Death of the Jukebox Man

The Jukebox Man lived next door to our storage building on Park Point in Duluth. He had lived there for thirty years by the time Bonnie's father Jim bought the property more than thirty years ago. They knew each other as fellow boaters, and got along well. Since Jim's passing twelve years ago, the Jukebox Man continued to watch over the property. Whenever we would stop by to check out the building, he would suddenly appear as if out of nowhere, making sure we weren't up to mischief. Then he'd see it was us, smile and say a brief hello.

In the last few years, as Mr. Jukebox entered his ninety's, we'd make sure to stop by his house and bring pie or cookies or something to go with the coffee and tea. He wasn't getting around much by then, and had stopped mowing his lawn. That was too bad for us, because when he mowed his he would mow our lawn too. Since then we've arranged to have his lawn mowed or his driveway and sidewalks cleared of snow at the same time ours was mowed or cleared. He and his wife of fifty one years appreciated that, and enjoyed our visits. I enjoyed them too, because he was quite a story teller. He particularly loved telling stories of what it was like in Duluth back in the day.

Mr. Jukebox Man got his name through his occupation. For more than sixty years he sold, installed, repaired and maintained coin operated amusement equipment, working for three generations owners. Especially Jukeboxes. It was said at his funeral that he could take a jukebox apart and put it back together in a dark room. He told stories of collection routes, where he would remove coins from the machines for eventual deposit. Of how a fair bit of that take never made it onto the IRS forms. Of how customers were "encouraged" into accepting the machines in their places of business. Including one armed bandits, which at the time were allowed only through the graft provided to law enforcement. He spoke of corrupt city governments that were on the take of his company, mentioning it as just the way things were done back then. Hazards of the job included an occasional mugging or car chase. The muggings were handled with retribution, the car chases with payoffs. He was highly valued as an employee for his honesty, his dedication, his reliability, and his enthusiasm. It wasn't ever clear to what degree he participated in the strong arm tactics, but it was clear he loved his job, which he held well into his eighties. Also not clear was whether the market for coin machines forced him out, or his health.

We heard stories of the seventy two foot wooden sailing ship he bought and lived on in Florida. He didn't know anything about sailing when he bought it, and after not many months of living on it, the ship foundered when water incursion exceeded its bilge pump's capacity. And we heard stories of the ten boats he bought and sold over the course of many years of boating on Lake Superior. Some of those boats hardly seemed big-lake worthy from their pictures. One was a house boat, with it's flat-bottom hull made for rivers, that still made open water voyages to the Apostle Islands.

Other stories included the many cars he meticulously detailed and maintained. One in particular was a pink Cadillac. On it's bug shield he had printed "Pink Panther," and often could be found with a Pink Panther stuffed animal on the hood or in the seat beside him. At his funeral, the stuffed Pink Panther was newly washed and stood at the entrance, and the famous Mancini Pink Panther Theme was played during the service in tribute. as he would have wanted it.

Jukebox Man lived much of his life in his small white house on Park Point, next to the harbor and next to our building. One bedroom, one living room, a kitchen, and a bathroom were enough for he and his wife. He fed the ducks that would migrate twice a day from the harbor, summer and winter. They visited their cabin in northwestern Wisconsin regularly. They did everything they did regularly. Jukebox Man was predictable and routine, at least in those many later years in life.

What we didn't know about him was revealed to us after the funeral service was complete. The small crowd of us were asked to leave the funeral home chapel and step out side for the conclusion to our remembrance. As we emerged into the daylight we suddenly found ourselves in a parking lot facing two military men, one a veteran, the other in active service member with a flag in his hands, and behind them a row of ten other veterans.  They performed a salute that included three firings of honor guard rifles, which had to get the downtown neighborhood wondering, followed by a well played taps. In the absence of a casket, the two representatives standing in front of the gathering unfolded and refolded the flag, presenting it to the Jukebox Man's widow.

It turns out that John served in the Air Force in the Pacific during World War II. He never mentioned that. Never told stories from that time in his life. These days it is seldom you can find a WWII veteran, and here we had been sharing pie and cookies and coffee and tea with one all these years and never knew it. What a shame I never asked that question, though I'm not sure if I would have gotten an answer. It does explain some of why he seemed to be completely content with the simpler pleasures in life.

Airman John S. Cooper
Duluth, Minnesota