Groundskeeper

Jude

“Some call me the janitor, but really I don’t clean up after anyone. Some think I’m a custodian and that’s just a glorified janitor. I prefer to call myself a groundskeeper.”

The bespectacled groundskeeper explains to his imaginary audience, which in total includes a woman hanging out with her brood, a couple hanging out by the dock, and some delinquent teenagers. Then a woman with a brood of children following close behind her says, “Hey, janitor, let me hold one of them trash bags, so my kids can clean up this mess.”

Seeing his explanation of his job duties make absolutely no impression on her, he responds, “Here, just take one.” Then, she and her brood clean up their mess, and he returns to his soliloquy, walking slowly back to his truck.

The mild, humid morning creates little beads of sweat that cascade from his temples to his jaw. He wipes his forehead with a cloth and takes out a bottled water from the back of the truck. He isn a diet or it would be sweet tea, but even so, he relaxes a moment enjoying his brief rest before getting back to work. He has two more garbage cans to empty and then on to another park before lunch.

“Up, up, up, what do we have over here?” the groundskeeper says to himself looking in the direction of two youngsters entwined in a passionate embrace. “Summer lovers,” he thinks to himself, even though it is the spring.

Jude and Carmelo spend the entire morning slobbering all over each other. Then, Carmelo goes to work and Jude goes home to watch their five-month-old son. He does not know why the two of them interest him so much because he sees the same thing every year, same setting, different pairings.

In old Niceville, teenagers find places to park, Dana Pointe, nooks and crannies along Redwood, even here in Lion’s Park, but with development and all, those places have been cordoned off in exchange for private parks along the bay—no more open access. At the beginning of the summer ending into the beginning of school, teen couples migrate to one of those spots. During the fall, football becomes the center of attention for many, and teenagers can be seen parking late into the evenings on most weekend nights.

Bullet called it first this time around. Bullet and the Groundskeeper are eating breakfast at one of the pavilions before clocking in, Hardees breakfast biscuits of course. He remembers it clearly it is the middle of last summer, and they are eating when Bullet looks up to see Jude and Carmelo all twisted up in some teenage hormonal embrace.

“That girl gonna come up pregn’nt if they keep comin’ out here like that.”

“Jude?”

“Yeah, they been out here every afternoon since school let out,” he says while chewing on a piece of ham.

He just about called it right. It made the groundskeeper sad, as he even remembers the day Jude tells Carmelo. They ditched class. He knows they did because school had just started. Jude stands between his legs looking into her boyfriend’s face with both a terrified and pleading countenance. It is one of the most vulnerable moments in her life. The two hug each other. She cries, of course, and then the groundskeeper does not see her until she is about four months along.

“Why does that girl concern you?” Bullet asks the groundskeeper.

“I don’t know. It just bothered me. Sad thing—she was such a nice girl. That boy—he’s young, stupid. He’s gonna mess around on her. It’s just sad.”

“Well, she’s like every one of these gals who gets hooked up and opens their legs,” Bullet says.

Both work in silence, and then Bullet says, “Why? You sweet on her?”

“No, it’s not like that—by God—she’s way too young,” the groundskeeper says.

They continue to work. The following spring Jude delivers her son. The groundskeeper wants to go over and peek at the baby. He just wants to look in the stroller to see if the baby has that Puerto Rican wavy hair and olive skin. The baby is half-Puerto Rican, quarter-Indian and quarter-Irish. The baby is cute, though. The groundskeeper knows Jude’s family has been in Niceville for about eighty years, almost as long as his.

He watches the young paramours leave each other, and then he finishes the contents of the bottle of water. He empties the garbage cans. He hops into the utility truck and slowly moves South on Bayshore Drive. He sees Jude walking toward her mama’s house and slows the truck down.

“Jude, hey Jude, you need a lift?” he asks while sticking his head out the window.

“No, I’m almost home.”

“Sure, we could stop by Tom Thumb—get yourselves some Slushies.”

Jude laughs. She remembers Henry. He would sometimes take the kids at the parks for Slushies during the summer. She used to go with everyone until her best friend Bridget called him a perve. They were thirteen going on twenty-one and knew everything.

“Don’t you get in that truck with that perve. Didn’t yer mama ever tell you that?” she says to Jude.

“Oh Bridget. It’s just Henry. He takes us all the time.”

“I’m not letting you go into the truck with that man,” Bridget says and then tugs at her arm. Bridget then turns toward Henry and says, “No sir, Jude and I won’t be having Slushies t’day.”

The two of them run off in the other direction. Henry does not think anything of it, but he never asks her again until today.

“Alright,” she says and climbs into the truck. “Let’s go. You’re treatin’.”

Henry smiles. Sitting high up in the utility truck, Jude listens to the motor hum because she does not know what to say to him. He is old, almost thirty she thinks, and the last time she really sees him, she is weirded out by Bridget. She looks across the seat at him. His curly hair is stuck to the side of his head by sweat.

Sensing Jude’s appraisal, he turns to the side and says, “So Jude, what you been up to?”

“Ah nothin’,” she does not feel like talking about her life right now.

“How’s school?”

“I’m not in school anymore.”

“Why?” He stops for a minute.

Before he can say anything else, she interrupts him, “In case yur wonderin’, I have a kid.”

“So, what’s that go t’do with it?”

“Don’t have time.”

“When did you have yer kid?”

“A few months ago.”

“Wait a minute. You have one more year and you don’t wanna finish. Gosh, it seems—”

He pauses and then she asks, “Seems like what?”

“A cake walk—t’go through all that schoolin’ just t’quit.”

“What’s so great about graduatin’? I can clean homes with my mama without an education.”

“Still, yer less than a year away from finishin’.”

Like she is talking to her mother, Jude feels aggravation creep into her skin and then her bones.

“Look,” she says while leaning her elbow on the armrest, “I don’t want to graduate from high school just so I can be a park janitor. I’d just as soon spend my wasted time at home with my son.”

“Ouch,” he says. They sit quietly for a moment.

Then, Jude softens her voice and says, “Come on, let’s go get these Slushies.”

Jude gets grape, and he gets himself a strawberry one. Walking back to the truck, Jude says, “Look, I’m sorry. I just snapped because me and mama just had an argument ‘bout school.”

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not. It’s not okay to yell at people who show you concern.”

“Apology accepted.” Henry then asks, “So, how’s the baby?”

“He’s good. He’s something else.”

“Are you and what’s his name?”

“Carmelo.”

“Carmelo gettin’ married?”

“Not yet. He’s getting ready to go to the military,” she answers. Not wanting to pry anymore, he does not ask any more questions. They both sit very quietly until Henry pulls up to Jude’s house. She looks at him and thinks he’s kind of cute for a thirty-year-old.

“Thanks,” she says.

“For what?” Henry asks and then she holds up the drink to show him.

“The Slushy,” she says and then climbs down from the truck and slams the door shut.