God Don’t Make No Junk

Bobby Joe was two quarts light when God man ‘em. His eyes split so wide his vision was something of a constant peripheral. Damned if he ever saw what was right in front ‘em, though. Poor kid was a mouth breather. Not in no sense of the nerd type, or nothin’, but Bobby Joe really did only breathe out of his mouth. An upper lip that was closer to the base of his nostrils than it's partner lip and one single buck wide tooth paired with one stunted one. Bit like him, I guessed.

“Bobby Joe, kick that can back over here, will ya?” Sutton, asked.

Bobby Joe had trouble hearing out of his left ear on the count of a medical condition concerning wax and what not. Maybe that was why his head tilted over his left shoulder when he walked. He kept fiddling with that empty can of cola and his pocket full of rocks from the creek. He’d toss one rock at a time trying to get as close as he could to the can without touching it.

Ping.

“Drats! Double drats! Stupid cola can.” Bobby Joe, said.

His rock had hit the side of the can, a pretty good lick I’d say given the sound. I was two years older than Bobby Joe and the other kids in the neighborhood, and I spent most of my day in our front yard, stopped by a waist high fence momma was scared to let me out of.

See, last year back home, before here was home anyways, my older brother, Thomas James, TJ for short, went out one night and just never came home.

Momma and paw were real broken up about that, but I was mostly just confused. See, they never told me what happened, so I didn’t know he died until we moved here. Paw stayed back home. I missed him a good deal on the count of he would take me fishin’ anytime I wanted. He and Momma stopped talkin’ though.

That day, watching Bobby Joe fumble around the other kids on the block, I got an idea. See, at church on Sundays Father James always told us to light a candle for someone special. Someone who needs it. And then God will send them an angel. Momma lit one every Sunday for TJ. Never made no sense to me seein’ as he was gone and all.

But I thought if I could convince momma that I wanted to send an angel Bobby Joe’s way to help ‘em out, that she’d have to ask more about him and maybe, just maybe I could get her to let me play with him and the other kids.

Why yes, momma. Bobby Joe is what they call a slow fella. Couple coins short of a full kitty over there. Why yes, momma. The other boys DO pick on poor Bobby Joe. Quiet as a mouse but they say he’s a tad bit long in the tooth. Get it? On the count of his one reallllly long tooth! Momma, Bobby Joe don’t hear so good. I heard he fell into the ocean and now he’s got a baby sea turtles shell stuck up in there blocking the sound to his ears!

Those were some of my best ideas on why Bobby Joe might need a bigger, older kid like me to look after him with the other kids.

That Sunday, I put extra polish on my shoes and even wore the cap momma got me that I hated. I looked like a dork. Like a real dweeb. But desperate times and all’s.

Father James had given a sermon about forgiveness that Sunday. I kinda liked that. I thought that even if momma knew I was only using Bobby Joe to escape the front yard fence to join the boys for stick ball and bike rides, that she’d have to forgive me, or God would send her to hell. That’s what the bible says, sure as shootin’ it does.

“Momma. Can I have a nickel for a candle? I want to tell God to send an angel to Bobby Joe. You know, the slow boy across the street.” I, said.

Momma’s eyes got big, and her lips pursed tight. She was proud of me; I just knew it.

“That is a very thoughtful thing to want to do, Johnny. But God don’t make no junk. Bobby Joe is just fine. Here’s a nickel for your brother. Use it for TJ. And ONLY TJ.” Momma, said.

Nuts. That God stuff was my best work. Best idea I had since I mushed up beans and dropped them in the toilet to trick momma into letting me stay home from school. That at least got a chuckle outta her. It was back to the drawing board for me.

The next day, Bobby Joe set up a lemonade stand by the stop sign. He spelled it ‘LEMIN AIDE’ and charged five cents. I sat on our front porch rocking chair all day trying to best my record of 63 hits in a row with my paddle ball while I watched Bobby Joe sell his drinks.

“Bobby Joe! How many nickels you made so far??” I, yelled from the corner of our fence to Bobby Joe.

Bobby Joe didn’t budge on the count of I was yelling into his waxed ear. I watched him practice pouring cups of lemonade and shake hands with the air before pouring it back into the jug. Darndest thing, he’d give himself a high five after the ordeal.

“Johnny, get away from the edge of that fence. You know I don’t want you getting into no foolery! Come on in here and set the table for dinner.” Momma, shouted.

Every night I would set the table for four. Momma’s orders. We’s would sit down, bow our heads and say grace. After, she’d tell me bring paws plates into the kitchen on the count of he wouldn’t be joining us. And every night, I’d come back into the dining room, and she’d put a little of everything on that third plate for TJ. Because of course my dead brother had a better chance of showin’ up than our paw.

“Momma, can I invite Bobby Joe over for dinner? Seein’ as we got four places set, and paw won’t show, maybe he could eat over?” I, asked.

Ah, yes. Another idea! She could meet Bobby Joe and see for herself that God does make junk and it was Bobby Joe’s brains. That poor boy was my ticket outta the yard and I just needed momma to see it for herself.

“Johnny, why is you talkin’ this nonsense? Do you even know if Bobby Joe is catholic? We can’t say grace at a table with a sinner, Johnny.”

Dangit! I was rejected again.

Later that night momma was listening to her stories on the radio in the front room. She was knitting another scarf for TJ.I never knew why.

I was setting up my army men on the stairs for their nightly battle. I thought, that if I used names of the neighborhood kids loud enough, momma might hear, and she’d have to let me play with the boys. She just had to!

“Gunner Bobby Joe, flank the west railing! Sutton and Robert, man the base! Owen, let’s give coverage for Bobby Joe!” I, said loudly.

No such luck. Momma’s knitting needles never stopped chiming together and her stories never stopped playing. How on earth can I convince momma to let me play outside the fence? I thought to myself.

The next morning when I got the newspaper for momma, I saw Owen and Sutton outside in the street. I hollered for them to come over and we devised a plan.

“Fellas! Come over here.” I, hollered.

“Say, Johnny how’s the warden treatin’ ya?” Sutton, asked.

The warden was the name I gave momma when I told the boys during school I couldn’t play. I think the boys knew I wanted to play outside, but didn’t ask me because of momma. They were always nice in school, but strangers in the neighborhood.

“She’s got me on kitchen duty. Laundry. And grass cutting. I tell ya, she’s a hard ass that one!” I, jokingly responded.

The boys offered a nervous chuckle, but nothing more. They got close and leaned over the fence to peak around my shoulder to the front porch. Was a fair worry that momma would be watching and be soon to call me in.

“So, what say you, Johnny. Why’d ya holler?” Sutton, asked.

“I have an idea. Pretend to fight Bobby Joe. I figure if you two pretend to jump ‘em, that’s reason enough for me to leave the yard. I could save Bobby Joe and tell momma, umm the warden, that he really does need protecting and maybe I could be outside with you all summer!” I, said.

“No way, Johnny. Bobby Joe is feeble minded, they say! You could go to hell for that kind of thing!” Owen, said.

“Bobby Joe’s got feet for hands and can’t hear a darn thing, but he don’t bother no body.” Sutton, said.

I knew the boys were right. And his simple mind wouldn’t know the difference from make believe or real no how. It was a bad idea and even worse, the other boys thought I was a bully. Picking on a kid who’s inside clock was a few ticks behind was never gonna win me any friends.

Owen and Sutton returned to the street where they flipped Owen’s family garbage can on it’s side to play street hockey. For me, it was back to the drawing board again. I had to find some way of convincing momma that I could be a normal kid. And if I couldn’t use the oddball, and I made the others think I was a bully, I was running out of options.

Momma had made French toast for breakfast which was my favorite. TJ never liked it, so we never had it when I was younger.

“Now I don’t know why you like this sweet of breakfast, Johnny. I better see you outside playin’ in the yard after all this sugar!” Momma, said.

“Yes, momma.” I, said.

I could have told her I wanted to play hockey with the boys in the street, but she might of taken away my French toast and I couldn’t risk it.

After cleaning up from breakfast, it was time to play in the yard like momma said. Buster, the dog next door was in their yard which meant I had someone to play with! Every time buster was in the yard, I played football with him. We had a small flat football in the garage that was TJ’s. Since it was mostly flat, Buster could fit it in his mouth. And since it wasn’t ALL the way flat, I could still chuck it far!

I pretended I was Norm Van Brocklin, my favorite player on my favorite team! “Blue 42.Blue 42. Hut, hut…hike!” Over and over again I’s get a pretend snap with my brother’s deflated football and pass it over the fence for Buster to chase and bring back. Buster was no Bob Boyd, but he was pretty fast!

I ran around my yard, tossing the football to buster, my friend over the fence the rest of the morning. My sugar high died off and my pal had gone back inside with his family. I decided to lay down in the middle of the yard and rest my head on the slobbered football and bake in the sun.

“NO!GET AWAY FROM HIM!” A voice, shouted.

I was woken up in a panic in my yard with a man I didn’t know trying to grab my ankles and…Bobby Joe hitting him and screaming for help. The man pushed Bobby Joe down as I tried to kick myself free. Bobby Joe picked himself back up and started wailing on the man and hollering for help.

Momma must have heard the commotion, and she came busting out of the front door onto the porch with a broom and screaming that she called the police. Bobby Joe kept wailing. I kept kicking. Owen and Sutton had come running towards the fence to find me, Bobby Joe and an intruder in a wrestling match on my front lawn.

With eyes all on the man, he dropped my ankles, shoved Bobby Joe aside and bolted out of our yard. Owen and Sutton came running into the yard and knelt down next to me just as momma brought me into her with a giant hug.

Bobby Joe sat by himself while momma, Owen and Sutton all surrounded me. He was breathing heavy, and his bottom lip was pouty and slip open. He sat with his legs straight out and fists clenched as tight as his eyes were closed. He muttered something to himself. And again. And again.

After a moment, I got up to check on Bobby Joe. I knelt beside him as cop car sirens started going off in the distance. When I touched his shoulder to thank him, he jumped and yelled before getting up and running straight out of our yard and to his house.

“See, Johnny. God don’t make no junk. That boy may be dumber than a lizard at a nascar race, but he ain’t no junk.” Momma, said.

The cops had come and left, asking me, momma, Owen and Sutton questions and momma was in her chair knitting needles working their stitch, stories on the radio and me on the steps. Alone.

After a few minutes, I walked into the front room to ask momma a question. “Momma, can you walk with me to Bobby Joe’s? I want to thank him for protecting me today.”

Momma took in a long breath and let out a long sigh. Her eyes looked over her glasses as a smile started to form in the corner of her mouth. “I’ll watch you walk over tonight. Tomorrow, how about you play with your friends? So long as Bobby Joe is there, God’s angels will protect you.” She, said.

The rest of that summer me, Bobby Joe, Owen and Sutton were inseparable. We were all each other’s keepers. Bobby Joe came into his own, and I got to join him, Owen and Sutton in their games. My neighbor was even nice enough to let us all play football with Buster every now and again. I gave my best plans, and God laughed. He sent me an angel that day that I tried to reduce to a pawn. God’s plans were always better.