How John Junas Got Closer to Home

   In the wake of the passing of Robin Williams by his own hand the media events he created brought on a flood of emotions from another warm August night. The difference was on that night I lost a friend in a white hot flash of light and a concussive whump to the chest as if from his own hand. Ironically, the classic rock station I had on the radio followed up the news update of Williams' death with Grand Funk's "I'm Your Captain (Getting Closer to my Home)." It brought back the all too vivid events of August 18, 1971. I can still hear it in my head and feel that sudden pressure in my chest that made it so hard to gather a breath. As the report droned on a tear started to form in my right eye as I thought about how life can be altered so much in a stark moment and reality can make such an indelible impression on so many. 

   In my introspection I realized I have never considered entering into a physical or sexual relationship with man. However, that does not mean that I have not experienced affection or love for another man.  Such was the case with John Junas, ex-Army and finally home from the hell of Viet Nam jungles. He had a bearing about him that women found irresistible and the younger guys admired. His ability to meet and bed girls usually within the first hour of meeting them was legendary amongst us. Average height, blond and blue eyes that reflected an interior pain that proved mysterious and irresistible, he represented every brand of torment that would pull on the hearts of women and girls. One look from him with his eyes awash with torment and a hard to fathom troubled sadness the panties would drop like so many multi-colored snowflakes. You could hear their motors start to run from the moment he walked in the room, lit up a Marlboro and said, "Hi. My name is John." I still can't figure the attraction, though. He wasn't that good looking of a guy, but for some reason his charisma would fill a room. He might have been able to fill a dance hall if the mood was right. It seemed women just wanted to breed with him. Men just wanted to be in close proximity of him with the hope they could catch the fallout from those not chosen.

   I started working at a record store in order to fill out my record collection at the age of 20 after being fired from another do nothing job. Hard rock had taken hold and FM radio was king. Psychedelia had moved out of its feedback and Theremin days into longer musical jam sessions with seemingly endless guitar and drum solos becoming mandatory. I had taken up residence in an old house with a huge front porch perfect for a rocking chair and slide guitar on a hot summer's evening. You just feel the blues dripping off it. A couple of guys that worked at the retail store that was once popular in the Midwest, E. J. Korvettes, had rented it a few months earlier and were looking for a third roommate to help out with the expenses. I had been asked to leave my house after coming home smelling of beer and sex one night. My step-father, with his sense of conservative outrage had decided this was the one incident that could get me out of the house and away from his wife, my mother, forever. It worked out well for him. Me? Not so much. So, I moved in.

   They were an odd group that includes an 18 year old named Russell that somehow managed to move in with his train set and slot cars. His parents were co-signers on the lease so, his oddities were overlooked. His personality was decidedly nerd-like with a non-existent coolness quotient. As a means of entertaining ourselves it became our objective to enlighten him on the ways of the world as seen through our eyes. The objective being that he, too, could enjoy the fruits of the many girls that were to pass through our beds and into passion's history. One night we were joking around and kind of picking on him in front of one of the girls that starting hanging out with us after the first week of my arrival. She was bored and wanted something to do other than sit around drinking beer and smoking pot. I threw out a suggestion that we should race slot cars for clothes. The loser would have to give up something and the winner could choose. The race was on and he experienced his first night with a girl as a result.

   The other guy, Kenny was a run away at 16. His previous residence was a tree house he had moved into when his family kicked him out of the house for too many curfew violations and his ever-present and sticky hands on his girlfriend. The kids who lived in the house adopted him like a pet and had sneaked an extension cord up the trunk for him to use for a lava lamp, a toaster and a radio. That illegal arrangement lasted a week until he was found out. The kids' parents just couldn't entertain so much passion happening in their back yard despite the amusement it gave to the children. Being good Christians they decided to take him in for awhile to get him back on his feet as long as Marcia kept her distance. That request lost out to youthful hormones and an endless supply of testosterone-fueled lust. It was then decided that if he was going to get this girl knocked up it would not be under their roof and he was asked to leave. Marcia at seventeen was a lethal irresistible package of jail bait packaged in Daisy Mae shorts and a push up bra. She had a body that men would remember the rest of their days wondering just how firm those breasts were. All she had to do was show up to put us all in a sweat and send Russell to the bathroom. 

   Soon, it became apparent that an urgent need to expand our financial base was necessary. Russell didn't make much money at the store and all Kenny wanted to do was to pump away at Marcia and get high. Our pot bill was quite high and we were becoming increasingly popular with Marcia's friends and the girls at E. J. Korvette's as word spread. That's when I brought in Rich. He was a guy about my age with an insatiable appetite for weed and had some good connects with some deals in the city. He had a steady job and could be counted upon at the first of the month.

   The lifestyle eventually got to be too much for Russell's psyche and he decided it was time to move back home to Mom and Dad. By this time I had turned 21 and could sign the sublease to keep the party alive. Kenny was arrested one night for being out past curfew and collected by his parents. Marcia was heartbroken, but continued to hang out at the house. Every time I looked at her the words statutory rape and contributing to the delinquency of a minor rolled through my head. My strict Baptist upbringing kept me from testing the stretch of her t-shirt. Rich and I knew there was no way we would be able to sustain our lifestyle without another roommate. Thankfully Kenny returned a month later after going AWOL from the juvie home and took up where he left off. That's when John came into the picture. 

   He arrived on our doorstep as the friend of a friend. He worked as a glazier for a glass shop downtown and showed the right kind of team spirit by offering up a joint of Colombian red top as a down payment. After an hour or so of trying to remember how to breathe and listening to German electronic music he reached into his duffel and pulled out an album by Grand Funk with the song "I'm Your Captain/I'm Getting Closer to My Home." He said, "Now, this is music." We agreed and it went into heavy rotation on the house turntable. Then, the stories of Viet Nam's terror would be told as we sat in hazy attention. He told us of his first kills and the immediate horror he felt. It was later rationalized into a necessity of it was either him or them. Alcohol usually drowned the pain, but it was the heroin that killed it. Or so he said. 

   There were the times he would disappear for days, but we never really gave it a second thought. John was untamed and his own man. We could only dream of the escapades he would experience on a daily basis. He would pull out of the house in his Mustang Mach 1 and disappear for parts unknown. Often, when he returned there were bags of weed and other fun stuff he handed out like party favors such as pills that made you happy or just plain stupid. Black tar hashish and Thai sticks were popular with his Army buddies and often found their way into out pipes as an added stoner bonus. His stated his network was still established and we often yielded the results of that arrangement. What did we care?  We were enjoying those fruits from the moment we walked into the house until work the next day. He would say he had just done few odd jobs up in Wisconsin with some buddies from his old unit and this was his way of celebrating with his friends and roommates. His wad of folding money would always be larger than anything we could imagine much less match in size. We were impressed, but questioned nothing.

   It was a hot Saturday night in August when he came into the house with a worried expression. He said a brief hello while stepping over Kenny and Marcia going at it on the floor. He had a large bag that was about half filled under his arm and he went straight for his room. We took little notice and continued our lives of dissipation on the couch while a strong electric blues played on the stereo. A moment later he walked out of his room with the bag under his arm and lifted the tone arm off the turntable. The size of the bag was smaller, now. In fact the bag looked almost empty. We had no idea of its significance. He then made the following announcement, "Guys, I'm a little fucked up, right now, so you're going to have to bear with me. I did a job up in Racine, tonight with my buddies and I scored a lot of money. It's in my room and if you find it after the cops get here it's yours." We all looked at each other in confusion and wonder trying to comprehend what he just said. He bent over looking through the stack of records and pulled out Grand Funk. Of course, it was his theme song. He laid it gently onto the turntable and with the expertise of a practiced audiophile gently lowered the tone arm to the vinyl surface. The opening notes started to play as the front of the house suddenly lit up with a white light with a sound of a circling helicopter overhead. No, there were a bunch of white lights and a helicopter circling overhead lighting up the house with the power of xenon.

   John stood in the center of the room and told us to get out there and through the back door as fast as possible. It didn't take more than a nanosecond for me too process that information and I was out of the house. Fortunately for me, the police hadn't completely surrounded the house, yet and I made it to the cover of the neighbor's shed. Once I saw that I hadn't been noticed I made my way made my way out the shed and innocently walked around to flank our house amidst the cover of some tall bushes like a bystander. The front porch was awash with cruiser spotlights as the light bars continually threw red flashes around the front yard. All I could think was "Holy shit! Holy shit! What has he done?" One of the squad cars came alive with the impersonal voice of authority, "John Junas! Come out with your hands up! You cannot escape! Come out now with your hands in the air."

   John yelled back to the cop, "Hey, I've got a coupla people in here that need to come out first. They're not hostages and they are not a part of this, okay?" The cops looked at each other for a second and told him to send them out. Kenny and Marcia came to the door eyes squinting from the brightness of the spot lights while the red spots continued their cycle around the trees and houses in the neighborhood. It was a good thing Rich was at work. They stumbled a bit down the stairs as an officer came up and grabbed them and led them away behind the cars. It was about then that I noticed that more than a few of the policemen had their weapons drawn and pointed at the front of the house. The helicopter circled one last time killed the spotlight and peeled off leaving the area much quieter. The police radio chatter filled the void at times and then there was the sound of a few uncaring crickets calling to each other. Damn! They're carrying on a conversation with each other while this life and death scenario is unfolding in front of us all. It just didn't seem right at the moment.

   "John Junas...this is your last warning. Come out of the house with your hands up or we will storm the house." I was paralyzed with fear for John. Kenny was sitting in the back of one of the cruisers by himself straining to get a good look at what was going on. I figured he was probably handcuffed. For what, I didn't know. Marcia was in the grip of female officer in the back of another car. She was crying hysterically and calling out Kenny's name between sobs. 

   Suddenly, John appeared at the screen door and started to open it. The sound of Mark Farner's voice singing the chorus of "I'm Getting Closer to my Home" rolled out like a bad soundtrack. It was loud and distorted. It was loudest I had heard that old stereo play and it was damn eerie. The cop on the P.A. told him to open it gentle like and without any sudden movements. John obliged and stepped into the lights with his arms held tightly to his chest as a group the cops flicked off the safeties on their weapons. It looked like he had something in his hands, but I couldn't tell from my angle. The P.A. cop told him, "Put your hands over your head and do not resist." John shook his head and revealed his package. Every cop on the front lawn stepped back with an audible gasp as they realized what John was holding. It was a hand grenade. He stood on the front porch effectively controlling the situation by freezing everyone in place. No one dared to move or speak. Grand Funk ended their song with a fade out. The tone arm automation took over and the tone arm was lifted and returned to its place of rest. The crickets took the opportunity to start back up with their chirping. John then looked at the police and gently said as if to a lover, "The song is over and now it's time for me to go home." At that moment I thought we made eye contact, though in retrospect it makes me wonder if it was possible. His blue eyes glistening with the beginnings of tears and he looked as beautiful as any angel I could imagine. Then, he pulled the pin with a gentle tug and let the spoon fly. I heard someone yell, "Grenade!" and saw the cops fall to the ground. A moment later there was a bright flash followed immediately by a sharp concussion wave that struck my chest with a powerful fist. The top half of John's body disappeared in a pink and red mist that spattered the front of the porch. One of his legs still stood supported still by a black motorcycle boot. I believe I actually saw the top part of his smoldering skull near one of the Adirondack chairs to the side of the front door. Oddly enough, the front window was still intact, but the door was now red. There was a rush by the police to the front of the house to get to the smoldering body before it could start a fire. Fire extinguishers covered the front porch with white fog as the cops went about their hurried business of crime scene security and preservation punctuated only by the interruption of the detached female voice of their dispatcher.

   My knees gave way and I dizzily sat on the ground stunned trying to understand what had just happened. Then, as the tears of my anger and sadness welled up I began to cry. Slowly at first and then fell into large sobs. John's foolishness had pushed me to a new level of reality and madness. I couldn't put it into any semblance of explanation. So, I decided to run. I stepped out of my cover and heard someone yell, "Hey you! Freeze!" Adrenaline kicked my flight reflex into high gear and I fled into the night vowing I would never again go back to that house. The thought of being there without John was too much to bear. As I ran the idea of betrayal by his decision and anger by his aggression unfolded in my mind. The idea of suicide had always been particularly offensive to me even during the darkest days of the ensuing depression this event created. I felt as though he had attacked me with as much violence as he had released on himself that night. There was no other way to explain how I felt and after years of therapy and anti-depressants. I still find it difficult to find a way to forgive him. Not only had he handed me his own case of depression he also gave me cause to live with it. 

   Of course, I had to return to the scene to collect my things. I found the house empty. My roommates had the same idea as me and found other places to go and stay. We would never again be together as a unit. It was obvious someone had taken great care to clean the place up. The front porch had been sanitized and painted. It looked impersonal as if no one had ever lived there much less enjoyed the atmosphere of such a wonderful rambling front porch. It was like someone had washed all the blues away leaving a nice suburban home in its place. Of course, we as a group would never return to this place or relive any of the memories that were now just moments in time. The shadows that once graced the walls with personalities and experiences had been erased. Those that once lived here now were gone as was the horror from that night.      
   The only thing left was the sadness John's void left behind.

I know the betrayal of suicide and how it robs the survivors of their innocence. Is it ever possible to forgive the perpetrator of such a heinous act? The perpetrators never seem to realize that are the ones who are left with the bill to pay. We are the ones that must live with their sanctimonious decision. When the violator of this life gives in to the impulse of depression's mockery of reality, when the thought of taking another breath is lost in drowned hopes, when the decision to end it all is made without regard to the consequences of such treachery and the total disregard of how it will affect the survivors is sentencing those loved ones to sadness and sorrow every time their name or circumstance is mentioned. Yes, I suppose there is room for forgiveness, but there should never be a condition of condoning the act. Admittedly, Williams' transgression against his family hasn't affected me like John's crime against me, but I am certain I know how they feel.

September 3, 2014