Black Jess
(A Recollection from Childhood)
He was no good. Somewhere
in the dreary lost log of his days
shines the discovery of a fluid
that makes two and two five, and —
what is more to the point — black white. And Jesse
obtuse to the advantages
of being a free (black) man in a free country
grew addicted to his pigment-thinner
and applied it so liberally
he dissolved.
The precipitate — that is
Jesse's social remains —
turned up on a small hummock
in Long Island Sound.
Not far from the police station
as the gull flies, but distant —
thanks to a moat
of navigable water —
by some eight hundred years
of littoral law.
He erected upon this rock
a castle, roofed over
with mumbling flaps of corrugated tin,
walled with the same, portcullised
with a shred of tarp, vented
with a smoke hole and fortified
against the eternal seige of frost and famine
with a fire-pit
and a pile of rags. My father
who'd admired Jesse in better days
(Jess had been chef at a club.)
would drive down to the water's edge
some Sundays and wave Jess ashore
for a basket of staples. Otherwise
it was moules-au-rien for Jesse —
mussels with nothing. His competitors
on an open market were seagulls,
a thieving contumacious lot
who preyed on Jesse's mussels, often
adding insult by dropping
and cracking them on his roof. The
effect was acoustically perfect,
since Jesse, for all such purposes,
resided in a tin drum. What
was worse, Jesse couldn't run out in time
to capture the mussel before the sea gull got it
and carried it off gargling " help! help! "
through its clamped bill ... The Shorefront
Homeowners Association
viewed dimly Jesse's castle —
or rather too plainly
for good taste — having slowly over seven years
encrusted their bleak and heron-haunted point
with a solid carapace of Cadillac,
concrete and splitlevelranchstyledwellings —
and in solemn session resolved
to expunge the eyesore. Jesse
of course was not represented, but afterward
received a deputation from the mainland,
by dinghy, apprising him of the sense-of-the-meeting
and suggesting he remove reasonably
without forcing recourse to law.
Jesse agreed to move, but
upon later consideration
bethought that circumstance had beached him
about as far out as he could go,
and beyond was open water. Though dietetically
a seagull, he could not swim, nor fly, —
and his boat leaked ... Therefor, he remained.
The police harbor patrol a week later
secured a beach-head on Black Jess —
as the kids called it by now —
breached through the citadel, and found the king
recovering from a vintage Sneaky Pete
he'd traded some quohogs for. They gave him three
days to dismantle and retire. But four
days passed and Jess remained. — My father,
for whom Jesse in better days
had prepared a certain immortal flank steak,
had arisen and in the name of Art
questioned the morality — and legal right —
of the police. Thus you might say
Jesse owed his deliverance to a cow
he had done no favors for ... Such
is the complexity of causation
in a random world ... The Shorefront
Homeowners Association authorized
their lawyer to call the Coast Guard —
since the waters were navigable —
and a second landing was made, this time
under the American Flag. But Jesse
on advice of counsel (my father)
stayed where he was. It appeared
the Coast Guard had trespassed
on the Department of US Army Engineers.
The Coast Guard was not convinced, possibly
for the reason that the District Captain
was a cousin of the secretary
of the Homeowners Association.
But the Department of US Army Engineers,
like Neptune, were not to be bearded
in their own rivers-and-harbors. The affair
went to Washington and turned up
on the docket of the United States Supreme Court.
The Court opined Jesse had squatters rights
anyway, by virtue of seven years in situ
on an island in Federal waters — and the Shorefront
Homeowners Association
had only one appeal left — to God —
for his removal. Well,
Jesse's no longer on his rock. The Lord
in his infinite mercy to the Shorefront
Homeowners Association
sent down a plague upon the mussels
that had hung off the tidewater rocks
like dark grapes. They disappeared,
and Jesse went with them. I don't know where.
That April his tin tent was struck
by a committee of volunteers; nothing
remains of Jesse — except the name,
Black Jess, which you may find
on maps of the U.S. Coast and Geodetic Survey
to designate a dot in Long Island Sound.
He was no good. Somewhere
in the dreary lost log of his days
shines the discovery of a fluid
that makes two and two five, and —
what is more to the point — black white. And Jesse
obtuse to the advantages
of being a free (black) man in a free country
grew addicted to his pigment-thinner
and applied it so liberally
he dissolved.
The precipitate — that is
Jesse's social remains —
turned up on a small hummock
in Long Island Sound.
Not far from the police station
as the gull flies, but distant —
thanks to a moat
of navigable water —
by some eight hundred years
of littoral law.
He erected upon this rock
a castle, roofed over
with mumbling flaps of corrugated tin,
walled with the same, portcullised
with a shred of tarp, vented
with a smoke hole and fortified
against the eternal seige of frost and famine
with a fire-pit
and a pile of rags. My father
who'd admired Jesse in better days
(Jess had been chef at a club.)
would drive down to the water's edge
some Sundays and wave Jess ashore
for a basket of staples. Otherwise
it was moules-au-rien for Jesse —
mussels with nothing. His competitors
on an open market were seagulls,
a thieving contumacious lot
who preyed on Jesse's mussels, often
adding insult by dropping
and cracking them on his roof. The
effect was acoustically perfect,
since Jesse, for all such purposes,
resided in a tin drum. What
was worse, Jesse couldn't run out in time
to capture the mussel before the sea gull got it
and carried it off gargling " help! help! "
through its clamped bill ... The Shorefront
Homeowners Association
viewed dimly Jesse's castle —
or rather too plainly
for good taste — having slowly over seven years
encrusted their bleak and heron-haunted point
with a solid carapace of Cadillac,
concrete and splitlevelranchstyledwellings —
and in solemn session resolved
to expunge the eyesore. Jesse
of course was not represented, but afterward
received a deputation from the mainland,
by dinghy, apprising him of the sense-of-the-meeting
and suggesting he remove reasonably
without forcing recourse to law.
Jesse agreed to move, but
upon later consideration
bethought that circumstance had beached him
about as far out as he could go,
and beyond was open water. Though dietetically
a seagull, he could not swim, nor fly, —
and his boat leaked ... Therefor, he remained.
The police harbor patrol a week later
secured a beach-head on Black Jess —
as the kids called it by now —
breached through the citadel, and found the king
recovering from a vintage Sneaky Pete
he'd traded some quohogs for. They gave him three
days to dismantle and retire. But four
days passed and Jess remained. — My father,
for whom Jesse in better days
had prepared a certain immortal flank steak,
had arisen and in the name of Art
questioned the morality — and legal right —
of the police. Thus you might say
Jesse owed his deliverance to a cow
he had done no favors for ... Such
is the complexity of causation
in a random world ... The Shorefront
Homeowners Association authorized
their lawyer to call the Coast Guard —
since the waters were navigable —
and a second landing was made, this time
under the American Flag. But Jesse
on advice of counsel (my father)
stayed where he was. It appeared
the Coast Guard had trespassed
on the Department of US Army Engineers.
The Coast Guard was not convinced, possibly
for the reason that the District Captain
was a cousin of the secretary
of the Homeowners Association.
But the Department of US Army Engineers,
like Neptune, were not to be bearded
in their own rivers-and-harbors. The affair
went to Washington and turned up
on the docket of the United States Supreme Court.
The Court opined Jesse had squatters rights
anyway, by virtue of seven years in situ
on an island in Federal waters — and the Shorefront
Homeowners Association
had only one appeal left — to God —
for his removal. Well,
Jesse's no longer on his rock. The Lord
in his infinite mercy to the Shorefront
Homeowners Association
sent down a plague upon the mussels
that had hung off the tidewater rocks
like dark grapes. They disappeared,
and Jesse went with them. I don't know where.
That April his tin tent was struck
by a committee of volunteers; nothing
remains of Jesse — except the name,
Black Jess, which you may find
on maps of the U.S. Coast and Geodetic Survey
to designate a dot in Long Island Sound.
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