Works in progress: Jack Clark

   

     Much is going on with Jack Clark, who needs no introduction — he's a periodic contributor to EGD. There is a new memoir, "HONEST LABOR: Writing & Moving Furniture" (good title). I read an earlier version of it, so know it's worth your while. You can find it on his good-looking new website, the aptly named Jack Clark Books. What's up, Jack?

     It was a month or so after my birthday, the dead of winter, and I was in my office writing when out of the blue I started thinking about my next birthday. It was going to be one of those big ones. Eighty, my own voice whispered in my head. That’s old. “I’m well aware of that.” I spoke in a normal tone. If you’re going to talk to yourself — and I’m probably not the only writer who does — there’s no point in whispering.
     In the past, I’d never really thought much about age. You’re as old as you are and there’s nothing you can do about it. My sister Michele thought her life was over when she turned 21. I warned her that this would just keep happening and it has, which I see as a good thing.
     But 80? I mean that’s old. You can’t kid yourself anymore. Very few people make it to 100--and do you really want to be one of them? — which means you don’t even have 20 years left. Forget about that, I told myself and tried to keep my focus on the writing.
     Twenty years ago, I was 60, and that still seems like yesterday to me. For some reason I started thinking about my 50th birthday. It was one of those great nights with the usual crew, including my friend Randy who was also celebrating a birthday. We went straight up Halsted Street from the Greek Islands to O’Rourke’s Pub. Mary had stayed home sick, which meant her husband Steve didn’t have to worry about how much she drank. He could relax, drink her drinks too, and have a really good time. Somehow I got home. The next morning I woke with a hangover and a smile.
     That really couldn’t have been almost 30 years ago? It sure didn’t feel that way.
     Well, this went on for a half hour or so as I kept writing. I was never going to actually win a Shamus Award if I let a little thing like old age stop me. But I kept glancing backward trying to understand how all those years had passed so quickly with me barely noticing. I was in the middle of a sentence when I stopped dead. “You idiot.” And this time I should have whispered. “You’re only going to be 70.”
     I gave up on the sentence. I was a young man again. There was no need to hurry, I could finish that sentence whenever I felt like it. Seventy never sounded so young.
      How did I make that leap, you might ask. I don’t really know the answer but I do have a theory. I think I spent so much time preparing myself for being 70 that I thought I’d already passed the big day. I knew I had a big birthday coming so my mind jumped to 80. (About now you might be wondering why you’ve bothered to read this far.)
     I went around whistling for weeks. My friends kept asking what I was so happy about. How could I explain without exposing myself as a total nincompoop?
     This happened several years back. I just turned 76 last month — so only 24 years to that not-so-magic number. I don’t expect to make it. But if I can just keep lying to myself now and then, it might make the journey — however abbreviated — a little more relaxing
     And 80? Hell, I’m not worried about that. I was already there once for a while, and it wasn’t so bad. Really. Just a couple of uncomfortable moments that soon passed.