Jacob Tucker Is Dead (And I’m Not) by Franco
On October 15th of my junior year of high school, my bully, Jacob Tucker Jr., died in a 3-way car accident. Exactly one week later, on October 22nd, his mother, Frances Bean Tucker, invited our class to a dinner at Shakeys. In between bites of deep fried mojo’s, Mrs. Tucker encouraged any and all who felt that they knew Jacob, to say a few words at his funeral. Or as she called it, a “celebration of life”. Interestingly, out of the 6 locations in town, Mrs. Tucker picked the same Shakey’s where Jacob Tucker first called me a “Gaylord”. I told him I didn’t understand how that was possible. I liked girls, and I didn’t even watch musicals. He told me, “Even boys who like girls could be gaylords”. As I picked over the appetizers and squirts of ranch dressing, I caught my first glance at Jacob’s father, the Senior. He stood solemnly by the pacman machine, clutching his son’s, #14 basketball jersey. I had the thought that if Jacob had seen his dad now, he’d probably think he was gay.
Two days after the car crash, the school announced his death over the intercoms. “It is with a heavy heart that I announce that your fellow student, Jacob Tucker Jr., has passed away, early yesterday evening”. A lot of kids cried. Some were scared. And I asked my friend Sebastian if I could have his burrito. What the school didn’t know, was that 14 hours prior, #RIPJacobTucker, was already trending on Instagram. Students flocked to express their sympathies via comments and respond posts. “I’ll always remember Jacob as a bright spot in my life”, “I’ll never forget the good times we had . . .”, “He was the nicest guy ever”. A funny thought occurred to me, that out of all of these messages of solidarity and grief, nobody actually knew who Jacob really was. How respectful should person A be, if person B (who died) was an asshole? Yes, Jacob was a bright student and a fantastic athlete. He was your classic highschool jock, who was popular with the ladies and liked it. He played Apex: Legends with his friends and loved to drive 60 in a 40 in his silver Benz. Jacob also liked referring to women he dated as his “bitches” and he frequently bragged about his sexual conquests over discord. How would everyone posting their condolences feel, if they knew Jacob used to rank girls in our class based on how “fuckable” they were? S tier was for the top “sluts”. A for Girls with a fat ass. B for “Breedable Enough”. And he wouldn’t even bother ranking the C’s and below.
As soon as the news of his death hit Facebook parent chat groups, a GoFundme was arranged to help pay for the proceeds of his funeral. To my surprise, the biggest donator wasn’t any of Jacob’s closest friends or his family- but Mrs. Benedict, our old middle school English teacher. This struck me as being odd, as Jacob had made it his mission to be the most obnoxious student at any given moment. Always the class clown, he used to terrorize Mrs. B by shouting the N-Word during popcorn readings of Huckleberry Finn. This act was further exacerbated by the fact that Mrs. B was half-black- to which only further begs the question, why was she his biggest investor post-mortem? She explained that despite their apparent differences and tense relationship, “he was just a kid with too much energy. Some who still had his whole life ahead of him”.
What Mrs B. failed to mention, was that this same over-energetic kid, also happened to get a 14 year old girl pregnant, and had her abort the baby before her parents could find out. The girl was my seatmate during Home Economics class, and I knew Jacob had done this because he told me that he had gotten with the “ginger goth bitch”. She never came back for her sophomore year and moved out of town soon after the rumor broke. I never got to make her my “world famous” banana bread, and I’ve never baked since.
Upon learning the news of Jacob’s death two thoughts instantly occurred to me. The first, “Thank you, God”. The second, “What the fuck is wrong with me?”. A huge wave of relief came over my chest, as a weight off my shoulders was lifted. This was followed by a sharp panting of shame and guilt. The thought that Jacob Tucker Jr. no longer shared the same air as me, was gripping to say the least. I knew him since we were 11 years old, and the thought that someone my age was now dead struck me as being unreal. As if this was all an elaborate prank he was pulling, ready to be revealed at the next home JV game. I didn’t know whether to celebrate or to vomit. They said he flew through the passenger seat window, and smacked his head off a concrete pillar. I wonder if from the time he broke through the glass and landed on the pavement, if he could remember all the times he stole my allowances from me. All the times he ripped up my notebooks and drew swastikas on my locker and got me into detention? Broke all my glasses and stepped on my projects? Did he remember how he would punch me in the gut so no one could see the bruising? Or message me from random numbers telling me I should kill myself and that I had a micro-penis? Could he even remember Julia’s name anymore, or was he too busy skidding across the sidewalk to really care?
His funeral was scheduled for October 30th, the day before Halloween. Many felt it odd as they couldn’t get over the whiplash between crying at a 17 year old boy's funeral one day, then getting sloshed in a Michael Myers mask and fingerbanging in a bathroom the next. My good friend, “Mark with a C”, elected to get proverbially “crunk” for both events. He ended up missing the second reading, preferring to nap in a mess of his own fluids in the back of his Jeep wrangler. Walking into the funeral parlor, the Tucker’s saw it fit to line up every inch of wall space with detailed illustrations Jacob had drawn over the years. I was perplexed. For all the time I had known him, I never once considered that Jacob Tucker actually had something of value to give. In my mind he was Jacob Frances Tucker, a sadistic freak who only knew how to take and take and take. It never occurred to me that he had the capacity to create. And the worst part was that try as I might, I couldn’t hate his drawings. They were good. I quietly affirmed to myself that I wouldn’t dig deeper into Jacob’s psysche following this fiasco. Some things are better left as they are.
The pity party proceeded as expected. Many friends and family took to the podium, tearfully recounting the many glories and memories Jacob brought to their lives. Despite the myriad of detailed stories and praises over his achievements, the whole affair seemed rather bunk. If I were to die tragically at 16 years old, would I want my cousins-in-law to talk about the time they took me to Hooters and made me run out of the restaurant because they told the waitress I had a crush on her? Amidst all the grief and condolences, I was reminded of the first time I ever interacted with Jacob. He was the first guy I talked to about bra sizes. He said: A Cups were too boyish. C’s were a close second. B’s are just right. And anything above a D reminded him of his mom. Looking at Mrs. Tucker sobbing her way down the steps of the podium, I finally understood why. I wondered if Mrs. Tucker would be as sad about her son’s death, if she knew how much he made me want to kill myself everyday. I guess when someone who’s secretly an asshole dies, the truth only comes out after he’s 6 ft under in a polished wooden box.
After desserts were served and the spread was taken away, we were all invited to say our final goodbyes to Jacob privately. Taking my place in line, I felt an odd choking of anxiety seizing my throat and thoughts. What the fuck is wrong with me? What am I supposed to say? Why was I worrying about it now? This was the piece of shit who made me eat lunch hiding in bathroom stalls all of freshman year. This man who I had endless imaginary fights in the shower with. The guy who made me private every single one of my social media accounts, and questioned whether or not it would be best if I went to public school instead. The bastard that got Julia pregnant, and made her move away. How was I SUPPOSED to act and feel about all this? I didn’t even think about what I was going to say, right up until I finally had to say it. When it came time for me to walk up, my mind went utterly blank. The same 7 words kept repeating over and over in my head;
“Jacob Tucker is dead- and I’m not.”
I’m up
“Jacob Tucker is dead, and I’m not.”
I step forward.
“Jacob Tucker is dead. And I’m not.”
I look at his lifeless eyes in the casket.
“Jacob Tucker is dead”
Fin.
