What would Junie B. Jones do? by Barry Rachin (black male authors txt) 📖

"Mr. Jacobson sniffs little girls' bicycle seats," Benjamin Carter announced cavalierly as though the topic made for polite dinner conversation.
The family had just sat down to the evening meal. Grace Carter poured some gravy on her mash potatoes, cleared her throat and asked, "Where exactly did you learn this?"
Eight year old Benjamin sipped at his apple juice. "Mitzi Brookfield. She overheard her parents talking. They said Mr. Jacobson's got some mental abba… abba… abba…"
"Aberrations," his mother offered.
"Yeah, that's it. Mental abrasions."
Lillian Carter was quiet, undemonstrative woman, who favored gardening, crossword puzzles and feng shui. The previous year, she arranged Benjamin's bedroom to promote a harmonious flow of nourishing energies. The new setup was supposed to 'excite and calm' at the same time, a concept that neither Benjamin nor his father comprehended. To that end, Mrs. Carter removed the television and kept windows open until later October. Sometimes she even placed small dishes of essential oils – the young boy was partial to bergamot, citronella Java, clary sage and jasmine - on a shelf. She positioned the bed away from the doorway and replaced his bedside table with a matching set. When Mr. Carter inquired why the boy needed two tables, Mrs. Carter smiled and explained that it was a matter of balancing positive energies.
Mrs. Carter glanced across the table at her husband. The man, who had raised a forkful of meatloaf to his open mouth, lowered the food back to the plate without tasting it. "Speaking of mental abrasions," Mr. Carter said, "the Brookfield clan - "
"Phillip!" Mrs. Carter rose with such force that her chair went flying out from under her, slamming against the hickory hutch. The children eyed their mother uncertainly. Mrs. Carter retrieved her chair and set it in its proper place. Her husband smiled indulgently at the three youngsters, placed the meatloaf in his mouth and chewed with his head tilted at a sharp angle. "Very tasty. What did you put in it?"
"Seasoned bread crumbs," Mrs. Carter replied evenly. There would be no more discussion of the Brookfields or Mr. Jacobson's predilections for certain bicycle seats. "No, the spices."
"Basil and thyme."
He speared another portion of the succulent meat. "Yes, very nice."


Later that night after Benjamin brushed his teeth and crawled under the covers, his mother came to his room and said, "Regarding our neighbor, Mr. Jacobson…"
Jeremiah Jacobson had lived on Bickford Street forever - long before the Carters bought their split-level ranch house. The Jewish man resided there with his wife and two kids. Over the years, the children grew up and moved away. In late November, three days before Thanksgiving, Mrs. Jacobson, a short woman with sclerotic legs, suffered a massive heart attack and passed away. Since then, old man Jacobson had gone a bit queer in the head. He let his hair, what little there was, creep helter-skelter down over his prominent ears. And then there was the scraggily salt-and-pepper beard which enveloped his sallow cheeks - whether he grew the beard in mourning or as social protest, the raggedy growth made the elderly man look utterly derelict, down-on-his-luck. "Regarding Mr. Jacobson," Mrs. Carter began again, "he worked at Balfour Jewelry for thirty-three years."
"How do you know that?"
"The company gave him a big retirement party when he left work, and there was even an article in the newspaper." Mrs. Carter sat down on the edge of the bed. "The year New England won the Super Bowl, Mr. Jacobson helped design the fancy team rings."
Since Mrs. Jacobson’s passing, Lillian felt a strong neighborly sentiment towards the widower. When the temperature topped out in the low nineties, she sent Benjamin's older brother over to trim the old man's lawn. A couple of times when the ShopRite Supermarket featured two-for-one coupon days, she even picked up extra groceries for the older man and had Benjamin lugged them over to the dilapidated house with the weed-strewn lawn.
Rising, Mrs. Carter wandered over to the bookcase. Teasing a tattered paperback from the shelf, she returned to the bed. "What's this?" She laid the book on the bed sheet next to his chest.
"Junie B Jones and the Yucky Blucky Fruitcake."
"What's with the B?"
Benjamin wrinkled his nose. "The B stands for Beatrice. Except Junie don't like Beatrice; she just likes B and that's all!"
Mrs. Carter ran her fingertips over the mangled cover. "How come the book is such a mess?"
Benjamin wiggled his smallish rump settling it comfortably on the mattress. "Probably because I read it a million, quadrillion times, that's why."
Mrs. Carter shut the light. Then she kissed his cheek as she did every single night since as far back as Benjamin Carter could recollect. The pretty woman with the pale blue eyes stood over him swaying gently in the dark. Benjamin couldn't make out her features, only sense her benevolent presence. "Maybe, at this stage in his life, Mr. Jacobson is a bit like your favorite book. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
"No, not really."
Benjamin felt his mother's hand caress his cheek. "Well, perhaps someday you will." The woman turned and shuffled noiselessly from the bedroom. Benjamin fluffed the pillow and lay back down. The crickets were chirping in the back yard. A neighbor had trimmed his lawn in the late afternoon and the cloying scent of fresh-mown grass drifted through the open window. No more than a minute or two passed before Mrs. Carter returned and sat back down again on the edge of the bed. "Do you remember back in October that ugliness with Lucinda Rodriguez?" Benjamin nodded in the dark.
Mitzi Brookfield started a rumor that the Rodriguez girl was an illegal immigrant. The Mexican family dogpaddled across the Rio Grande and picked their way to Brandenberg, Massachusetts where they were presently living under false pretenses. Around midday, Lucinda went home crying. The next morning, Benjamin spotted the dark-skinned girl, clutching her father's hand and heading in the direction of the principal's office. Mr. Rodriguez was decked out in a sullen scowl and three-piece suit. Later that same day, The Brookfields were call into school to meet with the superintendent. After the unfortunate incident, there was no more mention of undocumented aliens or Spanish-sounding rivers that bordered the southern United States.
"The Brookfields have a penchant for stirring up trouble."
"What's a penchant?"
"It doesn't matter," his mother replied rather abruptly, "just so long as you know that Mitzi Brookfield is a first-class troublemaker and don't feed into any of her nonsense." She kissed his smallish hand, pressed it to her warm cheek and went away.


* * * * *

"I spoke to Ben about Mr. Jacobson." Lillian Carter stood just outside the bathroom door where her husband was hunched over the sink, raking a toothbrush across his gums.
"And how did that go?"
"Pretty good." The woman pawed at the oak floorboards with the toe of her slipper. "The kid's in second grade. What’s he know about malicious slander?"
Mr. Carter put the toothbrush away and reached for the unwaxed dental floss. "Jacobson’s wife died… his kids moved away. He's eighty years old for Christ's sakes!" He wrapped a length of floss around his left index finger, pulled the strand taut then wriggled it down between a rear molar.
"I ran into Jake Brookfield in the Dairy Mart the other night," his wife spoke in a relaxed tone. "He was buying a slew of lottery scratch tickets. He also had a three-pack of those glossy, soft-porn magazines they stow away behind the counter."
"You don't say!" Mr. Carter chuckled and shook his head.
"The mags were lying there on the counter wrapped in thick plastic, but you could see what they were." She thumped her husband sharply on the upper arm to gain his undivided attention. "Salacious Sluts & Blatantly Busty Bimbos! - that was the title of the topmost magazine. "Salacious Sluts & Blatantly Busty Bimbos," she repeated, leaning hard, for theatrical effect, on the first consonant of each word. "The jerk wasn't even the least bit embarrassed."

* * * * *

On Tuesday, Benjamin rode his bike to the athletic field. A Little League team with Tedeschi Supermarket logos plastered across their yellow T-shirts was practicing double plays. The coach hit a grounder to the left side of the infield. The shortstop flipped to second, and the baseman promptly relayed the ball over to first. "Again!" The coach smacked another ball that hit a rock and skittered between the infielders. Mr. Jacobsen was sitting on a bench near the refreshment stand eating an orange. He ran a folding knife over the rind. Repeating the process, he peeled away the covering in four neat flaps which he stacked one on top of the other. The frail man ate the fruit one wedge at a time, wiping his fingers on a handkerchief which he dampened at the bubbler when the snack was gone.
In some twisted sort of way, the Jewish man reminded Benjamin of a character in a Junie B. Jones stories where everyone - teachers and students alike - were all just a bit off-center. "Heads up, first base!" The coach tapped a grounder down the first base line. The fielder lunged forward as the pitcher expertly drifted to his left, covering the open bag.


"There's that pervert." Mitzi Brookfield, who had been playing hopscotch with a group of older kids, came over to join Benjamin. She was heavyset with orangey hair and grotesquely large freckles that resembled liver spots.
"He ain't so bad."
"Yeah, well,” Mitzi threw down the gauntlet, “why don't you haul your sorry ass over there and strike up a conversation?" Benjamin stared across the eighty feet between the playing diamond and where Mr. Jacobson sat on a bench. The man was ignoring everyone altogether having turned his attention to the local newspaper. Benjamin kicked at the dirt several times and rubbed his chin. "Yellow-bellied coward!" Mitzi hissed.
"Outfield, heads up!" The infielders had retreated to the bench and a collection of Gatorade bottles, while the coach and his assistant were delivering up a steady stream of fly balls to the outfielders. The first booming shot sailed over the centerfielder's head, and he had to run the ball down. "Go talk to your good buddy, why dontcha?" Mitzi taunted gleefully, now that she had the upper hand.
What would Junie do in a similar predicament? What would the lovable, irascible, impulsive, unpredictable and ditsy first grader do confronted with the likes of Mitzi Brookfield? As if an alien intelligence had invaded his being, Benjamin suddenly felt his body propelled forward - against his will and, most definitely, against his better judgment.
"Oh, hello there." The elderly man removed a pair of reading glasses.
It was the affable smile and breathy voice that set Benjamin's mind at ease. "I'm Benjamin Carter."
"Yes, I know who you are… green house diagonally across from the fire hydrant.
"My mother says you made the championship rings when the Patriots won the Super bowl."
The man laughed, a dry, cackling sound. Benjamin had never heard anyone laugh like that, but it didn't bother him in the least. "I didn't actually make the rings; I designed them. Some of the other employees who worked in the jewelry plant actually poured the metal, fastened the precious stones and polished." "How do you like this?" The elderly man extended his right wrist to reveal a thick gold bracelet. "That's another one of my designs. It was very popular - a big seller back in