Look, Timmy

CW: This story contains implied violence and racism that some readers may find disturbing.

I remember things from way back. Mama and Pop are shocked by my memory. Hellene, my wife, says her oldest memory goes back to when she was in first grade. I remember things from back when we lived in Chicago. I was born up there and we moved away when I was eight.

There’s one afternoon that’s as vivid as the day it happened. I was probably, judging from the newspaper clippings that I have collected over the years, only 3 or 4 years old.

Those clippings: I have about twenty scrapbooks full of them and they are stacked in my office/writing room. Hellene calls me a hoarder. I am always quick to point out that I have published ten novels and seven short story collections that have done quite well and many of the ideas for those books came from my scrapbooks. That usually wins the argument, although she would never admit it!

When I mention the incident to Mama, she shakes her head and says, “I was all of 21 years old and the time in Chicago is like a fog to me.” Pop has asked me not to mention my memory to her again. “She thinks you’re judging her or something,” he explained. I have never mentioned it to her again , but it sticks in my memory, regardless.

It was probably March, not winter, but still cold outdoors. For some reason, Mama and I were downtown and I’m sure that it was on the weekend. We could have been going to meet Pop somewhere for lunch. He almost always worked weekends. We were walking, hand in hand, Mama,tall and slender looking pretty in her fur overcoat and matching cap with her elegant mane of blonde hair hanging down to her shoulders, and me, dressed in that navy blue coat with the fur collar and matching hat that she always thought looked so cute. I remember that almost every time that I wore the coat, she would take a picture of me and say “So dang cute!” as I squinted my eyes in the flash.

Mama grabbed my hand tightly, it was almost painful, and pulled me closer to her side. I almost lost my balance.

“Hey!” I said as I glared up at her. I really didn’t know what the problem was.

“Just keep walking, son,” she hissed at me, “and speed it up a little!”

As we walked, I saw the source of her concern. A tall, black man, probably in his 20’s was walking toward us. He was dressed completely in black-overcoat, turtleneck, gloves, and work boots. He is brow was furrowed and his eyes were staring straight ahead like a man deep in his own thoughts. The thing that stands out in my memory was his hair- I had never seen anybody, male or female, wearing dreadlocks before.

I mentioned my collection of newspaper clippings. I have several that feature the man with dreadlocks. His name was Cephas Neal. He was responsible for opening homeless shelters, soup kitchens, rec centers, and even a few churches throughout Chicagoland. I don’t know where he was headed that day, but he was probably looking to do some good.

“Look, Timmy,” Mama whispered, “people like that scare me! I just don’t like the looks of him! I’m your mother and that means that I have to protect you. Understand?”

I didn’t, but I nodded anyway. I didn’t want Mama to think here only begotten son was ignorant.

“Okay, just stay close to me, ok?”

Another nod and that seemed to satisfy my mother.

We walked for a few more minutes. Mama was guiding me. I wasn’t paying any attention to where we were going, I was window shopping. I was especially fascinated by a toy store where there was a Lionel train set on display that ran over a mountain and into an Alpine village. A few doors down, a pet store with several Capuchin monkeys swinging on artificial vines caught my eye.

“Aww, Mama, can’t we go in and see the monkeys?” I begged. I always wanted a monkey, but the closest that I ever came was a mischievous Cocker Spaniel who I actually named “Monkey”.

“No, we’d better not,” she said, pulling me away and we continued our walk.

I was looking through a pizzeria window where a large Italian lady was twirling pizza dough above her head when I heard Mama speak again.

“Oh, look, Timmy, it’s a clown!”

The word “clown” caught my attention. I quickly looked away from the pizzeria and turned my attention to the sidewalk. Sure enough, there waws a man walking toward us, dressed in an overcoat, gloves, and a scarf, but he was wearing oversized, floppy shoes and his face was painted. Yes, he was an honest to goodness clown!

I squealed with delight. I’d seen Ronald McDonald on TV and the folks had taken me to circus the previous summer, but this was the closest that I’d ever been to a clown. I waved at him and the clown waved back at me. He danced a little jig and, when Mama and I applauded, he bowed to us. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pink carnation and offered it to Mama. Her face lit up like a Christmas tree as she accepted the gift.

“Thank you, kind sir,” she said. I don’t think I had ever seen Mama blush before and it made her even prettier.

The clown bowed at the waist again and reached over and patted me on top of the head.

“Have a wonderful day!” he said before he passed by and skipped down the sidewalk.

I have many more newspaper clippings on that clown than I do about Mr. Neal. We encountered two very different me that cold afternoon in Chicago. One man frightened my mother and one delighted her.

Probably the most vivid memory I have of that day is looking over my shoulder and watching John Wayne Gacy skip along the sidewalk. I have no idea where he was headed, but before the day was over, he was undoubtedly be looking to do something that was absolutely no good.