OF LICE AND MEN
By the time I was in the 4th grade I had garnered quite the reputation as a young artist. If a teacher or faculty member at Montello Elementary school needed art for a themed bulletin board…I was your man. Need a life size Garfield and Odie fighting over lasagna in the cafeteria?—ask Jason. Gotta have a Halloween Scooby Doo and Shaggy running from a school ghoul?—ask Jason. Can't live without a Snoopy flying (as the Red Baron) with Woodstock through clouds shaped like the alphabet?—yup, you get the picture. Back then, providing art for teachers gave me an incredible feeling of pride and nothing gave me more pleasure than to hear the accolades of their approval for a job well done. For me, it was like water to a sun dried crusted sponge…I soaked it up with an unquenchable thirst. Drawing was also a beautiful escape from the harsh realities I faced every day. When in the throes of artful creation I actually felt like “someone” which helped to fend off most of those days that I actually felt like “no one.” It was through art (in those formidable wonder years) that gave me a glimmer of self-worth and I clung to the value it gave me like a boy clinging to a life vest in the middle of a rough dark and turbulent sea.
It was the last day of the school week and the sun shone and beamed bright in a cloudless crisp autumn sky as I jumped off bus 21 and ran straight to Mr. Richard's office. From time to time, I'd visit him after school before heading home. Mr. Richard was the Community Center's Superintended who managed the low income housing project I lived in. The building was strategically placed at the center of the housing development and all school buses picked up and dropped off there. His office was connected to but separate from the main office. Mr. Richard was dark haired and quite tall but his most memorable feature was his perfectly trimmed thick mustache. He drove a metallic blue Trans Am, wore a suit every day and fancied himself a dead ringer for Tom Selleck, the television star of 'Magnum, P.I.'... Although to me, he looked more like Ron Jeremy who graced many of the sleeve covers of the VHS adult tapes my mom left lying around the apartment.
Mr. Richard preferred to be called Dick but I could never bring myself to call him that. In our house that word was used in a very different way. To say it seemed extremely disrespectful and I liked him a lot...so I called him Mr. Richard. I could always count on him to offer me an assortment of candy and or a positive word of encouragement. I ran to his office door and opened it without knocking. "Hey Mr. Richard!" I said happily. "Hey there sport!...Candy?" He pointed to the candy bowl. I grabbed a tootsie roll, sat down and ate it. "What do you have there?" He said and nodded to my art bag which was full of sketches. "My art." I said chewing. "Well, let me seeeeee." He grinned as I handed him my sketch pad and waited with gleeful anticipation as he thumbed through it. "Wow, pal....seriously. These are really, really good." I beamed with childish pride sitting in the over-sized office chair by his desk. "Thank you," I said. "How about you draw me something over the weekend and bring it to me on Monday and I'll frame and hang it in my office somewhere?" He asked with a knowing glow. 'No way.' I thought as a big Cheshire smile formed from ear to ear. "Seriously!?" I replied hardly able to contain my enthusiasm. "Absolutely. We'll see you on Monday." He said. Although I wanted to stay a little longer he stood up and walked me out. "Okay!" I'll do it." I said. "Thanks Mr. Richard. It'll be my best work ever!" I rushed out his door and sprinted to apartment 15-5 as fast as I possibly could.
As the sun went down that Friday evening I worked, feverishly, on several different concepts for Mr. Richard sitting at the kitchen table. No one had come home yet and I began to feel my stomach grumble with hollowness. It was at that moment...that my mom and Michael entered through the kitchen door carrying an overnight bag, a six pack of Schlitz Malt Liquor and a large bottle of Riunite wine. Michael, laughed happily when he saw me, dropped his items enthusiastically, and picked me up straight above his head with great power...as if I weighed nothing at all. "Jason! Mi bowy ow you?" He said. "I'm fine. How are you?" I said and let out a giggled in response to his large hands around my belly. He looked at me adoringly and then brought me close to his smiling face with my feet still dangling in the air. "Mi betta now dat mi si yuh." His breath smelled of mint gum and alcohol which blended sweetly with his Old Spice cologne. He set me down gently and patted the thick curls of my head and just like that his presence filled my stomach with excitement which dissipated my hunger. Needless to say, I liked Michael. Out of all the men my mother brought home...he was the most kind to me and always made me feel special. It was the final week of a ten week apple picking season for Michael and unfortunately, he was going back to Jamaica on Monday.
The official Apple picking season usually started around the second week of September and it often coincided with the leaves of a multitude of trees turning vibrant reds, yellows and oranges. It was the time of year when the autumn air begins to bite you in the morning and nip you at night. And, if you listened real close...many of the apple orchards (throughout the state of Maine) begin to fill with the migrant hymnal songs and the patois dialect of joyous Jamaican men picking apples with their delicate yet blazing fast apple harvesting skills. My mother, very much, looked forward to this season. She, along with a certain circle of women, would visit the apple orchard "man camps" and offer a certain kind of companionship. Ella Fitzgerald sings and explains it better than I can.
However, my mother, that fateful season had broken a cardinal rule and much like Elvin Bishop she 'fooled around and fell in love'...with Michael. He stayed with us every weekend after their first meeting and I liked him very much for many reasons. Michael treated me with a fatherly kindness and took the time to teach me how to cook Jamaican brown stew which is a sweet, tangy, sticky Caribbean chicken recipe that reminded him of his homeland. More importantly, he taught me how to give a firm handshake while looking a man directly in the eye and when I would fail to do so...he'd say with a gracious smile. “Dats nah ah handshake bowy. Try again!” All I can say is when I was in his presence...I felt valued and safe. It was almost, as if, a part of me, (the otherwise alert instinctual me) could let my guard down and simply enjoy being a kid. Enough so, that my desire to be around him exasperated my mother because without my understanding she would continuously comment on how she didn't like competing with a nine year old boy.
For most of that weekend my mother was a broken record. "Okay, Go watch T.V, Go play outside, Go upstairs, Go away, For Christ's sake…leave us alone!" She clearly didn't want my sister and me around and Michael would always object and say. "Sue, let dem spend sum time wid wi." However, she'd over rule him by getting angry or emotional. That final Sunday, however, my mother relented and let us sit with them. As she and he drank beer and wine that memorable Sunday evening I sat next to Michael listening to Bob Marley and the Wailers in our living room. We sang, as a family, the joyful Rasta hymnal like beats and soulful songs of "Is This Love", "Jamming", "No Woman, No Cry "Buffalo Soldier" and my all time favorite..."Three Little Birds" I remember Michael smiling brightly and singing those lyrics directly to me and it felt as if I was the only person in the room. "Don't worry about a thing. 'Cause every little thing…gonna be alright. Singing' don't worry… about a thing. 'Cause every little thing gonna be alright." It was also during that happy song that he let me play with his pocket watch. It was the most fascinating thing I had ever seen. The watch had a long shiny gold chain that clipped to your pocket and I simply could not stop opening and closing the spring-hinged circular golden lid that covered the watch-dial and crystal face. It was the coolest thing I'd ever seen. "It is…7 O'clock." I remember saying and immediately regretting it. My mother capitalized on that bit of information and told us it was time for bed. My shoulders hung low as I handed Michael his pocket watch and gave each of them a hug goodnight. "Yuh ah gud bwoy, Jason. See yuh in duh Mawnin." He whispered in my ear.
That Monday morning I made sure to wake up well before school so that I could fulfill my promise to Mr. Richard and to say goodbye to Michael. Outside my window there was complete darkness but I leaped out of bed and grabbed my art stuff with an excitement that could only rival Christmas. I silently left my room and nimbly walked the dim lit hallway towards the stairs when I heard. “Psst!” In the obscurity of my mother’s bedroom, I turned and saw Michael sitting at the bottom edge of a sea of ruffled blankets dressed in a white tank and jeans; he was pulling up the laces of his boots. I was in awe of each of his large well-defined biceps and I was convinced he had grapefruits implanted just beneath the sheen of his lean dark brown skin. He smiled with eyes that glowed bright against the morning darkness. “Gud Maawnin Jason.” He whispered kindly and winked. I waved from my hip, timidly and smiled. I kept moving past the bathroom and saw the heavyset white nude silhouette of my mother sitting on the toilet. “Sue, shut de door oman!” Michael said in a loud whisper. I had already turned the corner and made my way down the stairs. She huffed with indignation. “Shit, aint nothin he aint seen a hundred times.” She was right...but that didn't make it right. She got up without flushing and shamelessly marched back into the bedroom with heavy feet made of stone. He was clearly nettled. I heard the murmur of his huff. “Nuh matta! Dats Nah fah bowys to seeee!” I smiled at the bottom of those stairs, once again, feeling valued and safe in his presence.
I reached the kitchen in the dark; flipped the wall switch and greeted the instant illumination with furrowed brows and slanted eyes...undaunted by the scurry of retreating roaches on the sink counter. I laid my sketch pad on the kitchen table and while biting on my bottom lip colored in the picture I had drawn. I just knew Mr. Richard was going to love it. I simply couldn't believe that he was going to frame and hang it on his wall for EVERYONE to see. My joy could not be contained. That was until I had to say good bye to Michael. My mother was holding a grudge and was in a hurry to get him back to the man camp…so our goodbye was short. He gave me a sincere hug and grabbed my face with both of his large hands and looked deeply into my copious brown eyes. "Rememba, Yuh ah special bwoy. Stay dat way Jason." He extended his hand to me and I shook it...looking him straight in the eye exactly as I was taught. "Yes, dats ou yuh dweet." He said with a beautiful smile. "Okay...Let's go. We need to go." My mother grumbled and walked outside into the cold dark brisk morning air saying nothing to me. I went to the door, raised my hand and waved to him with a solemn motion of sorrowful fingers with no words uttered and watched as the head lights of my mother’s rusted red Chevy Chevette cut through the morning darkness and slowly pull away. A shiver of desolation escaped me as my eyes unexpectedly felt the sting of a harsh autumn gust of cold fresh air that seemed to foreshadow a frigid and rugged winter. I never saw Michael again.
That morning was filled with much anxiety. Saying goodbye to Michael had been stressful enough but today, for whatever reason, every student at Montello Elementary was being checked for lice. It was a horrible waiting game as we all sat nervously at our desks while each individual student was inspected. My teacher, Mr. Bazinet, used tooth picks to comb through the hair of each child to view our heads looking for the itchy infestation of wingless insects that spent their entire lifespan exclusively feeding on the blood beneath the human scalp. With nervous unease I worked on the finishing touches of Mr. Richards sketch. I felt like every other child in that classroom…I didn't want lice nor did I want the stigma that came with having lice. My world was tough enough as it was. Several kids from my housing project had already been sent home with the diagnosis…so my stomach was tied up in knots. I had a thicker head of hair than most kids and couldn’t stop scratching my head with the thought of those bugs. My fellow classmates looked at me with trepidation as Mr. Bazinet called me to his desk. I sat still on the stool, holding my breath as his tooth picks tickled the follicles of hair on my scalp. I felt a wave of goose bumps rise up my neck and down my arms and suddenly felt itchy. He continued to look and re-look…it felt like an eternity. I couldn’t breathe. “All good Jason…Mark?” He said calling the next student. I exhaled a huge sigh of relief and took my seat. Mark had lice. I couldn’t wait to get home.
With great anticipation and unbridled enthusiasm I jumped off that bus and headed straight to Mr. Richard’s office. I could only imagine his excitement when I presented him with the glorious picture I worked on so diligently all weekend. I touched the hood of his Trans Am parked outside his office and then proudly burst through his office door. “Hi Mr. Richard!” I must have startled him something fierce because he literally jumped out of his chair and stepped back. “Whoa! Stop right there Pal! Don’t come any closer!” I smiled and didn’t fully understand what he was saying. “C’mon Mr. Richard. Quit joking.” I said with a big bright smile while opening my art bag and stepping closer. Mr. Richard took another step back. “I’m not joking. I’m sorry Jason but you have to leave!” I still didn’t understand. “Why, Mr. Richard? What’s wrong?” My smile melted into perplexity. “Lice.” He said. “Too many kids in this project have lice. You have to go.” He pointed to the door. “But.” I said. “I don’t have lice.” He shook his head and said. “Doesn’t matter. You have to go…so GO!” He pointed to the door as his face twisted. My stomach sunk and my eyes began to water but I didn’t want him to see me cry. “Fine!” I yelled and made a quick fake stutter step towards him. He jumped back and shot me a look of anger as I slowly turned and walked out. I never visited "Dick" again.
I ran home through the swingset and basketball court wiping a smear of dirty tears from my face and went straight to my room and slammed the door. I ripped up the picture that was meant for Mr. Richard and cried even harder, face down, into my pillow but then felt something alien beneath it. My fingers touched something bulky wrapped in a piece of paper and I slowly pulled it out. The long gold chain fell from the paper and slipped between my fingers. I parted the wrinkled corners and to my absolute amazement there was Michael’s beautiful pocket watch. My stomach filled with an unexplained joy but for reasons unknown to me I began to heave and weep with an even greater emotion. I wiped my tears repetitively and finally caught my breath in order to read the writing on the crumpled folded paper. It simply said this; “Jason, for you. Don’t worry about a thing boy.~ Michael”. Only I heard it in his jovial smiling voice. “Jason fuh yuh. Don’t worry bout ah ting bowy. ~Michael.” Lying down on my bed between short stuttered breaths I cupped that pocket watch with both hands and pressed it against my little chest whispering the chorus of “Three little Birds” and I could hear the voice of Michael singing along with me and despite my tears....I knew every little thing would be all right. This is my message to yooo oooh oooh...
"Don't worry about a thing. 'Cause every little thing…gonna be alright. Singing' don't worry…about a thing. 'Cause every little thing gonna be alright."
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I am the author of the wildly unsuccessful non best selling book : ) A Walk with Prudence -Practical Thoughts of Wisdom for Everyday Living
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8 年A story attains immortality one because of the author. Jason Versey you have penned it with such emotions that even an kid artist can have sure pure feelings of ecstasy, we readers appreciate it when we are adult. The skill with which you have created this movie like story needs a thoughtful image of yours which I imagine through your photo here. Creative process is always performed alone, peacefully and focused. Great compliments to you and wish all the best in your endeavors. Chris Regardsoe
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8 年I feel regardless how you grew up, everyone can understand that every child needs to feel valued and safe growing up. Adults tend to forget the lasting impact they have on children's lives whether negative or positive.
Director of SaaS Implementations & Customer Success | Leader of Integration & Client Engagement Initiatives | Mentor for Veterans Entering Corporate Roles
8 年Wow. Thank you Jason.
A curator of shared purpose, delivering organizational growth by harnessing a team’s passion, creativity and leadership.
8 年Well my Brother, you have once again left me in a state of awe. I smiled, grimaced, laughed and shed a few tears as I read through read this. Your storytelling is a gift, as is your ability to weave a larger message into it. I feel as though I should have more to say, but anything else would come up short. Thank you Jason,this is a wonderful piece!