Head in a Jar
Fiction by Paul Rogalus
When my Uncle Lukas died, he didn’t have a will—he just left things for the people he wanted to give things to in cardboard boxes in his kitchen. And even though I didn’t know him very well, my mother told me that Lukas had left a box for me. And I had a pretty good idea what was in the box.
I’d only met Uncle Lukas a few times over my whole life—but we’d made a connection. The first time I met him I was a kid—and Lukas was this big, wild-looking Lithuanian guy with a crazy beard—and I just remember that he made me laugh a lot. Then, I went to visit him years later when I was going to college in Rhode Island. He lived with his wife Annie on Jamestown Island. I went to see him with my girlfriend at the time, a hippie Deadhead named Marley. Uncle Lukas called me Matas—it was the Lithuanian version of Matt, I guess. And Marley really like it—so SHE started calling me Matas then too.
Lukas was a carpenter, and he’d built a very cool-looking log house on the island. His wife Annie was a poet—she spent a lot of time on the rocky shore, writing in a notebook. Marley and I drank a lot of vodka with Lukas and Annie during our visit—special Lithuanian vodka that Lukas loved. And then Lukas showed me his workshop and some of his projects—in a big barn that he’d built.
As I was wandering around the workshop checking things out, I noticed this big jar, like a really big pickle jar. When I got closer, I saw that there was a head inside the jar in clear liquid. It looked like a human head, with big, chubby cheeks and dark, dark eyes—but it was just a little too small to be a human head. I started to laugh. It was freaky.
“I see you met Uncle,” Lukas said.
Uncle Lukas told me that the head in the jar was his great uncle’s head—and he said it with a straight face. His great uncle’s name was Vitas—but everyone always just called him “Uncle.” Apparently Uncle had been a sort of gypsy back in Lithuania—a traveling fortune teller and mind reader. A smooth talker. “He was a lot of fun,” Lukas said. “He knew how to live life.”
Lukas told me that he’d inherited the jarred head from his father, back in Lithuania. His father had said that Uncle had always wanted to visit America, but he’d never got the chance. “So, here we are,” Lukas said. “Uncle finally made it to America, but I haven’t really shown him much of it beyond Rhode Island.” I just stared at the face in the jar, not knowing what to believe. Lukas poured more vodka into my cup.
“Why is Uncle’s head so small,” I asked. Lukas looked at the jar.
“I always figger’d that if you were to open the jar and take Uncle’s head out, it’d grow and expand like crazy—like one of those sea creature things they used to sell in the backs of comic books.” Somehow, that made sense to me, as I drank more vodka. “But anyway,” Lukas went on, “Uncle probably smells worse’n rotten eggs by now. I wouldn’t open that jar for a thousand dollars.”
When Marley saw the head in the jar, she said it was beautiful. She was kind of buzzed. She told Lukas, “You must love your uncle very much.” When we left the barn, Lukas left a boom box playing bluegrass music in the workshop. “Uncle loves bluegrass,” he said with a wide smile.
Later on I found out that Marley had gotten high with Aunt Annie on the rock jetty—and that she’d even left Annie an extra joint—which had made Aunt Annie very happy.
Over the next few weeks, I told quite a few of my college friends about “Uncle,” and the head in the jar became legendary—it was THE big topic of conversation at parties. My friend Steve was particularly fascinated with Uncle’s head. He even wrote a song about it for his punk band, called “Head in a Jar.”
But, years passed—and I only saw Uncle Lukas one more time—at my father’s wake. Lukas showed up at the funeral home wearing a battered old baseball cap and a fishing vest, covered in lures and hand-tied flies. He shook my hand with his big, calloused hand and said, “Sorry for your troubles, son.” Lukas was an atheist, so he was the only one there not talking about praying for me, or my dad being in heaven now. Uncle Lukas then said, “Yer dad was a good guy. That’s all that matters, ya’ know?”
And that’s the last time I ever saw Lukas.
I was living in Boston, substitute teaching, when I heard that Uncle Lukas had died. I got a letter from my cousin Bill, telling me about the box Lucas had left me, saying that he’d leave the box at my mother’s. I didn’t really want my mother to see what I thought was in the box, so I just brought it back to Boston.
I was alone in my apartment when I opened the box. The jar was carefully packed in crumpled up newspaper. Uncle looked happy to see me. There was also a bottle of Stumbrass vodka in the box—Lukas’ favorite, made in Lithuania—and also a big envelope. The envelope was filled with money--$7000 in fifties and hundred dollar bills. And there was also a short note from Uncle Lukas: “Hello Matas! Take care of Uncle. Please show him a good time. Show him America. Marley can help you. Live!” Signed, Lucas.
So, I put Uncle on the top shelf of my bookcase for a few weeks, while I tried to figure out what to do with him. Every once in a while, Uncle would smile at me. He really seemed happiest when I’d play the Grateful Dead, or Phish, especially the Dead’s more bluegrassy songs.
I seriously started to think that I would take Uncle on a road trip, so that he could really see America. I could bring him to Chicago, where my old friend Steve was living. They’d never actually met. Steve would be thrilled. And then we could visit crazy Ben in Colorado. He’d heard about Uncle too. And then, of course, I’d have to bring him to see Marley again—she was living in Albuquerque, New Mexico.
In the back of my mind I wondered if Lukas was really just trying to get me back together with Marley—God I missed her. It’d been a couple of years. At first, we were both supposed to drive out to New Mexico together, explore for a while, and start a new life together. But then I got scared. Scared of commitment, I guess. And scared of starting a whole new life on the other side of the country.
As time went by, I regretted more and more not going out West with Marley. And since we split up, I’d really never met anyone else like her, anyone that I connected with on the same level. I still had three of her paintings up on my bedroom walls. I started looking through letters that she’d written me. We wrote to each other every week at first, then, gradually, less and less often. The last letter I found from her was from a couple months back. She ended that letter, “I really miss you, you know. Love, Marley.” I held that letter in my hand for a while—and that’s when I decided to drive West with Uncle. And I wrote a letter to Marley right away, telling her about Uncle, and about my planned trip.
I didn’t know if I’d have Uncle end up in New Mexico—out in the desert somewhere, or if I’d bring him back to Rhode Island—or maybe bury him at sea. Or maybe I’d even try to bring him back to Lithuania someday. I’d let Uncle tell me. But for now he was just going to ride with me—and live—until we got tired of each other.
It really felt good to get out on the road—my jeep packed with a sleeping bag, and my duffle, and a tent. I strapped Uncle into the front seat, bundled in a sweatshirt, wearing a Red Sox hat on top of the jar. He seemed excited about the trip too. I read him passages from Jack Kerouac’s On the Road to get him ready.
The first few days were fun and exciting—everything seemed new—and adventurous. We played a lot of Grateful Dead, especially Bob Weir singing “Me and My Uncle.” People in cars that we passed on the highway gave us a lot of strange looks. And I kept bringing Uncle into the diners and cheap restaurants that we’d stop at—one waitress at a diner in Pennsylvania even gave Uncle his own menu. And then she asked me, “Why is his head so small?”
Chicago was awesome. Steve was incredibly hospitable to Uncle. In Steve’s apartment he had a bookcase that was entirely filled with paperback copies of the trashy novel The Valley of the Dolls, most of them battered, obviously from junkyards and tag sales. Steve had a strange sense of humor that way. And on the top of the bookcase was a sign that read: “Uncle’s Vacation Home.”
Steve showed us around Chicago, brought us to a Cubs game, and he even brought us to a bar that had an open mic. Steve had brought his guitar, and went up and sang his “Head in a Jar” song for Uncle. It was pretty catchy, and the crowd got into it. The chorus went: “Sometimes I feel—like a head in a jar—just like Uncle, just like Uncle. Sometimes I feel, like my head’s in a jar. And so does Uncle, so does Uncle”. A biker chick at the bar bought Uncle a PBR, but I had to explain to her that we couldn’t open Uncle’s jar to give him beer—or else he’d start to deteriorate right away. “Yeah, I figured,” she said. “I just thought he’d appreciate it.” Later on, Steve’s girlfriend Scarlet, who always dressed all in black, said: “I like Uncle. I like that he doesn’t talk at all.” Everyone else nodded.
We made good time driving from Chicago to northern Colorado, after I stopped to show Uncle the Mississippi River when we crossed into Iowa—I read Uncle a couple of my favorite passages from On the Road—where Kerouac writes about Iowa being the land “where they let the children cry,” and also the passage about the rivers connecting the entire world. Uncle looked deep in thought over that, now wearing the Ramones beanie that Steve had given him. We camped out one night in Nebraska, and then we were back on the road to see wild Ben.
Ben was living on a small farm with his girlfriend Mariah, whom he had met back in college. They had a three-year-old daughter name Sophia, who ran around barefoot most of the time playing with their goats. Sophia was also fascinated by Uncle. She asked me if Uncle ever went to sleep, and I told her I didn’t think so. And then she asked, “Why is his head so small?”
Ben wanted to take Uncle fishing, so he brought us to a pond next to his farm. He put Uncle right at the edge, in the shallow water, and he seemed content and relaxed. Ben fished for a while and didn’t get any bites, so he took off his shirt and stomped into the pond in just his jeans, screaming that he was going to catch a fish—“just like a bear”—with his bare hands. He splashed around a while, grabbing into the water like a primordial beast—then he dove under the water—he was under for quite a while. When he came back up—with another primordial shriek—he was holding a water snake in his fist. He said that he hypnotized it with his left hand—showing us—pulsing his fingers open-closed, open-closed—and then he grabbed it with his right hand. Uncle seemed impressed.
“What’re you going to do with it?” I asked Ben. He asked me if I wanted to eat it. I said, “No, thanks, I’m good.” So then Ben just spun around in circles a few times, holding the snake out at arm’s length—and then he let it go—and it flew—in a high, graceful arc, and then it disappeared into the water with a soft plunk.
“Wow,” I said, “That’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen happen to a snake.”
That night we had a campfire, and Mariah told me that she was pregnant again. I congratulated her, and told her what a great mother she was with Sophia. I asked her if this second baby had been planned, and she said, “Not exactly. We don’t really like to plan things. But it feels right.”
I started talking to Ben about our college days, and he mentioned that he’d never actually graduated, that he still needed a few courses for his degree. I asked him if he regretted that, not graduating. He looked into the fire.
“No,” he said. “Not at all. I didn’t need to graduate. I found what I wanted.” He looked at Mariah and smiled. After a moment, he turned back to me. “I mean, college wasn’t a waste of time. I learned a lot about writing. And Kerouac and Ginsberg. And I met Mariah. And you, and Steve. And a bunch of other kindred souls. People that I love.” He smiled again. “That’s what matters. You know that.”
“Yeah, I guess. I’ve still got to figure out . . . where I belong.”
“You will,” Mariah said. “Some things just take time. You’ll know when it’s right. You just have to be open to it.”
“And you DO know where you belong,” Ben said. “It’s like that old Whitman poem about traveling to populous cities, and all he remembered was the woman there who detained him for love of him.” He smiled at me again. “You know what I mean. You ARE going to see Marley again, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, I am. I just . . . We lost touch. I don’t know what . . . what her situation is . . .”
“It’s all about soul connections,” Ben said. “Are you calling Walt Whitman a liar?”
“No, I would never do that, dude.”
“Good. You better not. At least not around me.” He paused. Then—“And send Marley my soul connection along with you, o.k.?”
“You got it.”
As I got close to Albuquerque, I started to get nervous. Maybe even scared. The longer I had lived away from Marley, the worse the empty place in my soul felt. I had fucked up—I knew that. But now I was thinking that I’d broken that soul connection, probably for good. I mean, life goes on.
Marley was living in an old farmhouse on the outskirts of Albuquerque, and she wasn’t home when I got there. I met one of her roommates, a thin, bearded dude named Sam. He was super mellow—and kind and friendly. He told me that Marley was still at work. He showed me and Uncle around their farm, and their gardens for a while, and then he told us that he had to go to a grad class. Uncle and I just sat down in the grass and looked at the big, beautiful mountains in the near distance. “This is awesome, Uncle,” I said. “You wanted to see America, right? Well, here it is.” This was a part of America that I had needed to see as well.
I was still zoned out, staring at the mountains when Marley called out to me. She was rushing toward us, wearing an Indian skirt—and her big, warm flashing eyes soothed my soul right away. And then we hugged—a tight, very long hug. It was hug that felt like forever—it felt like home.
“It’s soooo good to see you,” I said to her.
“Oh Matty, I’ve missed you so much.”
And then we hugged again, and we kissed. And then I knew that everything was all right with the world. I looked in her eyes.
“I wasn’t sure . . .”
She grabbed my head and kissed me again. Then, she grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me.
“You should have been here a LONG time ago—you dick-head!”
I looked down. “I know.” I took a breath. “But I’m here now. And besides, aren’t you sort of going out with a guy here—Marcus?”
Marley scrunched her face up.
“Marcus. Shit no. I mean, yeah, we did hang out together a little bit for a while. But he got tired of hearing me talk about you so much.”
We kissed again.
“Well, that’s good to know,” I said.
The next weekend, Marley took Uncle and me to a bluegrass festival in Arizona. Marley tied a bandana around the top of Uncle’s jar, to help get him in the spirit. And Uncle was a big hit at the bluegrass fest, once again a sort of cult hero, as a few different women in tie-dyed skirts danced with him, spinning him around with the groups of friendly stoners.
We camped out in Marley’s tent at the fest. The crowd was awesome—super friendly hippies, just wanting to bond and share the vibe. Quite a few came over in the morning for coffee—and Marley’s homemade muffins. There was one very wasted stoner who came, an odd-looking man with big, owl-shaped eyeglasses, just wanting to sponge any free food or beverages he could. He quickly became infatuated with Uncle. He carried Uncle around for a while, making odd jokes about his undersized head. He was using Uncle for his own benefit—to help get extra attention for himself.
I was talking to a few people when all of sudden I caught a whiff of a horrid, putrid smell. I looked over at the guy with the glasses, and he had opened the lid of Uncle’s jar so that he could put some of his marijuana tincture into Uncle’s jar with an eye dropper.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I yelled, rushing over to him.
“What?” he said. “I just wanted to get high with the dude in the jar. I’s just trying to be friendly, bro. It’s all cool.”
“No—it’s not cool—you asshole.” I grabbed Uncle’s jar back and put the lid back on as Marley rushed over. I looked at her. She turned to the stoned guy with the tincture and tried to explain the situation to him.
“You see, introducing oxygen into Uncle’s jar will now speed up his decomposition process.”
“I think you just killed my dead uncle,” I told him.
“Nah, he’ll be fine,” the stoned guy said. “It’s all cool.” But he started slowly back-walking away, repeating that Uncle would be fine, but looking guilty, knowing that he had screwed up. He grabbed another one of Marley’s muffins as he left.
Marley and I looked at each other.
“Now what?” I asked.
She shrugged. “We’ll figure something out for him—when we get back home. We’ll see how bad he gets.”
I nodded, then looked at Uncle. He was already starting to look gray, and flaccid. But he was still smiling.
The next night Marley and I sat in her backyard, staring into the small campfire that she had built. Uncle lay in his jar, gazing at the fire, looking deteriorated, his face slowly becoming a runny blob. Marley looked at me.
“Do you remember that time—at Lukas and Annie’s—their place on Jamestown?”
“Yeah, most of it, until I got super drunk.”
“I got high with Annie—she was awesome. She talked a lot about her connection with Lukas—and how they both knew—not in their brains, but deep down in their hearts—in their blood—that they were soulmates. She said that she sensed that same kind of soul bond between you and me—after just meeting us once.”
I smiled. “Yeah, Lukas said something like that to me too. And actually, so did Ben—when I stopped to see him in Colorado last week.”
Marley smiled and nodded. “Yeah, I bet.” She looked at me. “I think his whole deal, with Lukas giving you Uncle’s head—I think that was just to get us back together. It got you going.”
I nodded. “Yeah, I think you’re right.”
She held out her hand, and I took it.
“You know what we have to do, right?”
“Bring Uncle back to Lithuania?”
“Yeah. And I’m going with you.” She stood up and picked up Uncle’s jar. She took a couple of steps closer to the fire. “So, you need to get in touch with a couple of your cousins back in Lithuania. You know, to reconnect—and to help us bring Uncle home.”
“Yeah, you’re right. And I met a couple cousins back at Lukas’ ceremony.”
I started to think about the journey—back to the country of my family origins—a place I’d never been. And then I thought about how weird it would be to try to bring a blobby severed head in a jar through customs in the airport. I looked up at Marley, to ask her about that—and I saw her pouring out the rest of the liquid in Uncle’s jar, and then softly dumping his decomposing head onto the rocks in the middle of the fire. Then she turned and looked at me.
“It’ll be a lot easier to just bring his ashes back home on a plane—rather than a human head in a jar.”
“Right. They’d all keep asking us why his head was so small.”
Marley laughed. Then she came and sat beside me on the ground, and we held each other, as we watched Uncle burn. He seemed very content, very much at peace. He had done his job.
Paul Rogalus teaches English at Plymouth State University. His plays have been produced in New York, Chicago, and Boston. His latest book of his micro-stories, entitled animals, was published by Human Error Publishing in fall 2022.
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