My whole family was sitting out on the front porch getting relief from the heat on a quiet Sunday afternoon, when a peculiar looking young man wandered into the yard alongside Jason. He carried a guitar around his shoulder and had curly dark hair on his head. He had a mustache, a beard, glasses and rotting teeth. A six-inch knife protruded from his belt. “I’ve never seen anyone as cool and strange looking as this guy,” I thought to myself.
“Hi, I’m Jason’s best friend Marc. Pleasure to meet you lovely folks,” he said. We all exchanged skeptical looks since none of us had ever seen or heard of him and he was my brother’s “so-called” best friend.
Jason broke the obvious skepticism to tell us, “His real name is Marc but people call him Ziggy because he looks just like the guy on the zigzag rolling papers! Can’t you see it?”
“Oh, yeahhhh, I can see it!” Mike said squinting, with his hand on his chin.
“I would love to show you folks some songs I have been working on!” Ziggy said to my parents.
“Let’s hear it,” my father said.
My parents nodded along and smiled to the music. After one song, everyone clapped for more.
“My, Ziggy, you are really talented with the guitar,” my mother complimented.
“I’ve just had practice and a few good teachers,” Ziggy said.
After hanging out for a few hours, Ziggy decided to wrap it up.
“It was lovely meeting you nice folks! Thank you for letting me play for you all.”
“What a lovely young man,” my mother said to Jason after he left.
After that day, Ziggy started coming by regularly. We heard him before we saw him as his motorcycle keys produced a jingle when he walked. We figured out that he was homeless when we woke up one morning and saw him sleeping in Jason’s car in our driveway. It was pretty weird that my parents allowed that, but the Murphy house was anything but ordinary. Since he kind of lived in our driveway, we got used to him hanging around and spending time with us.
One day Ziggy got really sick. He was throwing up, looked as pale as a ghost and was shaking uncontrollably. We were not sure what was happening to him but my mother pitied him and let him in like a stray dog.
The beginning period of Ziggy living in the house was quite innocent. When my sisters were not around to watch Janie and me, he volunteered to watch us and taught us card tricks. There were no obvious red flags that my parents or anyone else picked up on right away. Ziggy also worked for my father’s memorial company with Jason, so he did contribute some.
One night my brothers went down to the plaza to meet up with a group of friends. Ziggy rolled up in style on his motorcycle and started showing off. His attempt to jump the grass embankment resulted in a horribly bloody crash. By the time the ambulance, the fire department and the cops all arrived, he had been unconscious for about thirty minutes. He was taken to the hospital where he received x-rays and stitches for his grandiose demonstration.
The very next morning I walked up the stairs to see him with a swollen face and a golf ball-sized black and blue left eye. There was a disgusting road rash exposed on his skin but fortunately for him, his leather jacket protected his upper body. The helmet he wore saved his life but did nothing to protect him from a broken arm. Ziggy’s motorcycle was trashed and he was not happy to say the least.
When I went up to see him and walked into the room, he was bandaged up pretty good. I cringed, partially in pity but also in disgust.
“Hey, Sport! Get out! I’m not here for your entertainment!” he yelled to me.
He was more upset about ruining his motorcycle than himself. I had never seen anyone that beat up before.