A miniscule discreet little plaque not too far down read “London Bridge”. Puzzled at the sight, Jack was quite disappointed. “This isn’t spectacular at all. What’s so special about this bridge and why does it have a its own song.” He was after all an ignorant foreigner.
It was then that a rosy-cheeked chubby lady, perhaps a mindreader of sorts, in between wrestling two drooling tots, tapped him on the shoulder and pointed straight ahead. “The Tower Bridge…”, she chewed biscuits ‘tween words, “…that’s what your looking for. It’s over there.” She pointed a stocky digit in a Westerly direction. What Jack saw next nearly made the little breakfast the nervous traveler could muster, come right back up into his gullet. To say he was awe-struck was an understatement. From every lunch box, to win-a-trip to London campaign, to deck of British cards he had seen his whole life, this very thing was the epitome of this City he had until this day known very little, if anything at all, about. There before him rose the mighty and powerful dual Sentries of the City of London. In the foreground the mighty HMS Belfast stood her ground, as if to say “Dare Ye Enter” while the Tower of London itself quietly curbed its undaunted prowess. It was a good three and half seconds before Jack’s mouth closed again. He imagined the rows of decapitated heads lining the now turquoise walkways where tourists scurried like ants on a sugar run. He was after all an ignorant foreigner.
Jack was excited now. Really excited. He quickly ran into a shop and purchased yet more overpriced items, being a disposable camera and some cola in a glass bottle. This struck him as odd in this day-and-age that the camera was plastic, but the bottle was not. Again from whence the way he came, he quickly maneuvered past a one-legged drummer playing on some sort of contraption made from a 10-speed bicycle and a penny store drum kit. He almost went due West to The Clink, as his map suggested as a point of interest, but thought it weird that the world’s most notorious prison would have a gift shop. Little did he know that Mr. Finley once bought him an Alcatraz swim team T-shirt on a San Francisco trip, but thought better of displaying favoritism at the workplace.
Jack rushed through crowds of people dressed like axe murderers and severed bodies for “The London Dungeon” comedy/horror attraction. This did not escape his feeble mind as it raced and swam through all the stimulus of sights, sounds & smells it was recording. Jack ran parallel with the Thames past a beautiful pub decked in royal blue & gold called “The Shipwrights Arms”. The magnificent handcrafted wood adornments were lost in his laughter at the sight of half exposed breast on the pub’s mascot. Even though it was merely an anthropomorphic animation of sorts, it still made his sophomoric mind chuckle. On he raced. Now getting winded he veered due North with London’s most out-of-place building, The Shard, directly at his back. After some short cuts through shops and lobbies and a bit of Bobbie-dodging he again was waterside. He was after all an ignorant foreigner, so his intrusions were excused. There he saw a very modern cityscape. One building looked like a giant molar, roots and all, and yet another three blocks down stood out as an architectural version of a Fabrege egg.
After copious pictures of the sites and sounds near the Tower Bridge, not the very least which were all the female of the species who seemed to really be getting his undivided attention (as much as that was possible), he moved back to the direction from whence he came. He now made a slow walk back, and came across a small pier. After exchanging pleasantries with an older British man he learned that he could easily take a boat trip along the river. The man seemed so very kind, especially to Jack an ignorant foreigner. This was something he was not all used to in the States. After what seemed to be a way-too-lively discussion with a ferry ticketer he again was directed towards The Embankment and London Eye. Both these names seemed very intriguing to him.
On his boat journey across the notorious waters of the choppy Thames, Jack tried to follow it’s curves and pick out places he must visit in this tremendous day before the sun went down. He surely must have looked like but an ignorant foreigner to the locals, what with the way the map was spinning in his hands like a red and yellow pinwheel. Then he saw it. He nearly dropped his camera and all his belongings (they weren’t much) overboard at the sight of it. Like everything else in London it had succumbed to the usual fate of being burnt to the ground only to be rebuilt again. Nevertheless the history of the building as much as the hallowed ground on which it stood were enough to bring chills to the spine. There in all its glory, just like every sketch and wood carving in every textbook known to man stood Shakespeare’s mighty Globe Theatre. Simply stunned by what this building represented in the minds of Thespians and artists alike, worldwide, Jack managed to snap but a few blurred pictures.
Along the way, besides his growing obsession with fellow women tourists, Jack noticed not one but two peculiar bridges crossing the Mighty Thames. The first, The Millennium Bridge, looked like a light saber from a sci-fi movie had thrown up across the span of the waterway and the second, The Blackfriars, appeared to have been painted with pink pastels by someone’s 8-year-old daughter. Nonetheless, they were both beautiful and intriguing in their own way to Jack. Then Jack’s explorations into British bridge building became instantly irrelevant as to his right he was being watched by the all mysterious “London Eye” and to his left he was surrounded by a myriad of Perpendicular Gothic structures straight off of a 19th century oil canvas. That was enough. As the boat captain called out the dock name, Jack struggled to beat the crowds. He seemed to fly above ground as he drifted past the hordes waiting for a ride on the Eye. He saw an enormous structure more suited for Roman times called The Aquarium. It was surrounded by beautiful lamp post of Japanese Koi fish which were painted pitch black. From what Jack had read in tales of colorful Japan he wondered why they were so dark only to be adorned by the occasional spider’s web megastructure. So he asked the first person he saw, who happened to be a funny French man who spoke broken English. The man claimed that that was the one condition the Emperor of Japan had when gifting them to the UK, but Jack though it might just be another fish tale. Yet another man, apparently on a self-bequeathed soap box, proceeded to preach to the multitudes that the London Eye ferris wheel was bought and paid for 100s of times over. He began to admonish people in the queue for contributing to the Eye’s obvious fleecing of what should be a now free attraction. He also followed up the rant with a bevy of statistics and the promise of many more Eyes to sprout up the world over. A light drizzle began, but didn’t put a damper on the joy Jack felt. He decided against buying a plastic umbrella painted like the Union Jack, knowing damn well it would break at the first tiny gust of wind. Besides, he had enough British Pound Sterling coins clambering around in his pocket now. Perhaps he wasn’t just a ignorant foreigner after all.
Jack begin to scurry across the Westminster Bridge feeling ever so blessed for his unguided tour of such a magnificent city. It seemed like strangers were his friends. The bridge itself was full of people from all walks of life. Young, Old, Arabs, Europeans, Africans, Asians and even Jack, the outside Westerner, awed in harmony at the resplendent beauty of Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament. A professional photographer asked Jack if we would like for him to take his picture with Jack’s camera. Jack, an untrusting American, thought the man would try to steal his camera and run off into the crowd, never to be see again, or force this ignorant foreigner to cough up an exorbitant fee for his services. Neither occurred, and Jack’s picture came out splendidly. What kind of 7th Heaven was this so called London?
Jack continued his journey across the bridge. He walked around Parliament Square that, with its multitude of flags and “small world” themed statues, reminded him more of an attraction at the happiest amusement park on Earth rather than a place of protest against the government. But no need for a simple ignorant foreigner like Jack to meddle in England’s political climate. So then he blissfully came across the most magnificent structure known to modern man… The Westminster Abbey. Here generations of Kings and Queens were interred, including above all, some of the world’s greatest authors in the “Poets’ Corner”. Well Jack lost two hours of his precious daylight hours here. Amongst the chapels, mini-chapels and side chapels, the daily prayer service, and pipe organ playing, the grandiose architecture, including a hole left by a shell in the Second World War, Jack made one startling discovery; Despite all the Richards and Elizabeths and Marys that were married, buried or had coronations here… whether they were married to the Church of England or simply breed into it, they also just ended up in a box like the common man. And here, Jack, perhaps the most common man of all, who even asked why Mary Queen of Scots a Catholic was buried here of all places, was able to run the oil of his fingertips across the boxes and monuments their bodies were so encased. That was ironic to say the least, if not downright odd. He thought it great that he could actually walk by, or sometimes even walk on, memorials to Austen, & Auden, Bronte, Browning, Carroll, Eliot, Lawrence, Milton, Chaucer, Keats, Tennyson, Dickens, Kipling, Handel, Shakespeare, Shelley, Thomas, Hardy, Wilde, Olivier and scores of others. He thought it appropriate as most artists, unlike the Kings and Queens they vied for floorspace with, were starving during their lifetimes and would appreciate the irony of being walked on in the afterlife, even after notoriety. He also wondered why Roald Dahl didn’t have a memorial. Both Charlie and Missenden would be upset about that. Jack walked on and on through halls and basements and even closed off gardens that were prohibited. He took a photo of an oil painting of the Queens Diamond Jubilee and even one in the Abbey’s oldest damp and musty room. He would later find out the photo would show only ghostly figures. He was getting hungry and had heard that monks used to make ale in the cloisters there, now formally called the Cellarium. So he journeyed on only to find overpriced sweets and tea, and alas no ale. He thought the monks might be turning over in their graves at the thought of providing nourishment to trifling tourist, as opposed to the proletariats of God’s Kingdom or the Royal Aristocracy. But alas what did he know, Jack was but an ignorant tourist. So he traveled on.
Once out of the Abbey’s warm embrace, Jack had a dilemma. Should he travel south to Vauxhall and back up to Morpeth Arms where it is said one could look through a spyglass at the fabled MI6 building, or should he stop by “Number 10” and give “The old Primey” a heartfelt hello from across the pond. Well neither, because you see Jack was but an ignorant foreigner and as such, knew nothing of these things. What he did know however, is that Royals stayed in Palaces and what other more fabled quintessential bastion of London Royalty was there other than Buckingham Palace itself? Exactly. So as Jack’s stomach begin to grumble and the sun began its slow-paced amble towards the horizon, he headed not South, nor North, but West, young man, straight up Birdcage Walk. It was a beautiful evening. Kids played with puppy dogs and couples rented bikes. Families ate delicacies and all the Queen’s horses and all the Queen’s Men marched by Jack in a tandem unison that would have made the Third Reich cringe with jealousy. But obliviously, Jack took a sharp right to the Victoria Memorial where hundreds of people waited for a glimpse of a Royal something or other. They all rested on black statues of men and lions. The centerpiece was some sort of golden Angel or was it a dragon once again? Jack was too hungry to care now and he wanted to get in more sights before the sun set. Instead of the Change of the Guard which was protected by some limerick regarding Autumn and Spring and every day versus every other day, there were just a couple of police in their silly high helmets posing for photos with paparazzi-trained tourists. So Jack again wandered on. He walked down The Mall to the Stable Yard where some young Buckingham Guards changed positions to a small crowd’s amusement. Jack figured it must be very hot in those Red outfits and bear fur hats. Then he snickered thinking of the fact that British love their red and how the Redcoats gave revolutionary pre-Americans easy target practice. But again his attention got diverted. He begin to see funny side streets with funny names. It was as if he found Alice’s secret roads to Wonderland. He saw a walkway dedicated to Diana, Princess of Wales. It was as if he and her were alone here. Was she the fabled Alice? He didn’t notice anyone else along these streets, so of course, he dutifully and courageously sauntered on.
He continued, catching a glimpse of the Queen’s Chapel through the trees and little roads that seemed to say things like “You probably aren’t supposed to be here” Avenue. Then there were cloistered buildings of what looked like secret societies and roads that were opened at only certain times of the day and only to people that were not so common. In the midst of all that Jack saw a rather strange statue that reminded him of a cross, no pun intended, between the Virgin Mary and Christ with its arms outstretched seemingly rising up out of some sort of clamshell. This Land of the Brits was strange indeed to the now dumbfounded Jack. So Jack kept walking and eventually ended up at Charing Cross. He turned his attention again to Trafalgar Square where it seemed like someone was always protesting something and was flabbergasted when a stampede of buck-naked cyclist of literally all genders, shapes and sizes nearly picked him off the ground in their swirl of bare humanity. He again headed hence the way he came with a slight diversion up to Piccadilly Circus. He didn’t know anything about it other than some fabulous British rock band had made it’s name synonymous with hippies and now hipsters. It didn’t look like a circus at all. There were no clowns or juggling acts or tight ropes or ponies, although not far from there was a statue of four ponies jumping into oblivion. To him, it rather looked like just anther fountain surrounded by misspent youth who were looking for ways to waste away the summer days. Well that, and the fact that every brand name in the world was there to cash in on the tourist. It was like a British version of times square in New York City, but alas Jack new nothing of the sort as he was, after all, just an ignorant foreigner.
Jack decided to wind down his day and again went back the way whence he came. He again headed East and eventually ended up on Strand. He wandered aimlessly past pubs and hotels, taking in all the sites and sounds of this glorious city. Between stacks of architecture he could occasionally see pieces of clear open blue sky. He knew this was again where the River Thames ran its parallel course and did not permit mankind’s encroachment, nor the building of concrete obstructions on her waters. He continued on past roads that seemed to be shaped a millennia ago, as there was no rhyme or reason to a grid or pattern. More likely that whomever in the fiefdom claimed rightful heir to that particular piece of land was entitled to put a road there. It was amazing to him that around one corner there could be glass and steel hi-tech modern marvels and around the next brick and mortar walls that seemed to date back to Roman times dotted the City. It was an incredible amalgam of old and new, past and present.
Jack was then taken aback by the soothing sounds of bagpipes. When he rounded the corner, he was halted by a magnificent Cathedral-like building set amongst a row of beautifully carved and well-kept archways. Here a group of Beefeaters armed with spears and pencil-thin mustaches, which were equally as sharp, guarded it’s gates. One after another, prestigious guests arrived in a bevy of Range Rovers and police escorts. They were accompanied by some of The Temple’s most illustrious lawyers clad in black and purple robes. And although all the pomp and circumstance was distracting to most, to say the least, Jack’s attention was drawn to one thing. Well actually it was drawn to two words. FLEET STREET and some silly number EC4. He was convinced that was some secret society code. The name Fleet Street was everywhere. There was a press, and some old pubs and even a giant dragon statue. Was this some sort of secret club? Was the dragon some sort of boundary that Londoners held close to their vest? Was it a symbol that Jack’s journey that had started with a dragon was now to come to an end. Well maybe, but what did Jack know? He was but a ignorant foreigner. So his mind immediately went back to his stomach. Across the street from a statue of Queen Elizabeth holding some sort of sceptre, was the one and only “Ye Olde Cock Tavern”. Well actually it was neither the one, nor the only. The original, like all good things in London, was located across the street where the bank now stands and was burnt to the ground and eventually rebuilt. But Jack didn’t know this cause he was… well whatever. So Jack went in the Olde pub regardless of the extra “e”at the end of is adjective and sat down for some food. At the Host’s insistence he ordered a pint. He in fact, had never smoked nor drank in his life, and what’s more only cursed when it was absolutely unavoidable. But here Jack was just an unnamed ignorant foreign idiot without a face. So why not let loose? Who was gonna know? Since they didn’t serve the standard fish & chips, Jack thought what better to order than a meat pie. Certainly Mrs. Lovett would be proud of his decision. Jack finished his delicious meal of questionable, at least in his wandering mind’s eye, meat, and then went for the proverbial whizz. While there he saw a rather rude pamphlet on the bathroom floor advertising a “full body massage” with a rather robust black woman on the picture.
Now Jack got excited. He then folded the pamphlet neatly in his pocket and headed back to his table. Jack then ordered a cigar, as the establishment prided itself in aiding customers with all vices. Jack gladly and greedily abided and felt good in his slithering new snake skin.
Before you know it Jack was headed back to his beautiful 8th story hotel, The St. James. Now getting used to his newfound freedom he ordered some cognac and called the number on the pamphlet he had found in the restroom at the pub. Within in a very long 45 minutes, Jack’s impatience was rewarded with a gentle rap on the door. A voluptuous African woman appeared with a smile that could win over the hearts of any a man. Jack was nervous as the implication of her scantily clad picture on the pamphlet implied much more than the kiss afforded him by Mary M. Mudderer in the 8th grade. But to hell with it. Jack was now the man of his own castle. He embraced the new opportunity as well as the imposing, yet strikingly beautiful, large woman. After a slow and sensuous massage Jack lie there with the woman in his embrace.
The next morning Jack was not to be found in his room. The same way Jack’s father was never found after his trip to the pub, nor his mother after Jack’s young adulthood. In fact Jack Grimsby, wasn’t his real name at all, but there was no way for poor Mr. Finley to know that. Well not with his jet-setting and seeing people like Jack as second-class citizens. But now this time the man known as Jack Grimsby was gone, at least to this set of particular individuals. Jack was gone, but his luggage was still there. His luggage was packed methodically in a neat and tidy manner. Underneath his pressed shirts and newly purchased amber-scented perfumes, deep inside the carefully packed box was what was left of the body of the masseuse. It was divided into parts with surgical precision. An unsoiled note on thirty-two pound parchment paper simply read “London’s love affair with knives is second only to America’s love affair with guns” – signed The Ignorant Foreigner.
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Jack The Tripper – RaajKamal Films International Office, Old No. 172/New No. 4 Eldams Road, Alwarpet, Chennai, India 600018 – August 21, 2013
Story by Jude S. Walko.
