“People call that being anti-Semitic, Jimmyrocket,” he hesitated, gauging my reaction, then went on, “That means anti-Jewish, kid. I’m afraid there’s a very bad word that rhymes with ‘kite’ Jimmyrocket, which I won’t even say, and nobody should ever say. It’s really bad, kiddo. Your gut was telling you something was wrong and it sure-as-shooting was. Always listen to your gut, kid; you got that Jimmy? This wasn’t your fault, you know that buster brown, right?” I looked at the ground, and nodded. “We’re gonna set this thing right. I promise,” he whispered to no one in particular.
And with that he gave me a great-big bear hug, harnessing a much stronger grip than I ever would have expected, a vice-grip frankly, and when I looked up at him, his always-cheerful bright blue eyes were wet and shiny. Ok, so were mine.
Later on, Travis and his family came to the pool and settled themselves into their usual spot of lounge chairs (by the way, not chained to posts) on the other end of the pool from me and my family. Normally, I’d go running over there, and we’d hit the pool for some underwater swimming games, or swelter in the sauna, and repeat pouring cold water over red-hot rocks until our nose hairs started to scorch, just because we could, but not this time.
We did make eye contact, I mean he didn’t even know anything was wrong, right, so why wouldn’t he? But I just gave a quick, awkward wave, then turned to hang out with my sister and cousins—choosing the much safer haven.
A short time later I was eating a bagged lunch of peanut butter and jelly on Wonder Bread poolside (Mom saying, “No swimming for 20 minutes after you eat Jimmyrocket.”) and thinking the sandwich didn’t mix all that well with the unbreathable, chlorinated air, when I spotted Butchy walking by. Curiously he didn’t acknowledge me, which was unusual. He just continued walking quickly, assertively, toward the far end of the pool.
My gaze was transfixed. Somehow his gait didn’t look quite so free-and-easy, and his expression was anything but his usual “everything’s groovy” persona. Butchy’s look seemed to be acutely focused on something, or perhaps someone.
I continued to watch as he approached Travis and the Tucker family. My heart was audibly skipping beats. He leaned over the outstretched torso of Mr. Tucker, who was laying full length on a white and crimson beach towel draped atop his chaise lounge, his hairy chest and large beer belly on full display, and seemed to whisper something in the man’s ear. Along with the whisper he extended an index finger and curled it toward himself, then pointed to the door. There was some back-and-forth banter, then both men left, with Butchy in the lead as they passed uncomfortably close by me, and out the exit, into the cold, wearing nothing but their bathing trunks and flip flops.
Although he had that special air of laissez-faire self-confidence about him, Butchy wasn’t a particularly big person, and Mr. Tucker was. He outweighed and outsized Butchy by considerable height and girth. However, when they stopped to talk, if that’s what was happening, it was Butchy whose finger was repeatedly jabbing into the center of Mr. Tucker’s “Trucker’s Deliver” t-shirt, and it was Mr. Tucker doing the backing up. It was a heated confrontation, and I thought it would come to blows, but it ended quickly, leaving Mr. Hunter in retreat to collect his family and sundry possessions, do a quick about face, and stomp indignantly out the door, as Butchy held it open.
When Butchy walked past me to re-man his lifeguard post, he looked like the happy-go-lucky, surfer-boy, sunny-disposition lifeguard again. And as he passed by, he gave me a big smile and a knowing wink. It was the kind of wink that rendered words superfluous. Not Happening. Not on My Watch. Not Now. Not Ever. And most-definitely,
Not on Mashnee!
The next morning was our last day of vacation and as usual I took a morning jog around the island, despite deteriorating weather conditions of cold and sleet. It didn’t matter. It felt good. Always did. As I was running down Mashnee Road toward the dike, when a large Winnebago recreational vehicle flying a familiar flag from its rear antenna, started to pass, and then slowed as its rear occupants’ faces pressed like so many flapjacks against the fog-drenched windows.
Then they were driving away, gaining speed and accelerating the beast of a vehicle toward The Bump, when suddenly, BAM! The full height of The Bump seemed to rise-up, slamming into the RV’s undercarriage, instantly disabling the vehicle, and leaving it stranded, like a barge at low tide on a sandbar. Its left front wheel was angled in a direction it clearly wasn’t meant for, as the Tucker family all piled out of the vehicle to inspect the unexpected damage, just as I was jogging past.
What the hell just happened?
Frost Heave?
Bad Road?
Faulty Suspension?
Or something else
Entirely…
Something about,
Mashnee
Something about,
Karma!
I only know what I saw.
Running past the RV proved the final straw, as without even meaning to, an ancient, guttural, dark, and revolted voice emerged from somewhere deep in my belly, deep in my very soul, and blurted out like a fog horn roaring into the abyss:
“Jesus Christ was Jewish! So there!”
Then after several more running steps, I turned back over my shoulder and in as assertive a voice as an almost eleven-year-old pre-puberty boy could possibly muster, and at the top of my lungs, yelled, “ASSHOLES!”
There, that felt better. Much!
After that trip, I would never see Butchy again.
I never knew what he said to Mr. Tucker.
Never knew his last name or what town he was from.
Didn’t know how old he was, or where he went to school.
Or what religion, political party, or his favorite rock ’n roll band was.
Never really knew much about him at all…
But then again, I knew everything.
“Jimmyrocket,” he had said, “Don’t hate them. Just be better than them, ok, little buddy?”
“Sure. Thanks, Butchy.”
You can count on it.
Chapter 16
Stick
Early that spring, during a Sunday night dinner from our favorite go-to Chinese take-out restaurant, The “Kung Fu Canton House” my father took a bite of his crispy egg roll, passed the steaming order of chicken chow mein, and offered a proposition.
