Chapter Ten

On Tuesday morning, a cold fog blanketed Fresno, but the county jail was bustling. Jason watched more people enter the foyer than leave. Some were dressed in orange suits and possessed eyes that, oddly, looked orange as well. One unlucky fellow, escorted by two cops, had a lollipop stuck in the corner of his mouth—his last taste of sweet freedom before being locked away? Another prisoner, strapped into a wheelchair, was guided smoothly down a hallway. Even the sick or disabled, it occurred to Jason, were not above the law.

“Mom,” Jason whispered to his mother. He was troubled by the atmosphere rife with prisoners and cops near a metal detector. He didn’t like this place.

His mother was seated in an orange plastic chair doing a Sudoku puzzle. She had a pencil poised over a column and was concentrating so completely that her brow furrowed. “What?” she asked, not bothering to look up.

“Mom,” Jason repeated. “I’m never gonna break the law.” He made a promise to himself then and there to only do good in the world.

“That’s nice,” she replied as she began to fill in the blank boxes. “If you do break the law, I’ll make you stay in your room forever. Don’t forget that.” She licked the lead of her pencil and got back to work on her puzzle.

Jason and his mother were anticipating Uncle Mike’s release. They had taken care of his unpaid tickets, but had learned that he still had to see a judge the following week. The judge, his mother told Jason, would assign Uncle Mike to community service. Jason imagined his uncle picking up litter along the freeway. Then he laughed to himself as he pictured his uncle playing air guitar to preschoolers. Yes, this would be the best sentence—making little kids clap their hands sticky with candy.

A man approached and asked, “You people got change for a dollar?”

Jason felt in his pockets, and his mother rifled through her coin purse. Together, they had just enough—three quarters, and the rest in dimes and pennies.

“Parking meter,” he explained with the sad look of a down-and-out clown. “I’m here to take care of some parking tickets, and I don’t want to get another one.” He shuffled away.

“See,” his mother said. “Now that is a responsible citizen.”

“Yeah, Mom, I’m beginning to see.” Jason was thinking about how the city was always looking for ways to get money, so why not pester its citizens with parking fines?

Finally, Uncle Mike approached, his head held high. He was dressed in his regular duds—the faded sweatshirt, the hem of the Spiderman T-shirt peeking out below, the scuffed sneakers, and pants faded at the thighs.

Jason swallowed. His uncle was poorly dressed, but he had a big smile on his face. He waved and hollered, “Hey, guys.” In his free hand, he was holding a jelly donut.

“Hey, Uncle,” Jason greeted with a fist bump.

“Glad to be out,” Uncle remarked, and hugged his sister, careful not to squirt any of the donut’s jelly center onto her shoulder. “But, hey, look.” He pointed at the donut. “They feed you good. Last night we had killer arrozo con pollo. Very ethnic cuisine, know what I mean?”

Jason also noticed that his uncle had had his hair cut and washed, his beard trimmed, and his fingernails shoveled free of grime. The dirt ring around his neck was gone, and his yellowish teeth were now a shade whiter. His uncle had really cleaned up. Now if he could only clean up his act!

That’s what his mother scolded as they left the foyer. “Are you going to learn your lesson, Mike?” She handed him a parka—a green one belonging to Jason’s dad that had been jabbed with a couple of fishing lures on its chest.

The donut was now a mere morsel pinched between Uncle Mike’s thumb and index finger. He was chewing wildly. “Oh, yeah, I learned my lesson. Whenever I need a little vacation, I should just go in there.” He hooked a thumb at the jail, and then slipped into the parka.

“That’s not funny,” Jason’s mother scolded. “Do you think you’re a good example for your nephew?” She clucked her tongue at her brother.

Uncle Mike nodded his head in agreement. “Yeah, guess not. Jason, don’t be like me.” Out in the brisk November air, he stopped, stretched, and sighed, “Ah, clean cold air. Glad to be free.”

At the parked car, Jason’s mother pulled a tape measure from the glove compartment. She told Uncle Mike to extend his arms.

“What for?” Uncle Mike asked. “Is this another pat down?” He chuckled as he clamped his elbows to his body.

“I need to take in this suit that Jason snagged for you,” she explained.

“Really?” Uncle Mike turned to Jason. “Where did you find me a suit?”

Jason told his uncle about the deal he had made with the nice old lady and how they could clean her yard when they got the time.

“Oh, her,” Uncle Mike said. “I remember her. She had the yard that was like a jungle.” He also remembered Aunt Marta’s impending wedding to the millionaire and decided to cooperate with his sister as she measured him. He giggled when she worked the tape measure high up into his armpits.

“That tickles,” he laughed.

“Mike, stand still,” Jason’s mother ordered, “or I’m going to stick you accidentally with one of these pins.” Then she joked that she might just stick him for fun!

A few passersby stared at them, unfazed. The world was strange. Why shouldn’t a large woman be taking measurements of a skinny man in front of the county jail? For all they knew, this scraggly fellow might be getting a custom-made orange jumpsuit.

“Here,” his mother said after she wrote his measurements on the back of a used envelope. She held out three twenties.

“What’s this for?” Uncle Mike asked as he took the money. He looked at the greenbacks as if he had never seen that much loot all at one time before.

“I can’t have you going to the wedding in those.” She pointed at Uncle Mike’s torn sneakers. “Get some new shoes, or see what’s at Goodwill.”

“I got a new pair too,” Jason volunteered. “Man, they hurt my feet.” After his mother had shoved the wads of wet newspaper into them they’d gotten slightly larger, but they still pinched Jason’s toes. He would just have to live with them—at least for one night.

Jason’s mother hopped into the car and rolled down the window. “I want you both home by three—no later. I have things to do.” She drove away, but Jason recognized the look she gave him in the rearview mirror. It said, “You better not mess up.”

Jason and his uncle stood at the curb, their hands in their pockets. They leaned against a car.

“Man, it was a trip in there,” Uncle Mike said. “I knew two dudes from high school.”

“What were they in there for?” Jason asked. He had plucked a leaflet from behind a windshield wiper. The leaflet announced rug cleaning starting at $19.95. He let it float from his grip.

“Petty thieves, breaking and entering, street fights, urinating in public, stuff like that,” Uncle Mike answered. He gave a thumbs-up sign. “Otherwise, they’re really good people.”

They were joined by a pigeon in search of a handout. The pigeon’s cooing brought two more pigeons, both fat from their street diet of dropped French fries, ice cream cones, and other fast food.

“Sorry, amigos,” Uncle Mike said to the street-hustling birds. “The donut is, like, history.”

Uncle Mike suggested that they stroll on over to the pawnshop, where his guitar hung in the window. At a quarter to ten, the shop was still closed, though there were a couple of people waiting in front. One had an accordion to pawn, and the other carried two bowling balls. Up the street, a man was pushing a shopping cart that held an antique sewing machine. Times were hard in Fresno, and people were ready to hock whatever they owned—or stole.

“Hey,” Uncle Mike chirped. “I got a great idea.”

Jason was immediately suspicious. His uncle’s previous ideas usually led to trouble and family conflict. Nevertheless, he asked, “What?”

“I met a buddy in jail,” his uncle began. It turned out that the buddy owed him a hundred dollars, and paid up! Uncle showed Jason a hundred dollar bill.

“Wow, Unc,” Jason remarked. But he was a little disturbed that the bill was defaced. Benjamin Franklin’s eyes had been inked with sunglasses.

“Here’s my plan—we’re gonna to get my guitar back.” His uncle explained that with his hundred dollars, plus the sixty dollars his sister had given him, they were close to redeeming his guitar.

“But what about your shoes?” Jason asked. He feared his mother’s wrath.

“Oh, I’ll just…” Uncle stroked his beard. “I’ll just wash these sneakers and put on some clean socks. That’ll be good enough.”

His uncle’s plan was a grave mistake. He told his uncle as much, and then asked, “Where’s the extra money to get your guitar gonna come from?”

“Glad you asked, little homie,” Uncle Mike remarked, patting Jason’s shoulders. “While I was behind bars, I came up with a business plan, one that will rain riches on us.” He chuckled and pulled at his trimmed beard.

The business plan called for them to walk the three blocks to the outdoor Fulton Mall lined with stores that catered to the Mexican, black, and Hmong population. There, they positioned themselves in front of a closed dress shop. The business plan mandated that they bring happiness and good cheer to people at the beginning of the Christmas season by playing air guitar. Jason was skeptical. But his uncle’s enthusiasm was contagious. Uncle Mike fished a Big Gulp plastic cup from a dry fountain and set it front of them.

“Here’s the deal, Jason, my boy.” Uncle Mike revealed his strategy: if a passerby looked charitable, they would sing songs like “Feliz Navidad” and “Rocking Around the Christmas Tree.” Or better yet, they could do “O Little Town of Bethlehem” and “Silent Night,” real tearjerkers.

“Awesome, Unc,” Jason remarked. His eyes were lit like Christmas lights. He could see the change falling like rain into the cup.

“Of course it’ll work. People are willing to pay for good music.”

Jason phoned Blake, asking him to bring his video camera to the Fulton Mall.

“Why?” Blake asked.

“Just come, and hurry up.” He hung up, pocketed his phone and scanned the mall, which was shrouded in fog.

At that early hour, the mall was not exactly bustling with shoppers. In fact, Jason counted more pigeons than people. They practiced humming Christmas songs as they played air guitar. The pigeons, it seemed, were rocking their heads to the rhythm. One pigeon was actually dancing back and forth.

“Check it out,” Uncle Mike crowed. “The bird be doing the cha-cha-cha.”

Jason laughed and began to move his own feet. He was feeling the music. He closed his eyes and strummed his air guitar to “Jingle Bells.” The song rocked!

“Now remember,” Uncle said as they paused. “Hold your air guitar up high.”

Jason held it up high on his chest.

“Follow my fingers,” continued his uncle. “We’re going to do easy chords, and then when it’s my turn to play lead, you just step back a little and let me have the spotlight.”

“Right on, Unc.” Jason calculated their finances. The price tag on Uncle’s guitar was $167. They already had $160. Therefore they only needed to collect seven dollars from playing air guitar in order to claim the real guitar.

When they began “Winter Wonderland” hip-hop style, a passerby glanced at them. Her look said What is this craziness about? She passed—unmoved and uncharitable. Some mothers pulled their preschool children back as they pointed and tottered toward them. Some holiday shoppers laughed outright, and others looked straight ahead or down at the gum-spotted walk. One child cried, “Santa!”

They hummed “Winter Wonderland,” “The First Day of Christmas,” and “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.” This last song attracted two families, who watched from a safe distance, as uncle and nephew continued with “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” When the duo finished, a parent approached with his hands in his jacket and asked, “Is this for the homeless shelter?”

“Nah, sir,” Uncle Mike laughed. “This is for us! We just need a little help getting over this temporary hump in life.”

The man dropped two quarters into the Big Gulp cup, and as the songs continued, others began to drop in their nickels and dimes.

“This is way cool,” Jason said, full of good feelings toward humankind. They had attracted an eager crowd that had shoved the pigeons out of the way. Now he understood why rockers were rockers—live music was awesome! In a groove, you got a chance to play out all of your internal convictions.

It was while he was singing “This Land Is Your Land,” their one non-Christmassy song, that Jason spied Sylvia What’s-Her-Name clip-clopping in dangerously tall platform heels. She was turning the corner, her steps like hammer strikes. She was followed by a man with a camera on his shoulder. Was there news to report from the downtown mall? A robbery, perhaps? The grand opening of a store selling giant piñatas? Maybe the mayor was explaining why the dry fountains were receptacles for wayward trash?

“Uncle,” Jason beckoned, and pointed. “Your girlfriend, What’s-Her-Name.”

Lost in the song, Uncle Mike had his eyes closed. He opened them. “What?”

“Your girlfriend from high school,” Jason repeated.

Uncle Mike looked around, confused, before he spotted her. A smile spread across his face. But he didn’t yell, “Hey, Sylvia, it’s me, Mike” as she marched up the mall. She was getting away—again—and his uncle didn’t seem a bit concerned.

“How come you didn’t call after her?” Jason asked. His arms, tired from playing air guitar, hung at his side.

“Why, you ask?” Uncle Mike answered. He had stopped playing for the moment, too. “Because my guitar is in hock, and music comes first. I’m sort of over her, anyhow.”

“Huh?”

“Jason, it’s true that I like Sylvia, but I LOVE music. Feel me?”

Sort of, Jason thought. His uncle had priorities—music first, girls second, maybe food third. He was living for his art, which was far more lasting than relationships. He glanced down at their Big Gulp cup. By Jason’s quick assessment, they had earned about three dollars in coins from their fans. Then suddenly, they realized they had garnered the attention of an approaching police officer!

“Hey, officer, it’s a cold day,” Uncle Mike greeted him cheerfully. He breathed into his cupped hands to make his point.

The officer, upper lip adorned with a small mustache, studied them. He finally asked, “What are you two knuckleheads doing? What’s with the fishing lures on your jacket?”

“Doing?” Uncle Mike asked. “Doing music, my man.” He looked down at a lure hanging on his sleeve, but didn’t divulge that he was wearing a borrowed coat.

The officer didn’t seem to like them, or the air guitar version of “Little Drummer Boy.” The officer had licked his lips and was about to say more when the duo stalled. They could no longer remember the melody. Still, after a long air guitar solo, Uncle Mike asked the officer, “What do you think?”

“What do I think?” The fire in his eyes died down. “I think you guys can’t sing or play guitar.” Laughter rumpled his jowls as he reached into his pocket. He dropped two quarters into the Big Gulp cup, and Blake arrived just in time to capture the moment.

“And who’s he?” the officer asked, hooking a thumb at Blake.

“He’s my buddy,” Jason answered. “We’re going to make a music video.”

“A music video,” the officer repeated softly. “Man, only in Fresno.”

“Yeah, my uncle used to play with Los Blue Chones.” Jason asked the officer if he had ever heard of them.

The officer wagged his head at the gang of three. He smiled. “You should be glad I’m in the Christmas spirit. Otherwise I might haul you guys off to jail for disturbing the peace.”

“Been there, done that, officer,” Uncle Mike replied.

The officer walked away without a word. He apparently had seen a lot of scams, but this one was too pitiful to punish.

By noon, their Big Gulp cup was noisy as a tambourine when they shook it. The counted their take: seven dollars and forty-four cents. They hurried off to the pawnshop, only to discover an empty space in the window.

“How can it be gone?” Jason cried. “It was just there.”

Blake positioned himself to film them as they lamented the loss of their beloved musical instrument. He motioned them to move closer together.

“That’s life,” Uncle Mike reflected. He was playing with one of the fishing lures hooked to his sleeve.

“But it was just there!” Jason munched on his lower lip and looked at the ground dotted with old gum. They had waited too long.

Uncle Mike sighed. “Jason, it’s not the worst thing in the world. The way I see it, my guitar is now making someone else happy. And that’s cool. Know what I mean?” He also argued that he was out of the slammer. Freedom itself was invaluable.

They returned to the Fulton Mall. Uncle spread good cheer by answering the call for donations by the Salvation Army bell ringer. He dropped all the coins into the kettle and then said, “Follow me, boys.”

They wandered into a shoe store that displayed a large banner that read “HOLIDAY SALE.” A young Asian American clerk in a bowtie approached them. “May I help you?” he asked, the bowtie bobbing up and down as he spoke.

“Hook us up,” Uncle Mike said. “We’re looking for a deal, maybe shoes popular last year—know what I mean?”

The clerk said, “I got a great deal for you, sir. How do you feel about gold?”

“Love it,” Uncle Mike answered.

Within ten minutes all three were bouncing out of the store, their feet shod in brand new sneakers—metallic gold, perfect-fitting, and, the best part, half-off!