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Britt Forum-Blogger© Original500© Member  Learning Contentment
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 Havin' more fun with 500 word short stories. Like the last one, "Dresden," this is based on true events on my life. Mr. Jenkins was a sweet man. Had I been more mature, I would have treated him with even greater kindness.MR. T By Britt Elizabeth Verstegen Mr. William Jenkins climbed aboard the Warren Avenue bus armed with his black overcoat and a handful of air fresheners fastened to his lapels. Our daily ritual was to acknowledge one another with a nod; he would choose a seat adjacent to mine; and then I would say, “How are you today?” “Fine, Little One, I’m fine.” After a pause, he would then begin the daily task of explaining his air fresheners. “This a’one,” he would say, pointing to the pine tree, “is from the time I camped out in the Canadian wilda’ness and caught me a bear with ma’ bare hands.” As usual, I would nod encouragingly. “Yessir, that bear was a mean motha’ but I caught him in ma’ arms and hugged him ‘til he finally up and died. Just like that,” he would snap. On cue, my eyes would widened. Mr. Jenkins would smile, “Don’t worry, I’m careful.” He would then tell me about the other air fresheners, including the one shaped like a 1957 Chevy, the octagon painting of a Black Jesus, the round freshener shaped like a Bing cherry, and the colorful picture of the Hindu goddess Shiva. “She gots too many arms,” he would comment with pity, “but I love her.” Each air freshener had a story and Mr. Jenkins told each in detail. To each story, I would nod, taking care to note how close I was to home. The most sacred moment would be saved for the very last air freshener. It was the most worn, obviously handled and worried over by Mr. Jenkins in the terrible hours of the night when his memories would not leave. The last air freshener was a faded yellow portrait of the television star Mr. T. “This,” Mr. Jenkins would say in a voice trembling with reverence, “is my son. “ Tears would then fall from his dark brown eyes in impossibly heavy droplets. I would then brace myself for the final Event, an event which occurred every late afternoon as I took my third city bus home from school. Mercifully, the Event always coincided with the approach of my bus stop, permitting me to say, “Nice talkin’ to ya’, Sir,” as I breezily left the bus for home. The Event always began with a primordial cry from somewhere deep in Mr. Jenkin’s chest and would end in a pitiful scene of tears and emotion. “Uhnnn...aaaaa-AHHYIE! My boy! Where is my boy that’s forsaken me? Gone off ta’ Hollywood and left his old father to rot? Where is he? WHERE?” Mr. Jenkins would then demand an answer from everyone on the bus. Tears would flow even more fiercely from his eyes, transporting his ebony skin into a sheet of cellophane. He would then throw his hands into the air. “Where is my boy?” After he was calm, he would stab at the air freshener and say with considerable pride, “That’s Mr. T. He’s my boy. He my son.” “Yes, Sir, he certainly is,” I would answer.
 "All that you have is your soul." --Tracy Chapman |
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