What would Junie B. Jones do? by Barry Rachin (red seas under red skies txt) 📕

the nineteen eighties. Although, I suppose that was a little before your time." He removed the bracelet and draped it across his knee. "It's 10K, yellow gold Cuban Link."
"You made it?"
"Cuban link, that's the design pattern… the style." He pointed toward the center of a strand. "I used a four-millimeter, rope pattern with a hand-crafted lobster clasp." Mr. Jacobson returned the bracelet to his emaciated wrist then held the metal up to the bright sunlight. "Pretty snazzy, huh?"
"Yeah, sure is a swell bracelet.
"You and twelve thousand eight hundred and fifty-three people shared the same sentiments."
"What's that?" Benjamin was pointing at the man's hairy chest.
Mr. Jacobson reached up with a gaunt hand and fingered a gold chain. Several alternating circular links were coupled with a longer oval section to produce a very masculine braid. "Now this charming bit of artisanship is a Figarucci. The design combines elements of both the Figaro and mariner-style."
"No, not the chain," Benjamin brought the elderly man up short. "The star."
He tapped a six-pointed Star of David. "I'm Jewish. It's the symbol of our faith."
"I know. My mother told me."
"Religions… they're all the same," Mr. Jacobson rambled on in his easy, distractible manner. “One faith is as good as another as long as the believer’s heart is true.” He gathered up the orange rinds and tossed them in a nearby trash can. “Rabbi David Ben Azai said something to that effect back in the eighth century, shortly after the Moslem invasion. But you don't have to be a Jewish scholar steeped in esoterica or eschatological gobbledygook to appreciate the basic sentiment."
Benjamin had no idea what his neighbor was talking about but it was pleasant listening. Mr. Jacobson's singsong voice seemed to build with subdued intensity and conviction. No matter that the boy understood nothing his neighbor was telling him. The older man had taken him into his confidence; now a pact, a sympathetic communion existed. "Do you know," the man reached out and tapped the boy forcefully on the kneecap, "in the Talmud it is written that every blade of grass has an angel that hovers over it and whispers 'Grow!' 'Grow!'"
Calling the outfielders in, the Little League manager was stowing the batting gear and catcher's equipment in a canvass duffle bag. Huddled around home plate the team was receiving final instructions from one of the assistant coaches. "Grass angels?" Benjamin repeated.
The old man nodded soberly. Well that was something Benjamin could appreciate. As scatterbrained as she was, Junie B. Jones would also have cherished the notion of tiny, winged sprites flitting about the baseball diamond assisting with lawn care. "Here, let me show you." Mr. Jacobson stood up on rickety legs and hobbled over to the third base coach's box where he dropped down on his knees. "Come on, little fellahs… grow, grow, grow!" He waved his arms in a supplicating gesture and raised his eyes heavenward, invoking a celestial power.
Caught up in the silliness, Benjamin threw himself down on the ground, beseeching the grass in a shrill, high-pitched voice. Mr. Jacobson, who seemed a bit winded, staggered to his feet. He went back to the bench, pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose rather loudly. "Growing grass… it's an incremental, cumulative process. No need to rush the miraculous."
In all the time he had been talking with Mr. Jacobson, Benjamin had totally forgotten about Mitzi Brookfield. He glanced over his shoulder. The flabby girl was glowering at him, her wide jaw set in bristling rage. "You can invite you friend over, if you like," Mr. Jacobson offered.
"She's not my friend," Benjamin clarified. "She's a perfectly horrid creature."
"Oh, well then… "Mr. Jacobson didn't bother to finish his thoughts. Reaching out he shook Benjamin's hand. The 10K yellow gold, Cuban link bracelet flashed in the midday sun. "I got to go now." The man nodded cordially and reached for his newspaper.
After he was gone, Benjamin turned around and scanned the athletic field. Mitzi Brookfield was nowhere to be found. After scouting about for the brazen girl so he could triumphantly rub her nose in the dirt, Benjamin hurried home and told his mother about Mr. Jacobson. "I’m glad you had a nice time." She went downstairs to throw a load of laundry into the washer. Perhaps the strangest thing of all was the fact that, once they got to talking, Benjamin longer noticed the man's grubby appearance. Or maybe Mr. Jacobson wasn't so much unkempt as simply old and used up.


Later in the afternoon Officer Murphy drove down the street and waved to Benjamin out the window of the police cruiser. Officer Murphy was a tall man with a prominent, beaky nose. Sometimes he pulled over and chatted with the neighbors, but most days he just drove to the end of the cul-de-sac, turned around and headed back to the main street at a crawl. Earlier in the week he pulled the car over at the mouth of Bickford Street and got out his radar gun. "Whatcha doing?" Benjamin asked.
"Looking for people in a hurry to go nowhere fast." The officer winked and aimed his gun down the street in the direction of oncoming traffic. He seldom stayed longer than an hour or so. Then he packed up his hi-tech gadgetry and drove away. Today though, ten minutes passed and Officer Murphy's cruiser never reappeared. Benjamin pedaled his dirt bike to the bend in the road where a small crowd had gathered. The cruiser was parked in front of Mr. Jacobson's bungalow, and the Jewish man who designed Super Bowl rings was sitting in the back of the police cruiser. Normally easygoing and unperturbed, Officer Murphy wore a sullen expression as he climbed into the car, barked something into the two-way radio and drove slowly away.
"What happened?" Benjamin asked.
"They arrested the old geezer," a teenage boy with an unmanageable case of acne replied.
"What for?"
The youth shrugged. "Who the hell knows?"
Benjamin hurried home and told his mother what had happened. She was outside hanging delicate items on the clothesline. Mrs. Carter fixed a clothespin on the tail of a pleated blouse. "Tell me one more time what happened at the athletic field today." Benjamin told his mother about Mitzi Brookfield's dare and his conversation with the old man. "Every blade of grass has an angel," she repeated, staring out beyond the pussy willows covered with furry yellow catkins bordering the property. "Do you need to pee?" Benjamin shook his head. She threw a handful of wet clothing back in the wicker laundry basket and headed back in the direction of the rear deck. "Get your jacket. We're going for a little ride."

* * * * *

"I need to speak to the chief," Lillian Carter demanded. At the Brandenberg Police Station, Benjamin sat on a chair near a corkboard with a collection of black and white photos of grubby looking men and a handful of equally uncouth females, while his mother spoke to the officer manning the front desk. After a brief exchange, Mrs. Carter disappeared down a hallway into an adjoining room. Ten minutes later she returned and sat down on the chair next to him. Benjamin looked at his mother. She was studying the collection of mug shots stapled to the corkboard. Another few minutes passed in silence. "What are we doing?"
"Waiting," Mrs. Carter replied.
“For what?"
"For Mr. Jacobson to collect his belongings and join us here in the lobby." Another five minutes passed. Benjamin had lost all interest in the unflattering photos. There were too many and, after a while, they all looked the same. Not that the felons looked alike. There were Hispanics, Negroes, a couple of Asians and a still larger collection of white faces - an army of lost souls. Lost and clueless. Finally, Mr. Jacobson appeared in the hallway and came out to join them.
"Hey, I know you!" He ran his bony fingers through Benjamin's hair and flashed a good-natured smile.
"Let's get out of here." Mrs. Carter muttered. Benjamin took one last look at the cork board. Was the Brandenberg Police Department planning to put Mr. Jacobson's picture up on the board of shame? And, if so, would he be allowed to wear the Cuban link bracelet and Figarucci chain?
On the ride home the boy sat in the back. "You could sue the family for libel," Mrs. Carter spoke without taking her eyes off the road. "Character assassination."
"At my age?" Mrs. Jacobson laughed making a dry cackling sound. He didn't seem angry in the least. "That Officer Murphy's a nice guy. I don't think he realized…" The old man didn't bother finishing the sentence.
"Yes," Mrs. Carter agreed, "he just got caught in the middle." Benjamin was still trying to figure out what exactly Officer Murphy didn’t realize and why, as they were leaving the police station, he came out in the parking lot and apologized to the older man.

After dropping Mr. Jacobson off, Mrs. Carter swiveled in her seat to face her son. "How’re you doing?"
"Good," Benjamin replied. Their neighbor, who worked at Balfour Jewelry for thirty-three years, was arrested but then, just as quickly, released and sent home. Officer Murphy and Mr. Jacobson were back on friendly terms. Everything was returning to normal.
Mrs. Carter pulled the car over to the side of the road and slid the shift in park. She sat staring at the dashboard for several minutes. When another car pulled up behind her, the woman promptly rolled the window down and waved the driver past. From where he was sitting in the backseat, Benjamin could see the right side of his mother's face. Walled up in some private reverie, the hazel eye never blinked. "What's wrong?" he finally asked.
"Mitzi got Mr. Jacobson in trouble." His mother spoke so softly, he could barely make out the words. "For no good reason… from shear spitefulness."
"Yes, I figured as much." Benjamin felt a wave of despair. The boy thought he got the better of the obnoxious troll when he shambled over to Mr. Jacobson on Mitzi's dare, but that only heightened her vindictiveness. Benjamin could picture the slobby girl grinning with orgasmic glee when she learned of Mr. Jacobson's arrest. Normal people didn't revel in other people's misery, but Mitzi Singleton was an eight year old grotesque - a sadistic monstrosity through and through. "What now?"
Mrs. Carter ran a tongue over her lips. "I'm wondering what Junie B. Jones might do in a similar situation."
It was the same question that came to mind when Mitzi goaded him at the baseball field. "Junie's just a stupid kid," Benjamin shot back. "She can just barely tie her shoe laces much less solve the world's problems."
"A grownup Junie B. Jones," Mrs. Carter amended her previous remark. "How would she handle preadolescent crimes against humanity?"
Benjamin didn't like where this was going. The trip to the police station was bad enough, but falling back on a fictional character from a children's book series as a role model didn't seem like such a great idea. "Junie does lots of dumb things."
"Yeah," his mother replied, "but they always turn out right in the end."
"I suppose so," Benjamin mumbled half-heartedly.
Mrs. Carter put the car back in gear. "One last bit of unfinished business." She drove to the end of the cul-de-sac and turned the car around. Three streets down, she pulled over in front of a blue house with white shutters. "This won't take long."
Wowie wow wow! That's a hoot, I tell you. Wait till you hear this! Junie B Jones had a dozen and one nifty catchphrases, but none could adequately describe what Benjamin's mother did over at the Brookfields. Mrs. Carter rang the doorbell.