He Just Vanished: Maybe He Joined a Jug Band?

It all started one morning as my wife scrolled through her morning news feed.  I was eating breakfast across the table, reading Mushnick in the Post, when she grabbed my attention with “Listen to this.”

Can you imagine?  There I was reading about the eighty-seven three-pointers taken in a recent NBA game – when I was a kid, we called it “chucking” – and she wanted my attention.  I had important sports trivia to fill my head with, the kind of cotton candy factoids you drop in a conversation with your buddies to keep the flow going, but women had absolutely no use for.  Her lack of empathy was astounding.  I put down my coffee and put my game face on.

He Just Vanished: Maybe He Joined a Jug Band? #robertglover #comedy Share on X

“Okay.”

“Twenty years ago, a man from California disappeared without a trace.  He was found just two weeks ago working as a garage mechanic in the midwest.”

“Really?”

“He had a wife and two children, left them behind, and dropped off the face of the earth – vanished completely.  Now he’s living a totally normal life in a different state.”

“Maybe he joined a jug band?  He’s playing cigar box guitar in eastern Kentucky.”

“Be serious.  Don’t you think that’s crazy?”

The Maltese Falcon: Bogie Would Never Join a Jug Band

I thought it over.  “Sounds like something out of Hammett.”

“What’s that?”

“Dashiell Hammett?  The Maltese Falcon?”  She cocked her head to the side, waiting for more info.  I went on.  “Sam Spade tells the same story.”

“Oh.”  She shrugged.  “I haven’t read it.  How could he vanish without a trace?”

“Have you seen the movie?”

“No, but don’t change the subject.”

“It’s the best private eye movie ever made.  Humphrey Bogart, Peter Lorre, Sydney Greenstreet.”

“I get it.  So how could he just vanish?  Why would he do it?”

Here’s where I should have shown some wisdom.  I could have kept my mouth shut, or responded with a simple “I don’t know” or “Beats me.”  Either of those would have sufficed and I could have gotten back to the sports pages, read about the number of strikeouts per game in MLB and how useless spin rates, launch angles, and exit velocities are.  My life could have continued, agonizing over the meaningless minutiae of competitive athletics, eroding the ganglions in my already decaying gray matter, keeping the peace at home.  If only.

My First Reason

“There are only a few reasons I can think of,” I said.  She listened intently, awaiting the male perspective on this perplexing problem.  “The first one is he’s just trying to get away from his wife.”

She furrowed her brow.  “Trying to get away from his wife?” she asked.  A storm was brewing.  “That’s the first thing that comes to your mind?”

Uh oh.  What had I done?  Could I take this one back?  “No no no.  That’s not the first thing.  He probably just went crazy.  Maybe he got hit on the head by an anvil like Wile E. Coyote.  Or a train spike went through his head like that guy…  What’s his name?”

“Phineas Gage.”

“That’s it.  Phineas Gage.  It had to be some kind of trauma.”  I thought I had recovered well enough, compensating for my original misstatement.  “No doubt his wife was a joy and a blessing.”

“Uh huh.”  She nodded.  “I just find it interesting that getting away from your wife was your first thought, the first thing you spat out of your mouth.”

“I didn’t really spit it.”

“The first reason that leapt to your tongue.”

“No leaping,” I said.  “More of a walk, a saunter, even a crawl.”

“No, I get it,” she said.  “Just don’t expect me to go searching for you when you make your escape.”

Make my escape?  What did she mean?  I wasn’t going anywhere.  I tried to turn back to Mushnick, but I lost interest in the details of the latest football player arrested for speeding and driving under the influence.  She wasn’t going to search for me?  What if I were finally found?  How would she react?  I could see the police at the front door now…

Visit from the Police

Two police officers pull up in a squad car outside the house.  They saunter up the driveway and cross over onto the path to the front door.  My wife answers the doorbell.  They sit down in the living room.

“Good news, ma’am, we think we’ve found your husband.”

“Did you say good news?”

“We believe he’s out in eastern Kentucky, playing the washboard in a jug band up and down the Appalachians.”

“Sounds like him,” she says, “buit don’t put yourself out.”

“It’s our job, ma’am.”

“Don’t worry on my account.”

“We promise to bring him back home safe and sound.”

“No, really, it’s okay.  Take your time.”

They down a cup of coffee before leaving, wondering why they ever stopped by.

And what of me?  How did I wind up on washboard?  I always saw myself as more of a kazoo guy.  If I’m going to be in the rhythm section, I at least want the washtub bass.  Anyway, I have no intention of vanishing.  I was never a fan of moonshine.

Vanishing Act

I’m not sure what happened to the magician who vanished for twenty years.  Presumably, he’s still fixing transmissions and living life in small-town America.  His former wife and children got on with their lives.  I’m not sure how his current wife and children feel about him now.  Nervous, maybe?  It’s not as easy to disappear in the digital world.

My wife has moved on.  Maybe I’ll even convince her to watch The Maltese Falcon.  Great book too.  If not, I see a future for myself in a jug band.