First They Came for the Watermelon Mayors, and I Did Nothing

February 27th, 2009Blog, Fiction1 comment

Fiction.

Jimmy Bates had always wanted a job in politics. He was fairly wise for a 22 year-old, and knew that this was a necessary step toward loftier goals: Serving a barely-paid internship to the Mayor of Los Alamitos, a tiny Californian hamlet he had never even heard of two months ago.

But the last week had definitely been a crash course in PR policy. First came the jovial email sent by his boss, Mayor Grose: “No Easter Egg Hunt this Year!” Just to a few close colleagues — no harm done, right? But then came the response: A torrent of angry emails accusing the mayor of racism.

Jimmy didn’t even see the mayor’s email until it was reprinted in the Orange County Register: The White House lawn covered with watermelon patches. A black President — the nation’s first — sitting inside. The implications were obvious. Jimmy couldn’t believe it.

And of course, after that came Mayor Grose’s inevitable resignation.

Mayor Grose had always been a pleasant fellow. A good boss, Jimmy thought. So he felt sorry for the mayor during his last days in office — he was essentially a radioactive presence at city hall. People wouldn’t even look at him, let alone speak to him.

Jimmy watched the former Mayor Grose in the parking lot, struggling to heft cardboard boxes of his packed-up things into his station wagon. He felt a surge of pity for the man, and ran out to help him.

Grose gave Jimmy a heartbreaking smile as he accepted the young man’s gesture. They piled six boxes of books, trophies, accolades into the back of the station wagon. Jimmy looked at his watch — his lunch break was starting. “Why don’t I help you take these things back to your house, sir?” he asked.

The former Mayor Grose beamed. “Thanks son, I’d really appreciate that.”

On the ride home Jimmy didn’t want to ask about the obvious, but Grose brought it up: “Like I said, bottom line is, we laugh at things and I didn’t see this in the same light.” His eyes blinked, damp. Jimmy looked away. “I’m sorry,” Grose continued remorsefully, “I never wanted to offend anyone from the standpoint of the African-American race. I just… I just didn’t know.”

Jimmy strained to keep himself from asking the question — How could you not know? You live in America, sir. How can you be so blissfully unaware of history, of Jim Crow laws, of segregation, of the pain of memory that such imagery would bring up? You, the mayor of a town? How could you not know, sir?

But Jimmy had been raised to bite his tongue at such moments. Why kick a man when he was down?

They pulled up to Grose’s house. Grose popped the back of the station wagon, silently handed Jimmy a cardboard box.

They walked up to the front door. Grose unlocked it. And as Jimmy entered, he couldn’t believe his eyes.

The living room was filled with an enormous collection of ceramic watermelons. Watermelon ash trays. Watermelon piggy banks. Framed prints of fruit company advertisements from the 1920s, sprouting watermelons on the walls. The wallpaper was striped green and pink. The couch was covered with a watermelon throw, and puffy watermelon pillows sat neatly on its corners.

And at Jimmy’s feet: A watermelon-shaped doormat with jaunty, happy-faced little seeds.

Jimmy looked back at the former Mayor Grose, stunned. “I still don’t know why everyone’s so mad,” Grose said, tears streaming down his cheeks.

“I’m just so happy that Barack Obama is our President now,” he said, “And I just really love watermelons.”