| dewy decimal |
2004-06-03 - 5:07 a.m.
I used to have this friend named Chauncey who had amazing posture. All of our teachers would blush whenever he moved into the classroom with the only breeze that could be found on those heavy, orange days before summer.
As handsome as he was, the cool came naturally. Never an outspoken kid, but whenever he did speak he would lift his head only high enough so that he could meet your eyes from under his bangs that wispily draped his gaze and would utter whatever it is he had to say in a voice that you longed and were glad for because it was sincere, yet never amused, It's warm and it's calm and it's perfect. It's too "too too" to put a finger on it.*
Chauncey was a loner in the truest sense with the archetypal silhouette of knowing and not knowing. Whenever we spoke of what our plans for the summer were, or of our classmate�s endeavors, I always felt privileged, despite that none of that information was privy to me. It was true, he listened to what I had to say and responded thoughtfully. But it was no different than the way he'd listen and respond to anyone else in school.
Oneday, I'd seen him talking with a group of the popular kids outside of the library where the Torch Ginger and Shower Trees rose brilliantly in two rows, when from the corner, the campus groundskeeper appeared with a dirt-caked spade in his hand. He stopped for a minute in a beam of orange sun and wiped the sweat off his forehead with a handkerchief. When he noticed the group of kids loitering in the shade, he approached them timidly. The kids started giggling and were whispering surly comments about the filthy groundskeeper with leathery skin. At that moment I felt sorry for the groundskeeper and wondered if he knew if they were gawking at him.
"Howzit boys and girls?" asked the groundskeeper as he continued to wipe the saltiness and dust from his stung sight.
"What's up man?" It was Chauncey's voice, clear and calm as ever. The kids continued whispering to each other behind cupped hands. The smell of dirt and sprinkler water lifted off the ground.
"Not too much Chauncey, my boy."
"You have blood on your shirt. Are you alright?" asked Chauncey. The Groundskeeper examined his shirt as if detecting it for the first time.
"Eh, minor, dat one," said the Groundskeeper, unconcerned, as he began rubbing into the bloodstain as if it could be removed.
"You should totally take care of yourself, dude. You work so hard and it'd suck if you got injured. You make everything so nice around here. You know what I mean? I appreciate it," Chauncey's quiet eyes moved from the remarkable blood stain to the Groundskeeper's eyes, which were now pinched and smiling.
"Eh, I suppose you right, my boy. Gotta keep da body strong so I can make all da place nice fo you young ones."
That's when I noticed that the snickering stopped and a respectful gaze from the kids fell over the groundskeeper who no longer looked worn but exultant.
Chauncey was good looking, but for every girl that wrote him a love letter, he'd take a shit at school and wouldn't flush the toilet, and for every card trick, he also had a sprained wrist or broken toe. And I can see all that Chaunce was working for; to level what nature had blessed him with; he spoke to everyone but mostly walked by himself on those heavy orange days just before summer when the Hayden Mangos would ripen and blush.
*From Television' s Prove It