The Mystery of Jack's Ashes

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Image of “Ashtray. a jar overflowing with ash and smoked cigarette butts” by hayley.marie.royal is licensed under CC BY-NC 2.0

It saddened me to hear that a good acquaintance, Jack Pfieffer, passed away on May 7th, 2024, in the middle of the night and was discovered by his teenage daughter, Nkoofi, the following day. Later that evening, Jack's best friend, Ricky, rang my wife and told her the bad news.

On Sunday afternoon, I ran into a neighbor, Ms. Salem, who told me that Nkoofi and Jack's son, Klaus, had started a GoFundMe page and raised nearly $15K, which I thought was strange because Jack never appeared hard up for cash. He owned a successful bar/restaurant for ten years and worked on Wall Street before that. Perhaps they needed the money to bring his relatives from Germany and Africa to America.

My wife and I don't know Nkoofi well, but we remember her as a snotty biracial child who ignored anybody or anything black. Yet, around whites, she was always smiling and polite, showing off her latest toy and letting them pat her head like a cute little pet monkey. When I ran into her last summer at a friend's outdoor birthday party, I hoped she had changed, and since we're both biracial, perhaps we might share some camaraderie, but that wasn't the case. Nkoofi gawked at me as if I were an insect, and I know why: As a biracial, light-skinned female, she's used to being the center of attention wherever she goes, especially in the black community. Biracial males, like myself, pose a threat to her skin color uniqueness.

I learned from the WhatsApp invitation that Jack was born Jurgen Pfieffer in Mannheim, Germany. I wonder where the name Jack came from? Maybe I'll be able to find out at the service scheduled for June 5th. Speaking of the memorial, everyone is texting back and forth on a newly created message thread, wondering and worrying about where Nkoofi will live. Will it be with Ricky, Jack's gay black friend, or maybe Jack's white son, Klaus, who lives in California? Where will she finish her last year of high school? Will she move to Germany and stay with Jack's relatives or return to Africa, her birthplace, where her mother still lives? And wouldn't that be an interesting wake-up call for the teenage girl who's spent her entire life ignoring non-white people to suddenly end up on the African continent surrounded by nothing but dark-skinned inhabitants? Whatever happens, I couldn’t care less because, after Jack's funeral/memorial, I'll probably never see her again.

But let me not get too far ahead of myself. In November 2022, Jack sent me a PDF copy of his untitled memoir. He included a note: Hi Mike, Here it is. I'm nervous; I never shared this with anyone. Curious to learn what you think. See you soon. Jack. I read the 120-page memoir, which described, among other things, Jack’s Protestant upbringing in Germany and his first youthful trek at 16 when he and a neighborhood friend embarked on a 250-mile bicycle trip to Paris. Jack journeyed to Ireland, Australia, Canada, East Timor, Japan, Malaysia, South Africa, and Nigeria as an adult, detailing his adventures and occasional misadventures with fellow travelers. He eventually arrived in NYC to pursue a career on Wall Street.

Jack asked me to be “brutally honest about his writing.” I told him it was a remarkable story, but style-wise, it read more like a travel diary than a memoir because he didn't reveal any personal details about his close friends or family. I said it might be a good idea to reconsider because readers would be interested in his life as a German father with a biracial son and daughter. In fact, at his birthday party back in April, Jack took me aside and said he'd been seriously thinking about adding more info into the memoir, including intimate details about his children and his relationships. Unfortunately, his time ran out before he could begin the rewrite. 

People will want to say kind words about Jack at the memorial, and I've thought about bringing up his memoir. After all, he didn't say it was in confidence or not to tell anyone else about it; he only said I was the first person he'd shown it to. Maybe I'll mention something to Ricky, who will undoubtedly react with a gay hissy fit since Jack hadn't confided in him, or he won't be able to control his desire to gossip— “Hey, did anyone know Jack wrote a memoir? I didn't know that. Has it been published?” But after talking with my wife, I decided to only discuss the memoir with Jack's son, Klaus.

My wife had family obligations on June 5th, so I went to Jack's memorial alone. The location was on W. 23rd Street between 5th and 6th Avenue in Manhattan, on the 10th floor of some office building. When I arrived, I ran into one of Jack's former business colleagues, Thomas Adibisi, who accidentally knocked a painting off the wall while walking up the stairs, which landed on my shoulder and caused a minor abrasion. No big deal, no blood, but it could have been worse. Not a good omen for what was to come later. The catered food was decent – some sushi, veggies, dip, and other finger food like carrot and celery sticks, chicken nuggets, and beer and wine to wash it all down. In the back of the crowded room was a small table set up as a memorial for Jack, covered in photos of him from different periods of his life, and in the center, a walnut box filled with his ashes. Little did I realize how much chaos that cremation box would cause.

As usual, in these mixed company NYC social gatherings, I couldn't tell who was straight or gay because Jack had hung out with both while alive. His dark-skinned black acquaintances all seemed to huddle together, including five attractive women with shaved heads wearing Africa-shaped earrings who wanted their presence to be known but were cautious with whom they spoke. They eyeballed me suspiciously but said nothing. One short negro, probably gay, wearing a checkered green sports jacket, alligator shoes, khaki pants, and a summer-straw pork pie hat, kept staring at me, sizing me up like he wanted to say something but never did. He reminded me of those old negroes who came from old negro money—a Strivers' Row negro, lighter skinned than most but not biracial like myself. The only people who gladly talked to me were Jack's white friends I'd met at parties or local bars watching English Premiere League football. When I asked one of them how Jurgen became Jack, he said, “Jurgen wasn't crazy about his birth name.” Mystery solved, and I'm not surprised. Over the years, I've met many people who seemed ashamed or embarrassed to reveal their German ancestry.

Glued to a plastic chair in the corner sat this gnarled, rail-thin Jewish woman I'd met in April at Jack's birthday party, who proclaimed she was married to a successful black man in Harlem for many years until he died in 2018. Boo hoo. My hair was different last time, but she knew who I was. She looked at me, and I at her, but neither initiated a conversation. I don't think she ever forgave me for the political views I expressed at the party when I stated that Germany and Japan should be allowed to rearm and all European governments need to halt the flow of immigrants into their countries before it’s too late. I could only imagine what she thought—Fucking Nazi! When I sat down later with a small plate of food, the bougie Strivers' Row negro grabbed a seat behind me, although there were plenty of chairs elsewhere. But that's what they do, these queers. All they think about is their next sexual conquest, but first, they must stalk their prey, inhale their scent, eavesdrop on their conversations, and, most importantly, their politics.

Besides wanting to pay my respects to Jack, I went to the memorial to seek out his older son, Klaus, and let him know about his father's unfinished memoir. When I finally got a minute of his time, I introduced myself and asked if he knew that his father had written a travel memoir. Klaus had no idea and seemed genuinely surprised. Anyway, I didn't want to take up too much of his time, so he gave me his email address, and I promised to send him the pdf file of the book. I didn't mention the memoir to his other son, the biracial one, or Nkoofi. I figured Klaus could tell them after the memorial.

Around 6:30, a red-haired woman in her late thirties who must have been in charge grabbed the mic from the DJ and asked for everyone's attention to say that the memorial would have to end promptly at seven. I'd seen her somewhere, maybe at one of Ricky’s parties. She wore a tight-fitting white dress, which fit her figure nicely, although she would have looked much better had she dropped about fifteen pounds. Her shoulder-length mane was beautiful and hair-sprayed to perfection.

Afterward, an intoxicated Ricky, who loves to grandstand, sang a tribute song to Jack— “Swing Low Sweet Chariot” or some other tired negro spiritual - while clumsily trying to balance a glass of white wine in his left hand. Applause, Applause, Bravo! Then, the redhead made a final announcement: “Ricky has graciously invited everyone to his apartment in Harlem to celebrate Jack's life.” She repeated the address several times because people were getting drunk and ignoring her.

I said my goodbyes, rushed home and told my wife I was heading to Ricky’s for an after-party. On the way, I picked up a couple of bottles of Carnivor Zinfandel because I had bragged to a married couple from Jamaica about this wine and wanted them to try it. Besides, Ricky always buys the cheapest swill available—$4 bottles from supermarkets and other places. When I arrived at Ricky’s, there were a dozen or so people, but none of Jack's family. I wasn't surprised. It was the same old crew, including a few Bundesliga football fans and several of those bald African negresses from the memorial who continued to look upon me, the biracial man, with disdain.

Also, Ricky’s apartment was an absolute sauna. People were sweating like hogs, and he laughed it off, saying, “I have several air conditioners in my closets, but I just haven't gotten around to installing them yet, ha, ha.” He had a large overhead ceiling fan above the dining room table, and some of his guests crowded in there for relief. They all looked like they were about to hold a séance or something in the eerie glow of Ricky’s old but spacious apartment.

Thirty minutes later, I heard someone downstairs ringing the buzzer repeatedly. Suddenly, the red-haired woman from Jack's memorial stormed into the apartment and proceeded down the long hallway, her high heels click-clacking loudly on Ricky’s hardwood floors. She entered the living room where six or seven black women sat and, in a disrespectful, accusatory tone, demanded to know who took Jack’s ashes— “Where are they? Who grabbed them? They were in a green leather pouch.” One of the black women told her to chill out and explain. This had to be a sick joke, I thought. Surely, Jack's immediate family would have wanted his ashes returned to Germany after the memorial.

Well, something went wrong, and the ashes had disappeared. I overheard someone saying that Jack’s ashes and trays of leftovers destined for Ricky’s apartment ended up in the back seat of a cab, which nobody could locate. Red began to sob uncontrollably; black eyeliner oozed down her face onto her freckles while her lipstick smeared into a contorted crimson frown. Some whites and a few negresses tried to comfort and reassure Red that everything would be okay and they would get to the bottom of the situation. Then Ricky, in his usual gay drama queen fashion, pranced into the dining room and announced that the party was over. “Everybody out!” he screamed. After that, all hell broke loose because two of the black women accused by Red were not ready to let her off the hook so quickly. One of them, named Charlene, jumped in Red’s face and demanded to know why “this fucking white bitch automatically assumed someone black stole Jack’s ashes.” It became an unfortunate racial incident because Red wouldn’t apologize and hadn't accused or questioned anyone white.

Once outside, Charlene and one of the bald negresses who defended Red nearly came to blows. Both were so drunk they could barely stand up. Eventually, the negress left with some Irish guy named Conor while shouting obscenities down the block. As I attempted to cross the street to escape the madness, Charlene begged me to walk with her to the nearest subway station because she didn't know the city too well. I agreed. As we approached Lenox Avenue, she kept asking if I was a cop. “Do I look like a cop?” I said, “do you see a badge?” To prove she wasn't carrying drugs or a weapon, she twice dumped the contents of her purse on the ground while people stared at us in disbelief. I left her on her knees, scooping up all the crap scattered on the sidewalk. Charlene was a fucking nutcase.

It took me several days to recover emotionally from the incident. What started as a celebration and remembrance of Jurgen 'Jack' Pfieffer’s life turned into a despicable clusterfuck. I will never set foot in Ricky’s house or associate with any of his lunatic friends again. Life's too short for all of this gay drama and ghetto bullshit.

Regarding Jack's ashes, I hope they are recovered soon and returned intact to his family.

RIP Jack Phieffer.