Mr. JohnsonA Story by York Callow
It was late December, right before Christmas-break, when I met him. Him, being Mr. Johnson. Mr. Johnson was a tall and slender ol’ fellow, never did mean harm to nobody, as he was one of the nicest men I’ve ever met " and probably the best. He was the high school janitor " one of the lowest things you can be at a school, really " and sadly, people treated him so. People’s always calling him names " like poor, hobo, ragged, patchy, and the like. He wasn’t much different from myself, though. And I guess that’s why we got a long so well, him and I. I was 14 when I met the man " and in the 9th grade. Like Mr. Johnson, not many people took to likin’ me very much. Maybe it’s ‘cause I was poor, or ugly, or not good at sports. Or maybe all those things were the cause. Either way, the people of Besyl, Alabama viewed me as an outcast. Which, in fact, didn’t bother me too much " I’m a loner any way, and prefer peace and quiet over the big hubbub made by people. The only times it did bother me was during things like prom, and such… That’s only cause I couldn’t get a date.
Ah, good ol’ Besyl! What a town, I tell ya! She’s “the heart of Dixie,” as the locals like to call her. Besyl lies right in the center of Alabama " which is, in my opinion, one of the countriest states in this nation! I was born in 1957 on the month of November. My mother had me at a considerable early age " it was 19, I believe " consequently she had no time for college and such, as you can imagine. Which is what made my family so dirt poor, as she’d say. I had never met my father before; though, at times, I did wonder who the man was. I used to ask my momma bout him a good bit. But she’d always change the subject. Sometimes I’d nag and nag at her " poor ol’ thing, rest her soul (she dead now) " until I might get some answer, but she’d never budge. At one point I finally got her to spill something bout him. But all she said was:
“He was a nasty ol’ (rather not use her language)… He left us right when I had you child, and that ought to be answer enough for ya! Now, why don’t you go on and help your real pap in the garden, Sean.”
My “real pap” " or my step dad " wasn’t a kind fella, I’ll tell you that. He was always cussin and fussin " and ain’t nothing ever seemed to make him happy. Every time he’d come home from work " if there weren’t the right kind of food or right portion of it on the table " he’d say the nastiest and meanest things about my momma.
“Come in here you ------------ and make me some food, only this time do it right!”
And, if she weren’t there he’d start up on me. Saying things that a body should never say to another human being.
“I hate you, you little son of a -----. If it weren’t for you me and your momma would have it easy… We wouldn’t have to worry about feeding and clothing a little worthless brat like you, you dumb ---- You got that?”
I would nod my head yes, cause if I didn’t he would get to beating me with anything he could find. And sometimes even when I did nod he’d still beat the tar out of me. He’d say it was just “punishment for the sorrows I brought to the family.” I told somebody when I got older about it, they said it was “abuse,” and not punishment. I still don’t know which of the two it was.
I thought at times, ‘bout takin’ me a gun and shootin’ the man. But the more I got to thinking it didn’t seem like too good of an idea. I knew that something had to be done to stop him " I just didn’t know how. My momma was always moping around, acting depressed. I think mostly cause she didn’t know whether she was safe or not. Some days he’d act mean as a snake, and some days he’d go about acting like nothin had ever happened. Whenever he’d beat me, I’d find my momma, and ask her why he did that to me. All she’d do is begin cryin’ and say:
“Sean, hun, you know you done wrong… That’s why. You need the punishment to help you know better, that’s all. He loves you, he’s done everything he can to support this family.” And then her sobbin’ would start up, and she’d have this look in her eyes. A look that I think, said something from inside her. It said: “I don’t know why, Sean. He does the same to me. But I don’t know how to get away.”
I had it hard, as you can see, growing up. And that’s exactly why God let me meet Mr. Johnson. Let’s see… It was a nice Alabama winter day when I met him. The sun was up high " and there were only a few clouds " just enough to make the sky pretty. I was in my 3rd out of 4 periods during the day. Which, was P.E. " a class that I downright hated. Mostly cause that’s when all the jocks started pickin’ at me. I remember it plain as day…
There I sat on a bench, in the gym, watching all the others playin sports and such. When all the sudden a group of about 3 jocks walk up to me…
“Hey fagot,” one of em started, “what you readin’ there fagot?” He saw my copy of the Holy Bible I’d brought to read.
“I ain’t readin’ nothing that concerns you… why don’t y’all leave me alone and slap each-others asses like y’all like to do so much.” I said, angrily.
“You goin regret them words, you benchwarmin’ son of a -----.” At that point one of em got behind me (when coach weren’t lookin’) and held my hands behind my back so that I couldn’t move.
“You goin’ learn how to talk to people that are better than you, dirt eater.” The jock said as he punched me a couple good ones in the stomach.
What could I have done other than to stand there and take it? And that’s exactly what I did. The boys went on beatin’ me like this until finally coach came in. He didn’t catch ‘em though, cause all of em quit as soon as he opened the gym door, and acted real natural. And me, I’s sittin there laying on the ground in pain. Coach come walking up to me, and says:
“What’s a matter with you son? You alright?” I thought about tellin’ him what happened, but then I looked and saw the faces of the boys. Each of em noddin’ there heads as to say ‘no.’ I kept my mouth shut about it. I had enough smarts to know that a body like me don’t tattle on the jocks and come away unhurt. Instead I asked him if I could see the nurse, to which he said yes.
On the way I encountered a strange lookin’ fellow " tall and slender with short brown hair, looked about 50, and had a most kind expression on his face "he wore a blue work suit. I walk past him and he says:
“You don’t look too hot, son. You alright?”
“No sir,” I said. “ain’t doin’ too good at all.”
“What got you feelin’ like that?”
I thought about lying for a moment and sayin’ I’s down with a virus. Then I looked at his face. It shone with a kindness that said: “You can tell me what they done, boy.” Most all people say everything they feel with how they look " even if they don’t know they do. I’s always been able to read people like that.
“Kids bein’ mean.” Says I, feeling naucious.
“Where’d they hit ya?”
I put my hands over my stomach so as to show him where they’d hit me. He looked me in the eyes, smiled, and patted me on the back.
“You’ll bounce back, kid, we all do.”
“Yes, sir.” Said I, as I began to walk off " just then he called to me.
“What’s your name, sonny?”
“Sean” I says, “Sean Bridget.”
“Mr. Johnson’s my name. It’s nice to meet you. Don’t let them kids get you down, boy. They’ll try, but don’t let ‘em.” He said, as I nodded in agreement.
“Yes sir!” I says, and walk away to the nurse " where I got looked at. And of course the confounded school nurse, as always just tell you to go back and do school. So there ain’t no point in goin’ unless you got some kind of downright bad sickness goin’ on. But if you just mediocre sick she tells you to get on and do schoolin’, but you still feelin’ downright bad eventhough you aint doing bad enough to go home. But, that’s the way it has to be, I suppose.
Anyway, that night when I got home I got to thinkin’ bout that man " Mr. Johnson. “For what reason is he so nice to a poor kid like me” I wondered. And I stayed up all night thinking bout it. Up till then I ain’t never had nobody be so kind to me before " even my gradma, who was nice only when she wanted. But I felt downright confounded about it. So confounded, in fact, that I gave up thinkin’ and fell asleep…
About a few seconds later, as it seemed, I woke up to find the sun all red and pretty in the sky -- it must of been about 6 am. It was a Friday, and I was happy for the weekend comin’ as you can imagine. My momma’s footsteps could be heard comin’ down the hall towards my bedroom door " signaling me to get up for school. Pretty soon I heard a “knock, knock” at the door.
“Time to get up Sean! Don’t wanna be late and get written up!”
“Yes ma’am” I said as I’s climbing out of bed.
Soon I was on my feet, had my teeth brushed, breakfast ate, and was out the door to catch the bus.
As I walked down to the bus stop I felt a coldness come over me " though, I didn’t know why. It felt like I’s in the very back of a long hall with somebody shoutin’ at me that I couldn’t see. My face got cold, and my hands was clammy. I felt completely lost and confused… I walked all around the block, trying to find the bus stop, but was too dazed to do so. I finally just decided to come to a hault and sit on the ground " where I remember closing my eyes as if to take a nap... I was knocked clean out…
I woke up to find myself in a hospital bed " and there was my momma, my step-dad, and " Mr. Johnson, all there standin’ over me...
I saw Mr. Johnson whisper something to my momma and my momma lookin’ sad… I wondered what was going on, and why he’s there. He looked at me and said “Good mornin’ buddy! I’s drivin’ from my house to work and saw you out in the sidewalk, all past-out. I called the ambulance and they got a hold of your momma and pap… I hope you’re feeling better.”
That was really something to me that he cared enough to help me " I felt almost touched and didn’t know what to say. So, like usual when a body’s grateful and can’t find words I simply said: “thank you, Mr. Johnson!” That man had possibly saved my life!
“You’re welcome, son.” He said, “I’ll be right back, let me talk to your moma…”
To that my momma and Mr. Johnson stepped out to talk. And my step-dad looked mad about it. He started fussin’ at me when they left too.
“You ought to be ‘shamed, boy " scarin’ your mother like that. I don’t care if you pass out, but your momma and this strange man apparently does… If you do us like that again I’ll skin ya alive.”
Then my moma stepped back in with Mr. Johnson, lookin’ all sad " like she’d been crying.
“Sean,” she started, “I’m sorry for not treating you right boy… I hope you can forgive me…” At this point she began crying real hard. “But son, Mr. Johnson wants to adopt you...”
At that I felt both sad and excited. Sad for leaving my mom, and excited for leaving my step-dad.
“I feel good about it and all… but who’s this man anyway? And I don’t wanna make you sad, momma.”
For a moment she turned her head and started sobbin more.
“Baby,” she started in a soft, nice, tone (the nicest I heard her speak in a while) “Mr. Johnson " is your daddy…”
I didn’t know what to think after that " but how happy, excited, and sad I was. My mom was crying, my step-dad just had his head turned, and my " wel " pa just looked at me smilin’ " and then he began to cry.
“Son, I’ve waited years being in the army and away from home to see you boy!” He said, with love in his heart. “I love you, son.”
I sat there and tried to just take it in for a moment " but couldn’t understand it. Why would somebody care so much about me? I had lived in hate and bitterness for so long that love was something foreign. Something in stories. But, for me? At that thought, I began to cry.
I sure enough was adopted by the very man I wanted to know since I was a youngin’. And I learned, that day, one simple fact: love is stronger than anything else.
Once my dad had worked out all his paperwork he took me into his home " where I spent the rest of my childhood. I still got to see my moma on the weekends and our relationship remained good. I was still poor and all and didn’t have the nicest things. But " I had the most important thing " freedom to be a child.
© 2015 York CallowAuthor's Note
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Added on January 2, 2015Last Updated on January 6, 2015 Author
York CallowMobile, ALAboutGrowing up in Bessemer, Alabama, I developed a taste for writing at the age of thirteen. In the seventh grade I joined a creative writing class, and did exceptionally well. more..Writing
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