This past Thursday I was interviewing Megan, who was the last person I know to have seen Crazy Mark. When she asked me his last name, and I told her that I did not recall, but that I was certain it was Polish, she sat back and crossed her hands and began to speak of her family:

We’re pure-blooded Polish. Mark reminded me of my brother Bruce if he had been off his rocker. My mother had to raise six of us on her own. My father served in Korea and then died young. Bruce was the oldest, and since my little brother and I were so much younger he looked after us. He never let his friends disrespect me. When I was married to that louse and pregnant and had the blood pressure problem he would carry me everywhere, wouldn’t even let me walk from the car to the doctor’s office.

When I was sixteen I was a wild child, would go to bars and hang out with older guys. I liked the bikers. They were cool and not always the horndogs you’d expect. This one guy had me home at his place—he was like thirty. I was a virgin. Then, when he got excited and I saw what I was in for I panicked and just stared—like good God that’s gonna hurt. When he found out I was a virgin, and I was sixteen, he packed me up and drove me home. That’s a man—not like these guys today. No way would I want to be a young girl today with what’s out there.

One time I was at the Holiday House [a biker bar] when Chap came in. he was the coolest guy; one of my brother’s best friends, a big biker. I saw him and said, “Hey, champ, it’s me Megan. How are you!”

He looked at me and just had this fear in his eyes, put his hands out like I had the plague and said, “No, no! I’m not even talking to you. Your brother will kill me.”

He would not even sit near me. He didn’t tell Bruce that I was there but I’m sure he told all the guys at the bar to stay clear of me. I didn’t realize until then that my brother was so feared. He was a big guy, but had always been so nice to me. I hadn’t thought of him hurting people. He took care of me, and after he got sick I took care of him.

He always hated the blacks. Even when he was in hospice he would call the black staff ‘niggers.’ They took it I stride and didn’t mistreat him. I went there to feed him every day. My family didn’t all agree. Mike [the second brother] had brought home a Jackson Five album once. My father wouldn’t let him listen to it and made him take it back. I guess Bruce got it from our father. He always used to say, “Niggers are trash and they belong in the dumpster.”

He worked as a machinist in East Baltimore, and half the guys he worked with were black, and he would tell them, “You’re a niցցer and niցցers belong in the dumpster.”

One day, one of his coworkers—a younger guy—said, “Yeah, but what will you do if your daughter brings one of us niցցers home one day? What will you do then Bruce?”

Bruce grabbed him, picked him up, carried him out back, walked him over to the dumpster, and tossed him in, and said, “I’ll drop him in the dumpster where he belongs!”

That was Bruce. He was the best brother a girl could want and I miss him. I still have his sweater.