“We sisters! We sisters!”

Late one afternoon, I was waiting for the south bus at the main stop downtown. This was about a year before they moved all of the stops to the new bus “shelter” at the other end of downtown. As I recall, it was mid-fall and chilly. I stood shivering hoping my bus would pull up soon. I looked to my left down the busy street in anticipation. I then noticed about three feet to my immediate left, a woman of about 35 years. She was tall; maybe 5’10” and nicely dressed. Yeah, I guess she would be considered very attractive by most with angular features. I stared ahead again, I did not want to stare at the woman. Bored, my eyes wandered across the street and up and down, landing on a young woman of maybe 25 years, standing roughly three feet to my right. The very peculiar thing is she looked just like the woman to my left, only 3 or 4 inches shorter. I casually looked again to my left and then to my right and back again and again. Weird, except for the height, they could be twins. At one point, the woman to my left was leaning forward looking beyond me at the younger woman. I looked at the woman to my left curiously wondering what her fascination with the other woman was. Yes, she looked like her but… It was at this point that the woman to my left stepped in front of me and approached the woman to my right. “Is your daddy, Jimmy Ray?” she asked the younger woman. “Yeah, he my daddy” the younger woman responded. Over-joyed the older off the two almost shouted “We sisters! We sisters! He my daddy too.”

I smiled too, I like seeing people happy. You could literally have knocked me over with a feather. They seems so happy, yet so casual, as if they both discovered they had the same model of iPhone or something. The younger woman, in fact did not seem surprised at all, she seemed pleasant and delighted, but not surprised. “You know there’s 38 of us, don’t you?” the older asked. It took a second or two for my head to make sense of her question. Thirty-eight what’s? …I got it. I became momentarily comatose as they bantered the names of their mutual siblings, as if they were distant cousins from opposite sides of the country. They both gleamed and seemed genuinely pleased to make each other’s acquaintance. As I zoned in and out, still unable to get past the number 38. I heard something about Jimmy Ray working at a local funeral home. This might be a clue as to who daddy was. The entire ride home, I was bothered by this. Who the heck has 38 children? I thought that being a mortician was a good business to support them all. I knew from a recent article I had read that the minimum cost to raise a child to age 18 is currently, $235,000. Let’s see, 38 X $235,000 = $8,930,000.00.

I spent the evening obsessing over that $9 million figure. I remembered that a cousin is an unofficial historian of the community, some might say gossip. If she did not know all there was to know of Jimmy Ray and his antics and issue, no one would. I telephoned her and received immediate confirmation. Yes, he has nearly forty children. He is also nearly 80 years of age now and is not now nor has he ever been a mortician. He is paid per “show” and puts the little funeral flags on cars and directs the traffic; lining up of cars for funerals. We estimated that he receives roughly $50.00 per show. This has been Jimmy Ray’s vocation for 3 or 4 decades, I am told. Boggles the mind. He wouldn't be able to take care of himself on $50-$150. A week yet, I also learned that the man was a bit of an impeccable dandy. Perhaps, the many baby mamas helped to support him? I understood the number to be 30. Not, to judge, but it all hurts my head and heart. Sometimes, I think we are too free in this country. Nearly forty children and at the height of your career you make less than minimum wage?

The story made me wonder further about the financing of all these children’s lives. I did not believe I was being unfair to assume that the 30 baby mamas were not heiresses regardless of how dapper Jimmy Ray was or is. I imagined them all to be poor and uneducated. Who would have this man’s child when in such a small town everyone other than myself knew that all his ex’s were indeed there and not in Texas. What I mean is that all of these people live in the same small gossipy town. People talk and it seems obvious to me that there must have been plenty of chatter about this prolific baby daddy. I don’t see how in a small town (actually a small city) his reputation had not preceded him? They have to have known and simply not cared, I suppose?

Maybe, I am being judgmental and or unfair, but I further surmised that at some point in all 38 children’s lives, they needed and received support from the county to survive. Therefore, I might suggest that the kind people of the United States of America footed all or part of that $9,000,000? That works out to roughly $250. per month per child. Certainly not a huge amount and probably not enough and certainly not their fault, but geez!

*Names and places and other stuff was changed here to protect the "innocent".

The Jacket

Somewhere around last Thanksgiving, I found a great waist length ski jacket. It was by the designer Perry Ellis and was down. As well, it was well made and reversed from the black and forest green I usually wore to a complete solid forest green. The elastic gathers at the wrists and waist kept the wind out and the down help me remain toasty even at the minus-twenty mornings we have woken up to this winter. In a very short time that jacket has become as dependable and reliable as an old friend.

This morning I awoke to chilly temperatures of 26°F with a bit of wind. I could feel the chill on my chest. I immediately zipped the jacket up to my chin. Finding that somewhat restrictive, it was my first thought to pull the zipper a bit downward. The second I touched the head of the zipper, the pull tab fell off along with part of the piece that it was attached to. I tried carefully to hold the jagged remainder of the pull while yanking downward. Nothing. I could not get it to budge. It pulled upward about another half inch and froze there. At that point, it would not go up or down. I worked at trying to open the zipper for at least an hour and a half. I was starting to freak a little. Because I had pulled the thing up so far, it was impossible to wiggle my arms free and pull it over my head. I thought that if the jacket started to shrink, then there would have been the makings of a great The Twilight Zone episode. At any rate it did not shrink, but I still could not get out of the jacket.

As time wore on (pun intended), I asked a maintenance man if he could help. I thought that maybe he had pliers, which he did and other than make me fearful that he would slip and stab me with them, he had no luck with the zipper as well. He gripped the remaining piece of the pull thingy and tried to work it back and forth, but he got nowhere.

So, now I am sweating, a lot and not a lot. It has been over three hours since I originally zipped up “The Uniform of Death”. I was getting panicky and the jacket also felt warmer and also tighter. I was sitting struggling and hoping that I could get it to work. I was so freaked and frustrated that I was wondering if there was a patron saint for broken things or stuff that won’t work right. I could think of none. I kind of giggled when I thought that maybe St. Anthony, the patron saint of lost things would intercede and help me find my mind. I was desperate. In addition, to the point in fact that I hearted that jacket and found it perfect for my needs, the weather was in transition. The next day there would be a high temperature in the mid-fifties and with the rain and chill, it might be half that warm during the night. The weather will probably rollercoaster for another week before we have temps in the mid-60’s during the day and high forties during the night. The jacket is the only one that I have to get me to real spring. I have a lined pullover anorak, which is okay as long as it doesn’t rain (the arms are not lined. With rain, I feel as if I am wearing nothing. I know “then I met a man with no jacket at all”. Nevertheless, at 4 ½ hours it became clear that my efforts were in vain, the jacket could not be saved.

I went back and found the maintenance man and asked if he could cut me out of the thing. But first, like superman exposing his S, I grabbed a fist full of jacket chest on each side and gave a great tug. Nothing. I then squinted and closed my left eye tightly (I don’t know why) as I listened to the metal scraping against metal sound get closer to my face. I heard the man say “okay, that should do it.” I was all sorts of sad and relieved as I removed the jacket. I thanked the man or I didn’t, I don’t remember. What I do remember is wadding the jacket up and tossing it in a nearby trash can.

“Friggin’ Monday” I shouted.