Michael Lister - Power in the Blood

“Okay.”

“Okay what, Caveman? Try to form a complete sentence.”

“Okay, we can go out. Saturday morning I have to go to Tallahassee. You can come along, and we’ll make a day of it.”

“Doing what?” she asked.

“Whatever. I’ll surprise you. It’ll be fun, I assure you.”

“Okay.”

“What was that, Cavewoman?”

“Okay, I’ll go. I mean how bad could it be. It’s just one day, right?”

“Where do I pick you up?”

“Are you going to the jamboree tonight? You were the jamboree king back in the olden days when you were in school, weren’t you?”

“Yes, I’m going. Yes, I was king. No, it was not the olden days.”

“Then find me at the game, and I’ll tell you where to pick me up. Besides, if you’ll wear something besides that little priest’s outfit, I might let you help me chaperone my little sister’s jamboree jam dance. And if you are really right with God, you might even get to dance with me. Does he allow you to dance?”

“God?” I asked.

She nodded her head.

“Since he, or she, as a friend of mine would say, is the Lord of the dance, I do not see how he or she could object to me doing it.”

“She, huh? I’ve got to meet this friend of yours. And, here’s to a dancing God,” she said and held her hand up in a mock toast.

And then she got into her one-ton truck and drove away. And I stood there and tried to catch my breath.

It is the chief paradox of Florida that the south part of the state resembles the north part of the country and the north part of the state resembles the south part of the country.

There are two Floridas actually-both of them like LA The first one, the one that most people are familiar with, is the Miami Vice Florida, filled with bikinis, billionaires, and bars. It’s like Los Angeles because of its beautiful beaches and beautiful people, all of whom live the jet-set lifestyle. It is a glamorous place where the women look like models and the men like movie stars.

The second Florida, the one most people drive through on their way to the first, is quite different. It is a Florida much like LA also, just a different LA-Lower Alabama. It is a Florida of pickup trucks with gun racks, house trailers with cars on blocks in the yard, and night spots named Bubba’s. It is a rural Florida where segregation still exists and the black people are relegated to live in a part of town called the Quarters. It is a Florida virtually unknown to tourists.

Pottersville was a part of Gloria Jahoda’s Other Florida , a rural town much like those of South Georgia and Alabama. Wealthy and well-educated people resided in Pottersville, just not very many. Many of its citizens were interested in having just enough money so they could buy beer and bait. They hunted, fished, and got drunk simply because it was Friday. In this town many people preferred not to wear shoes and usually didn’t. Some called black people niggers, and many survived on government checks, and, lest you forget, all of this took place on the verge of the twenty-first century.

Pottersville had other sorts as well; they were just not as colorful. They were hardworking people who were the salt of the earth.

They looked out for each other’s homes, farms, and kids. They went camping and to church and to family reunions-all on a regular basis. They ate fried chicken, homemade biscuits, and fresh vegetables- the latter from their own gardens or a neighbor’s. They called the women, including their own wives “Miss,” as in “Miss Julie.” They obeyed the laws of the land-the important ones anyway, and they believed in God and his son, Jesus Christ, both of whom were assumed to be Southern gentlemen.

In a place like Pottersville, where there was not a lot to do, a Friday night high school football game was a social event, and if it were the July jamboree game, it was the social event of the year. Why football in the summer? It was Pottersville. Every other game was played in the fall, but the July Jamboree was reserved for the early summer to correspond with the other celebrated annual event-the Pottersville Possum Festival.

People poured into the gate of the football field with excitement and enthusiasm. Pottersville was a town with a lot of energy. It was by no means a retirement community like the ones taking over South Florida. Who would come to Pottersville to retire? Not even the heat could take the energy out of the air. Walking up to the gate, I could hear the band playing a popular song. I recognized the tune but couldn’t think of the name.

When I walked inside the gate, Merrill was standing there waiting for me. His clothes matched his skin tone-midnight. He wore black tailored slacks with a thin white pinstripe, black-and-white wing tip shoes, and a black collarless long-sleeve shirt.

“Wha’s up?” he said when I reached him.

“Jam, Bro,” I said, looking around at all the people buzzing around like fireflies in the night sky.

People swarmed around everywhere. They lined the fence around the field; they stood in line at the concession stand and sat in the bleachers. Cheerleaders roamed around selling programs and blueand-white shakers. The two teams were on opposite ends of the field warming up.

“I think the entire town is here tonight,” he said.

In stark contrast to Merrill’s cat-burglar ensemble, I wore Levi’s 550 stone-washed, straight-leg jeans, leather deck shoes with no socks, and a white collarless long-sleeve shirt. We looked like day and night.

As we approached the home bleachers, Merrill extracted a quarter from his pocket. “Heads or tails?” he asked.

“Tails,” I said.

Merrill flipped the coin into the air, caught it with his right palm, and slapped it on down on his left.

“Tails,” he said, “you win. What will it be, eighty or twenty?”

For as long as I could remember, the bleachers had been divided up into eighty-twenty. The first eighty percent was the unofficial white section, and the last twenty was the unofficial black section. Merrill and I, when we came to the games at all, always sat together, which meant that one of us would be in the minority. I won, so tonight I got to call it.

“Twenty,” I said. “Let’s sit with the colored folk.”

“We be honored to have you, missa’ Jordan. You a important man, suh.”

We walked along the narrow sidewalk at the front of the bleachers past the white section, where a few people spoke to us, down to the black section, where a few more people spoke to us.

We sat by a heavy black woman whom everybody called Miss Tanya. She said, “Boys, how y’all doin’ tonight?”

“Just fine, Miss Tanya. How are you?” I said.

“Honey,” she said in about five syllables, “I am so blessed. God is so good. ’Course you know that. You still preachin’?”

She asked me that every time she saw me, like she expected me to quit at any minute. “Yes, ma’am,” I said.

“Oh, honey, I’m so proud of you.”

“Thank you.”

“Mer Mer,” she said to Merrill, “how is school coming along?”

“Slow. I figure to be finished about the time Jesus comes back.”

“Well, you hang in there shuga’. You makin’ us all so proud. When I win the lottery, I gonna finish payin’ for you schoolin’.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said patronizingly.

When the game started, Miss Tanya yelled, “Come on, Tigers. Kick some butt!” Her whole body, all three hundred pounds, bounced up and down as she yelled.

Miss Tanya continued to talk to us and to the players throughout the first quarter. Mer Mer and I were quiet-he watching the game, I looking for Laura.

Near the end of the second quarter I spotted her. She was on the other side of the field helping the jamboree court prepare for it’s halftime program.