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21
JAK. “Jak, you’s one lyin’ ass motherfucker. ‘Scuse the language Miss Karter. Jak told me you was pretty. What he went on and failed to tell me was that you defined the word. Lord have mercy woman, you make everything around you ugly as a motherfucker,” Oscar said as he walked across the shop floor.
Oscar was simply Oscar. He had his way of speaking, thinking, and of telling his stories. After repeated requests to meet Karter, I finally decided to bring her to the school and introduce her to him. School had started and was in session, so I hadn’t been coming to the track to run any longer. My trips to see Oscar, however, never ceased.
Karter cocked her hip to the side as if offended, “What do you mean?”
Oscar stopped directly in front of her an extended his hand. Karter reluctantly reached for his. As they shook hands, Oscar explained.
“Well, look around you, Miss Karter. You see Jak’s ugly ass and me. Some old black man. I got my golf cart, and a bunch a broken ass shit in here. We gots a few trees out the door over there, and some grass. That’s about all we got. A little blue sky if you take the time to look up. But when you walk into a room,” he paused and released her hand.
“Whoooooeeeeeee. Things change. You’s so God damned beautiful, you make everything else what seemed kinda pretty before you arrived look about as ugly as a mud fence in your presence. I don’t rightly know how else to tell ya. But you uhhm. You, how you say it, Jak?” he paused and raised his hand to his chin.
“You redefine the word, Miss Karter. That’s the one I was lookin’ for. Redefine. You redefine beautiful,” he nodded.
Karter smiled and shook her head. As if she finally understood what Oscar had said wasn’t an insult, she sighed and her shoulders slumped slightly, “You’re not ugly, and neither is Jak. Pleasure to meet you, Oscar.”
“We’s a damned site uglier with you around. Hold on I gots to get me somethin’ from my bench,” he said as he turned toward the workbench.
After a moment of digging, Oscar turned around. He was wearing welding goggles. The goggles he wore looked like World War II era fighter pilot goggles with black hinged outer lenses. The outer lenses were flipped in the upward position, exposing the inner clear lenses. After walking to his former position in front of Karter, he flipped down the black lenses and looked downward. Having welded in the Navy, I knew Oscar could not see a damned thing with the welding goggles on. Without the bright flash of a welding arc, the lenses would be like attempting to look through a piece of glass which had been painted black. I thought I knew what he was going to say, but I kept my mouth shut. Karter seemed amused if nothing else.
“Sorry, Miss Karter. I had to go an’ get my goggles on so I could look at the ring. Damned thing almost made me blind. She’s a dandy, Miss Karter,” as he finished speaking, he whistled.
Oscar looked upward and flipped the outer lenses up as he did. Now standing in front of Karter with the goggles still on, he smiled. His bleach white teeth were in clear contrast to everything about him. He was one of a kind for sure. Karter looked around the shop as Oscar turned toward me and winked.
“So what do you do in here all day?” Karter asked.
“Hide from the man and try an’ look busy,” he grinned.
Karter nodded her head, “Who’s the man?”
“Well I suppose he’s different for all of us. For me, he’s the school superintendent. Least while I’m here. Sometimes the man is the police. Or the gov’ment. Could be the president, I suppose. But right now, he’s the superintendent,” he responded.
With Karter and Oscar standing in the center of the small shop, I slowly walked to the golf cart and sat down to watch the show. It appeared Karter was becoming comfortable with Oscar and enjoyed listening to him. He was an easy man to like, and fairly entertaining to listen to.
Karter nodded her head, “Whoever’s in charge.”
Oscar shook his head, “No ma’am. I don’t mind a man in charge. Hell, we all can’t be the boss man. We’d have us a fucked up world with a bunch of Chiefs and no Indians. No ma’am. But if a man’s in charge, and he’s always tryin’ to keep the people around him down, and never smiles at ‘em or never tells ‘em they’s doin’ good; if he tries to beat ‘em down mentally or ‘motionally then he’s the man.”
Karter pushed her hands into the rear pockets of her jeans shorts, swiveled her hips, and smiled, “People with mustaches.”
Oscar reached up and removed his goggles. As they dangled from his hand, he scrunched his brow, “You got me there, Miss Karter. What you mean by that?”
“People with mustaches are the man. The Unabomber. Stalin. Saddam Hussein. Hitler. And most cops,” she giggled.
Oscar erupted with laughter and turned to face me, “Jak this girl’s on fire. Damn, I like you, Miss Karter. People with mustaches. Yes ma’am, they’s the man fo’ sho’.”
Oscar slapped his knee, “Mustaches. That crazy ass white boy what was eatin’ them gays. You remember, Jak? He was cuttin’ ‘em up and keepin ‘em in the freezer. He had a mustache. Was uhhm…”
“Dahmer. Jeffrey Dahmer. He had a mustache. And so did that Mo…” he turned to face me and grinned.
“Ol’ Gaddafi. From Libya. He had him one too. Miss Karter, you’s right as rain. Men with mustaches is the man,” he laughed.
As if satisfied she made a friend, Karter rocked back and forth on her feet with her hands still resting in her rear pockets. Seeing her stand in this fashion made me recall the day we talked about sex for the first time. No differently than the rest of us, she had her tell-tale signs. This was certainly one of them. She did it when she wanted to make herself comfortable with something she initially found not so comfortable. Whatever the reason, she was adorable when she did it.
“So when’s the date? When you gettin’ hitched?” Oscar asked.
Karter shrugged and smiled, “Sometime in June.”
