It would be unfair to confuse Jerry, a friend of our extended Arlington hippie family, with Other Jerry, a misdirected ne'erdowell with whom Becky lived for a while in 1976, so let's get this out of the way right now. This Jerry was a friend far worthier and true than Other Jerry.
This Jerry was part of a group of Northern Virginia hippies who orbited around a Falls Church boutique called Trucker's Stop (formerly Sweet Emma's Fancy Pants Emporium). Jerry worked in the pipe shop, which implies what you suspect it does.
To hear Jerry tell it, his family inspired the 1960s era anti-drug propaganda films we snickered at in high school. He told of his drunken mom, Thelma, shrieking on the front lawn at an LSD-crazed sister sitting naked in a tree, while Aunt Zelma sobbed and wrung her hands on the porch as Dad called the authorities and the siren-heads came a-running and the neighbors peeked at the spectacle through the curtains of their well-appointed suburban homes.
Jerry had blepharoptosis, a drooping eyelid, back before Paris Hilton made the condition cool. Jerry's eyelid was unbearably painful for his father, who subjected Jerry to numerous rounds of corrective surgery and kept a grisly photographic record of the results from each one. Apparently Jerry's surgeon was inept, or maybe the surgical technique hadn't evolved far enough in the early 1970s. In any case, medical intervention did not correct the problem. Jerry pushed the muscles in his forehead hard to keep the eye open, which evolved into an interesting facial asymmetry.