Mister… Under The Tree

“Mister you comin’ home now?”

Charles Hill aka Mister stopped in mid sentence and looked back over his shoulder at his loving wife of forty-two years.

“No, I didn’t plan on it.”

Mrs. Hill tried her best not to show her frustration at her husband’s stubbornness.

“Well it’s time for supper. Everybody’s finna sit down to the table. You gonna let everybody’s food get cold?”

Mister smirked at his wife, looked across the card table and shook his head at his friends before answering her.

“No you gonna let everybody’s food get cold. Now get on home and serve it to ‘em while it’s still hot. Oh, and tell everybody I said hey.”

Without stating another word Sheryl Hill turned around and walked back up the road to meet her disappointed family at the dinner table. The men around the card table shared a laugh then went back to tellin’ stories, fables and lies. Mister would much rather spend his days under the Tree with his buddies swappin’ tales than to be home sober with his wife and family. Under the tree the shine poured and the smoke flowed through the air. Cards were dealt and dominos were slammed on the flimsy card table the old men all sat around.

Most days if you wanted to speak with Mr. Charles Hill that’s where you would find him, sittin’ up under the Tree. When there was an important event he needed to attend Sheryl would actually drag him from the corner to the house. She would even use a switch if she had to. Oh how the fellas on the corner would howl when Mister was getting’ a whopin’! Mrs. Hill would drag him home, feed him, clean him up and dress him in fine clothes. Mister would be made to uphold his family or social obligation and he may even stay in character for a few days. After days of sleeping in his own bed, eating at the family table and spending quantity quality time with his wife, Mister would get a yearning for the Tree.

He would ease out the side door of the house and trudge through the warm Florida sand towards the Tree where his audience awaited him. Cheers could be heard up and down the road as they greeted their most celebrated story teller.

“What ya say there boys? Y’all miss me?”

His best buddy Scooby would always offer the first sip of moonshine.

“Yeah Mister. Sit on down here and getcha a nip.”

“I think I will.”

Mister patted his buddy on the shoulder and sat down next to his pal. Toast up and then down his hooch. Mrs. Hill would look down the road and just shake her head at her wayward husband. After several minutes of watching from a far she would eventually close her kitchen curtain and go back to tending to her family. Patiently she would wait until the opportunity arose for her to drag Mister back home again.

In his seventy-first year Charles Hill fell ill under that Tree. It started off with just a little cough and a sniffle. Despite his failing health, the stubborn man didn’t take to the house for treatment. Some of the old men who frequented the Tree but were good enough to go home to their wives from time to time, shared his plight with their spouses. After church one Sunday, some of these compassionate women told Mrs. Hill of their concerns for Mister. That day, after taking off her Sunday best and putting on her favorite house dress, Sheryl Hill walked down to the Tree to retrieve her old man.

“Mister. Mister! Come form under that Tree so I can tend to ya sickness now.”

He waved his hand at her and turned back to his jar.

“Mister I said come on here now and getcha treatment.”

She snatched the now frail man up from his seat and helped him to stand tall. He shook loose once he was stable. She simply pointed towards the house. He frowned back. She smacked him up side the head then pointed again. He turned homeward and shuffled along. She gave him a light shove behind his right shoulder to quicken his pace.

Once home she bathed him, fed him and laid him down to bed. Slumber came easy, for his body was tired and trying to fight off sickness. The next day a doctor’s appointment was made and the medical staff gave him the once over. The prognoses wasn’t great but it wasn’t grim either. With the proper treatment he would most certainly recover. After two weeks of being confined to the bed regaining his strength Mister started to get that itch again. He yearned for the Tree.

When his wife left that Sunday for her house of worship, Mister rolled himself out of bed and slid on his shoes. Nine minutes later he was back under the Tree in the environment he so loved. The boys were overjoyed to have him back.

Members of Mister’s family were not happy about his irresponsible behavior and one in particular was very vocal about it. Charles Hill Jr. stopped by the tree to have a serious conversation with the man whom he’d received his name and life blood.

“Hey there CJ.”

“Hey Mr. Jiles.”

“You grown now boy. You can just call me Jiles.”

Charles Jr. smiled down at the intoxicated old man.

“Okay Jiles. How the rest of y’all doing today?’

Everyone around the table spoke salutations to CJ as he waved at them all. Then he walked over to his father.

“Pop, can I talk to you for a minute?”

Charles smiled up at his son. He found it humorous that he was about to be given a lecture by his boy. He stood up and walked with his adult lad away from the Tree and out of the earshot of his crew of old drunks.

“Pop, what are you doing? Aren’t you concerned about your health? You were just in the hospital two weeks ago and now you’re already back out here sitting under that Tree?”

“Son, I feel fine. This is where I want to be.”

“But what about Mama?”

“I love your mother, always have, always will.”

Charles Jr. just couldn’t understand what hold this place had on his father.

“I don’t understand. What hold this place got on you Pop?”

Mister shook his head and chuckled a little to himself. His son just didn’t understand. It was time he enlightened the lad.

“Son, you are a very talented young man. You get on that TV everyday and you talk to all the folks. People love you. I’m proud of you son. You always wanted be in that spotlight but you always been humble, patient with it. Now it’s your time. How ya feel son?”

He walked over, reached up and put his hands on his son’s broad shoulders. Mister looked his son in the face, eye to eye. Quietly he asked the question again with a serious brow yet finishing with a smile.

“How you feel son?”

Charles Jr. serious face turned to a smile as well.

“I feel great pop. My job his awesome. I would work overtime for free. Hell, sometimes I do. I thank God for my wage but I would do this for free. Yeah, I feel great.”

Mister released his grip and stepped back from his son chuckling once more.

“I feel great too son. I feel great. Down here, I'm the star. This is my news. I give the news; I am the news… down here! I love your mama but she won’t let me be who I want to be. You know she runs a tight house. It’s not easy. I can’t have the fellas over. I can’t drink in the house. Your mama is a wonderful woman but sometimes I feel like I can’t breathe when I’m in that house with her. Down here I say what and do what I want and the people love me for it. Down here, I can breathe. Smell that.”

Mister breathed deep and invited his son to do the same. Charles Jr. did as he was told. He and his father had two very different experiences.

“Whatcha smell, fresh air right?”

Charles Jr. twisted his face a little then smelled his upper lip.

“No, actually I smell cigar smoke, old drunk man and fried gizzards.”

They both laughed.

“Well son, you gotta stand upwind. You get what I’m saying though. Down here I shine; who don’t wanna shine? You got your shine, and I got mine. Them TV people love you; the folks down here under the Tree love me the same. This is where I want to be son; this is where I feel joy. I’m a seventy-one year-old Black man. I’m already on borrowed time; let me spend it how I want.”

The younger Hill understood now that he was fighting a losing battle; he also better understood his father’s feelings.

“You’re not going anywhere, anytime soon. Pop just promise me you’ll stop by the house more often and check in on Mama.”

With a nod of his head Mister agreed to his son’s demand and gave a promise he would live up to his word. The two men parted with a hug then Mister turned and walked back to the Tree.

He took his rightful seat and watched his son climb back into his luxury sedan and drive off. As he drove down the lane Charles thought of the piece he did on his father’s favorite hang out two years prior. He did a series on non-historical, historical land marks around their sleepy southern town. Mister and all his buddies got to tell their colorful tales to the camera. Each man was mostly sober and dressed in his Sunday Best. As usual Mister told the most entertaining story and was featured in the segment. Charles was proud of his father, always was and always would be. Mister was once a great man and leader in the community but this was how he wanted to spend the winter of his life.

Mister kept his word for a week or so but started to spend more time down at the Tree again. His cough returned as did the snot and boogers in his gray nose hairs. He never let on to his family that he was not feeling well. Winter was coming to an end and Mister was growing irreversibly fatigued. Nod in his chair he would from time to time, sometimes in mid sentence. One day while drinking and nodding Mister fell into a deep sleep. His buddies thought him to just be tired so they laid his head forward on the card table and let him sleep. The stories resumed followed by laughter as Mister took his last labored breaths. Winter had come to an end and Mister would soon spring into the afterlife. As his soul exited it’s housing, Charles Hill Sr. called on his Lord and Savior asking for forgiveness for his sins while pleading for mercy and grace. Despite being a drunkard. He was still a believer.

Sheryl wasn’t surprised at he husband’s death. The Lord had prepared her weeks before. She mourned her husband but was overjoyed at the prospect of him going home. The day Mister died on that table was the last day anybody sat at the Tree. The people of the community created a cenotaph in honor of Mister under the Tree. There was a plaque that read.

“Dedicated to the greatest story teller of all time Charles Hill Sr. Aka. Mister. You are missed Brother.”

A beautiful garden was planted by Mrs. Hill and some of the ladies of the church adjacent to the memorial. They each took turns tending to it. All of the drunks and gamblers dispersed back to their homes and former haunts. It would seem that Mister and his stories was the lifeblood of the community of the Tree. His son would later think back to his conversation with the man weeks before his passing. Everybody wants to shine and under that Tree everyday is where his pop shined. That was his pop, a character for the ages. Forever will his legend live… under that Tree.