Joan Pickart - Just My Joe

She’d heard of south Tucson, of course, but she’d never had any reason to come into this area. It had a reputation of a high crime rate, gangs on the prowl and danger. Now that she was there, she most definitely wished that she wasn’t.

She glanced quickly at the map drawn on a piece of paper next to her on the seat, then began to look for street signs, many of which were missing from the metal poles.

With a sigh of relief, Polly found the street she was seeking and turned right, the map indicating that she should go five blocks to reach her destination.

A cloud settled over the sun, dropping a gray curtain on the area and emphasizing the dreary aura of the residential neighborhood she was now driving through. The houses were small, some exhibiting an attempt at pride of ownership, others seeming to shout the message of a total lack of caring.

Polly shivered, partly from the cool temperature of the overcast November day, and partly from a sense of struggle and despair that seemed to be sifting into the van and touching her with chilling fingers.

“Call the cops,” Jazzy squawked.

“No, not the cops, Jazzy,” Polly said quietly. “What’s needed here is whole platoon of guardian angels, or fairy godmothers with magic wands.”

“Silly girl,” Jazzy said. “Silly girl.”

“Thanks a lot,” Polly said, shooting the macaw a dark glare. “I don’t know why I bother to try to have a conversation with you. You’re just so opinionated and judgmental.”

“Fix some soup,” Jazzy said.

“And sexist,” Polly added. “Fix your own dumb soup. I’m not your maid.” She shook her head. “Why am I talking to this bird? Just shut up, Polly Chapman.”

“Polly want a cracker?” Jazzy said.

“That,” she said, “is not funny. I could wring Robert’s neck for teaching you to say that.”

“Polly want a cracker?”

“No!”

Polly slowed her speed, pressed on the brake, then leaned forward for a better look, as she realized she’d found what she was searching for.

“Abraham Lincoln High School,” she said aloud. “Grim, very grim.”

The four-story building was obviously ancient, the red bricks crumbling at the corners and the windows having a strange yellow cast to them. There was another structure that appeared newer; it was to the right and behind the main building. The sign on the second, one-story creation announced that it was the Multipurpose Building.

“That’s where we’re headed, Jazzy,” Polly said. “We’re among the multipurpose rank and file today. Now to find somewhere to park.”

It was another two blocks before Polly discovered a tight-squeeze parking place on the street. She twisted the rearview mirror to check her appearance.

That’s as good as it gets, she thought. She was twenty-four years old and still got carded in bars. Nothing she tried made her look any older.

Her short, naturally curly blond hair, blue eyes and the dusting of freckles across her nose combined into a face that caused her to prove her true age time and again.

“Oh, well,” she mused, with a shrug, “look at the bright side. I’ll be the envy of the masses when I’m forty and look thirty. Right, Jazzy?”

“Right, Jazzy,” the macaw repeated.

“Write that down. You actually agreed with something I said.” Polly paused. “Well, let’s trudge back to Abraham Lincoln High School. Duty calls.”

“Show biz,” Jazzy said. “Show biz.”

“Whatever,” Polly muttered.

Joe Dillon stood at one end of the Multipurpose Building, a clipboard in his hand. He was oblivious to the high volume of noise created by five hundred students talking and laughing. An army sergeant in full uniform stood in front of Joe.

“Okay,” Joe said, making a check mark on the paper attached to the clipboard. “We appreciate your coming to career day, Sergeant. Just have a seat on one of those folding chairs behind the table.”

The sergeant nodded and walked away.

“How are we doing, Joe?”

Joe turned to see the principal of the school. Mark Jackson was in his mid-fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair and more wrinkles on his weary face than his age indicated. He was much shorter than Joe’s six feet, but Joe knew from experience that Mark was physically stronger than he appeared.

The two men not only worked together, they liked and respected each other. They were friends.

“Everyone is here except Dr. Robert Dogwood, the veterinarian. Dogwood? Do you suppose that’s his real name?”

Mark chuckled. “Who knows? Clara and I hired a baby-sitter once whose name was Ima Nanny. She swore that was what her mother christened her. I take it you’ve never met Dr. Dogwood?”

Joe shook his head. “No, I just started with A in the yellow pages of the telephone book under Veterinarians, and hit it lucky when I got to Dogwood. People in general aren’t real excited about coming into this part of town.”

“True,” Mark said, “and I don’t blame them.”

“Well, let’s give the vet five more minutes to show up,” Joe said. “If he doesn’t make an appearance by then, we’ll start without him. The troops are getting restless.”

Mark swept his gaze over the crowded bleachers.

“I hope they listen,” he said. “I want them to realize there’s a way out of this part of town. If they’d just buckle down and study, choose a career goal, have a dream, a...” Mark sighed. “Well, this is our first attempt at a career day. There’s no telling how it will be received by the students.”

“Nope,” Joe said, smiling. “There’s no secondguessing these guys, Mark. That’s just one of the things that makes teaching at Lincoln so...shall we say...challenging?”

Mark laughed. “That’s a polite word for it But you and I sign new contracts every year. We’re either dedicated, or dumb.” His smile faded. “Who am I kidding? We belong here, honestly believe we might make a difference, reach a few of these frustrated, angry kids.”

“Yep,” Joe said, nodding. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m in for the long haul.”

“And I’m grateful for that,” Mark said. “I’d hate to be doing this without you on my staff.”

“Don’t get mushy on me, Mark.” Joe glanced toward the door at the other end of the building. “Well, Dr. Dogwood is a no-show, I guess. So, let the games begin.”

“All right I’ll quiet the inmates down, then turn the microphone over to you, since you’re the one who coordinated the whole thing.”

“Go for it,” Joe said, then watched the principal walk away.

Mark was a good man, he thought. He’d grown up in a neighborhood like this one in Detroit, understood these students and what they were up against. He and his family lived in a nice home on the northwest side, but Mark was dedicated to helping these kids, would stay at Lincoln until he retired.

Joe swept his gaze over the noisy crowd.

And Joe Dillon? he mused. He came from a far different upbringing. His family was wealthy and he’d had every materialistic whim met and then some. He’d taken it all for granted. He wanted it, he got it, no questions asked, and the image of it all in his mind made him cringe.

Ten years ago he’d decided it was payback time. He’d walked away from the world of money, except for the occasional appearances at megabucks events to keep his parents happy.

He worked in the ghetto. Lived in the ghetto. Breathed the air in the ghetto. It was the only way to really relate to these kids, be the kind of teacher he was determined to be. He lacked Mark’s firsthand knowledge of this life, but he was making up for it in his own way.

Sacrifices? Joe mentally wandered on. Yeah, sure, he’d made sacrifices. The biggest one, he supposed, was the fact that he would never marry and have a family. He couldn’t ask a wife and children to live down here and he had every intention of staying. So be it.