Some Guy Says
Michael and Mom and the Miracle on Ashley Street
Now I’m going to tell you this story just exactly the same way I told it to my mother.
I’m telling you this because there is a lot of rough language in this story...like...a lot...and Mother was a very severe person. She didn’t tolerate foolishness of any kind. She in particular did not care for anything that contained what she called “language.”
Also important to know: in my growing up years I worked really hard to get a laugh out of her. When I did, it was a Real Gold Star Prize Event! But when I didn’t, she would put her hands on her hips and snarl, “Oh! You are just like your father!”
I wonder, What was that even supposed to mean?
Mother figures prominently in a lot of my stories. It occurred to me at some point that she was often cast in the role of Buffoon. I wondered about this, too. Was that supposed to be my way of getting back?
Later it came upon me that in all my stories about her, she always had the punch line, that moment of saving grace, the piece that made the whole thing work out, the line that brought everyone back to the table.
Far from being the Buffoon, she was the Hero.
Always.
Anyways...
This happened 25 years ago on May 17, 2000, and every word of it is true.
I had just gotten on as the Executive Director at the Cultural Council of Greater Jacksonville. It was a Real Big Deal Job, and for that reason I was invited to be a Celebrity Chef at the Miracle on Ashley Street, the Clara White Mission’s annual community fundraiser.
For well more than a hundred years, the Mission’s mission has been “to serve the less fortunate.” Every year the Mission invited “local celebrities” to feed a long line of mostly homeless souls in front of their downtown Jacksonville location on Ashley Street.
“Mama, Mama! Look at me! I’m a celebrity!”
On this day, I parked in an untoward part of downtown because the whole of Ashley Street had been covered by a huge tent to accommodate the food, the speakers, the band, the tables, the people. So many people.
I was on my way when I saw these two guys on opposite corners of Broad Street at Ashley. The light changed. They crossed the street. They passed each other, and they kept going.
Suddenly, when they got to their opposite corners, this one guy inexplicably turned to the other guy and yelled at the top of his lungs, “Hey motherfucker! Don’t you fuckin’ disrespect me in my own fucking neighborhood! I will fuck you up!”
The second guy was silent. Just kept moving.
I thought to myself, Take a note, Bob – this has nothing to do with you so keep your head down, stay invisible, just keep moving.
But then the Yelling Man turned to me and very calmly said, “I’m sorry, man. Sorry you had to hear that.”
Like a reflex, I blurted, “Well, I’m sorry you felt compelled to say it!” In some ways, I am my mother’s son after all.
Yelling Man: It’s just that I hate this fucking city so much.
Me [another reflex]: Oh – sounds like you must not be from here. Where are you from?
YM: Chicago.
Me: How long have you been here?
YM: Four years.
Now we are walking together.
Me: How’s it going?
YM: Not well, man, not well.
Me: Why’s that?
YM: It’s because I’m not doing what I am supposed to be doing.
I know, I know – I’m deep in this now.
Me: What are you supposed to be doing?
YM: I am supposed to be preaching the word of God and winning souls to Jesus Christ, but I hate this fucking city too much. What about you – what are you doing here?
Me [after a pause]: OH! I’m on my way over here to Clara White, there’s a big lunch happening today, and...
He cut me off.
YM [Yelling again]: GODDAMMIT! That is just exactly what I am talking about! Nobody ever tells me a Fucking Thing! Fuck this city!
Me: Whoa! Pal! This is so not a problem! In fact, why don’t you come with me, and lunch will be on me today.
We trudged over to the Mission and, right or wrong, I stuck him in the homeless people line because, well, I just figured. Then I checked myself in. The Mission folk gave me a Celebrity Chef apron and a name tag: BOB.
Mama, Mama! Look at me!
I was shown to my spot dishing up shrimp and grits. In line next to me was the incoming Mayor, the incoming City Council President, the incoming Sheriff, and on and on. All the muckety-mucks.
Mama, Mama! I’m a Celebrity Chef!
Before too long the Yelling Man came through the line with an outstretched hand holding a paper plate. He looked at me and then at my name tag. “Your name is Bob?”
Me: Yes.
YM: My name is Michael.
Me: Nice to meet you, Michael!
We shuffled ladles and plates and shook hands.
Michael: It’s nice to meet you, Bob. Hey Bob – you know what? I think you are nicest motherfucker in the whole goddam city!
Me: Oh! Gosh! Thank you!
Michael: And you know what else? Ima tell all these other motherfuckers!
Me: Oh! Wow! So! Okay...!
Michael: Don’t you worry! Ima do it!
And he did. I saw him lean into John the Mayor and whisper something and point to me. John looked confused. He did it again with Matt the City Council President. Same thing, same reaction. Nat the Sherriff. Same thing. And so on down the line.
A while later, Michael came back through the line for seconds.
Michael: Hey Bob! I did it!. I told all these motherfuckers that you’re the nicest one, and I mean it. I mean it! I appreciate you!
Me [Big Gulp]: Thanks...!
Now, I like this story, I think it is a good story. I like to tell it, and I tell it a lot. I’m telling you now! In fact, I would go so far as to say this might even be my signature story. When I die, I want my tombstone to read, Here Lies the Nicest Motherfucker in the Whole Goddam City!
Anyway...
I wondered if I hadn’t told this story too much because a couple of years later I came home from work to find a package wrapped in brown paper tied with twine with my name scrawled on it in heavy black marker: BOB.
This is what it was:
See that? That’s signed by the mayor!
Well...come to find out that not only had the mayor not heard the story, but he hadn’t signed the certificate. Instead, my friend Melissa had heard the story, photoshopped the mayor’s signature from something that had been in the newspaper back when nobody even knew what photoshopping was, and made the certificate.
It looked So Real that for awhile I believed it was!
Mama, mama!
By chance I ran into His Honor the Mayor, and I told him the story. When I got to the part about the certificate, he looked at me and said, “I know where this is going, Bob, and I’m not going to sign that certificate…but…I will initial the back.”
And so he did!
And so it was that with all of this – and an initialed fake certificate – I headed over to my folks’ house to tell my mother all about the Miracle on Ashley Street.
“Now Mom, I really need to tell you this story, but it might be hard for you to hear all of it, so just hang with me to the end, and I think you’ll be okay, okay?”
She was dead quiet — expressionless — the whole way through. With every Fuck that came out of my mouth, I got more nervous, a little sweaty. I don’t remember that it had ever taken this long to tell that story. When I finally got to the end, I handed her the certificate. She held it her hands for a good long time.
Then she looked up at me and said, “Well. It seems to me that that is a story about kindness.”
Then she winked, “And you got a certificate!”
See what I mean?
Happy Mother’s Day, Mama. I miss you.
Please read this part, too!
Some Guy Says is written by Robert Arleigh White and distributed via Substack twice a month…give or take.
Special thanks to Canetha Dodd for editorial support and to Lauren Fincham for content support, encouragement, validation and verification!
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