Jasmine Clause

Jasmine Clause.
by Samuel Ramratan.

Everything had changed. I felt competent knowing my neural network was
capable enough to observe defeatist information then adjust adapting to
it. With ten days to the New Year, I had only to find a real gift for my
two and a half year old son who normally lives with my ex-girlfriend in
Sault Sainte Marie, Ontario. It is funny how the minds of smaller
communities operate, all fuzzy like, differently from bigger cities like
Sudbury or Toronto. This difference is present right down to street
life, where society administers itself, or so society believes. Frankly
I was surprised my ex was letting us travel to Toronto so we could spend
the Christmas holidays together at my apartment in Don Mills.

As a SSM police squad car passed dangerously close to the pavement, the
pair inside were glaring at me unappreciatively as I grimaced them by.
New old well known brown face was back in town. I was heading up the hill
to meet a Missinabi who lived just off McNabb and Great Northern Road. I
was walking along Queen street towards the local bus terminal where
Descartes like, there was a central embarking and disembarking point. That
local spot teemed with both people and busses every half-an-hour when the
nearby museum clock struck, up until eleven thirty pm. Until the busses
arrive all the stragglers loiter around the circular contours or inside
the full windowed winter proofed seating accommodation with a small
consession stand in the far corner.

I had been to the Sault area many many times before, each time becoming
more appreciative of how small town societies subsist and breathe with
their money factors, moral factors, hidden factions, open threats,
control freaking, way past collusions, lodged in the minds of those
who think it is their small town right to administer how they please.
Somewhat like those Shriner assholes. Most times I forget when the
busses would arrive so I would leave Reggies cafe and snack bar on
Queen street west, when I felt like leaving, instead of timing my exit
rationally. One upside to this was while hanging about the Sault transit
station other people would be there chatting, talking and at times the
hard information overheard would be interesting and useful.

At one time Russians had owned the Algoma steel plant taking it over
when the city had hit one of its deepest depressions compounded by the
fact that steel was in low demand worldwide. One existing taboo had been
to avoid being caught on the steel plant grounds because it would become
a police matter automatically. The day Billy had moved to the West end
with Franco I got lost walking home in the dark after helping them move.
Not being familiar with the city layout that time, I found myself behind
the steel plant. I scaled the fence irrationally moving across the vast
grounds which were mostly empty, probably because of their workload,
heading towards the front entrance. Five minutes later I was stopped by a
pickup truck and taken to the night charge who was Russian to the
core. Not Rasputin reputed lover of the Russian Queen, but a welcome
face with empathy encoded on it for my half-drunk state. What are you
doing here, he asked calmly, connection having been made. I had had
Russian customers during that business of cold warring while at a Western
University, spending many hours with them. Vladimir had been one, taking
programming lessons and development techniques from me. I remembered,
going home, I replied, shortcut pasted in my eyes. mouth half open. The
Caucasian who had stopped me. while showing no animosity, asked his boss,
Boss should I call the cops? The Russian huddled quietly over his desk
looked up at me, carefully, decidedly, and replied, no take him to the
gate. I looked him up, Thanks I murmured gratefully then followed my ride
out the door. It took about nine minutes of silence to reach the huge
swinging front gates. When I jumped out hitting ground, the dark haired
man congratulated me, you're lucky, there's always police waiting.
I grinned happily skipping off.

Yes, times change for some, but for others the unchanging stillness of
oppressive behavior rings like hells bells through their heads. I
overheard one such conversation while waiting for a bus back at the
transit intersection point. Shameless, those people. The young lady
said, whose voice was overloaded with bitterness. FTS, she continued,
for The court system had let her down. I even hit the bitch, she
was so so overbearing. I squirmed, her voice had peaked, hitting the
far glass with some intensity. Even the concession woman seemed like
she was squirming too. Everyone looked serene yet haunted, concern
perhaps! Continue, continue, I joined the conversion. The girl seemed
glad I was interested in her history. She went on, I told her I wanted
to see my father and to have a normal relationship with him. She was
telling me no, no I should not. No I asked, why? The girl seemed as
puzzled as I was. I don't know why, she was so negative, the young
woman responded, but she was a children's lawyer appointed by the court
to independently enquire about my wishes and implement them. That's
strange I half-mouthed. I hit her she went on, had to go to court over
that. You hit her, went to court, I mimicked amazed. Yeh, that was the
only way I would have been able to convince her I wanted to be with my
dad, she cried bitterly. I had to. I had to get rid of Carol. Carol, I
anguished, what a bitch, what was she doing running interference between
two compatible souls, playing GOD. By God, Carol who, I asked?
Carol Shamess, the young woman burst out, a lawyer here in Sault Sainte
Marie, Ontario. Everything was in pause mode with silence falling all over
my face. Uncomfortable pause then, I asked carefully, politely, pointedly,
Do you see your father again? I am going there now she replied loudly, on
Great Northern road. I felt the relief in the Descartian juncture wave
through my body, No doubts there. Later I found out that that same
lawyer woman Shamess, had screwed up at least two more juvenile cases
while supposedly appointed to act as the children's lawyer. They must be
after her again. I looked away. No wonder small towns in Canada have such
bad reputations when it comes to their legal systems retaining a
reputable status. Why would any legal administrative system allow
domineering self-centered lawyers to pursue such sensitive matters as
children's hearts when proof that those lawyers have floundered surface
plainly, even in their own courts.

Dreams are cheap, the ones during sleep. The ones stretching into
daylight necessitate action. Mental causation was not expected to
produce discrete action in our real world, except when people
discovered that mental planning could produce new facts once
knowledge shows adaptability or scalability then the results are
demonstrable. Next in line are verbal or written commands based
entirely on imagination. Some call them lies, others can say fictional
but when practiced by leaders of society, the very fabric that absorbs
that information crumbles. Empires can fall, prey to this form of
corrupt idealogy. Some like it like that because they have control over
the details. When real dreams clash with fiction in a small town, tragedy
can occur and remain in play until all energies are sucked out from
the heads where those events are being denied their truth. Death can
happen suddenly or alternatively life can spring up spontaneously.
Sault Sainte Marie, Ontario, home of both life and death, the sudden
wicked striking out, or the heavenly release of real approval. Song,
song, cried Charles Daigle, raising his bar of appreciation once more.
Yeh, I like these kind of people, they are real. My hands changed
position, flying over the guitar fretboard, then settling on another
combination of notes, raising my own notion about rhythmic flow. Earlier
in the night, he had told me that my tunes had a sad twinge to them.
I was worried, but it was as if anyone else had been sitting there
drinking Northern ale with me I would have said fiction. So I created new
facts, fleeting ones, better sounding ones, ones more suited to a mental
network suddenly operating in a non-saddened zone. I felt better and the
next day I was on top of the world that is to say, Sault Sainte Marie.

I went over to McGregor Avenue south to pick up my son for the afternoon.
We were due to go to the big T, O, early in the morning, so I
asked his mother, if all his things were packed, ready to go in the
morning. She smiled confidently, a throwback to her old self, the
one with whom I had been attracted. I received an all clear from her,
non-fictional I hoped. We walked slowly down Queen street, passing
the court house on the way to visit Kathy, an old friend of mine.
The native Justice of Peace was on her way to lunch, and she smiled
at us, all friendly like. I was so full of emotion from the previous
night with Charles and my revamped musical methodology, that I almost
beamed her down.

Benny Greco, who was he, I asked politely? The most feared name in the
Sault, replied Jason the red haired lad. My hero rejoined Melissa, his
sister, he could beat up my boyfriend James any time, and James is no
slouch. What happened to Benny? Oh, Benny died all of a sudden one fine
day. Why do you think, I asked. Some say he refused his last job. I
stared blankly at the long red haired kid. I looked away, thoughts
rolled into my head. Pretty sneaky, how come the pathologist or deputy
did not catch on to any funny business. I had met Benny a long time ago
by chance, once when I had lived in the Sault. A large boned strong man,
that Benny Greco. He had taken to me, colloquially speaking, letting me
pass upstairs to visit a female who had certain interests in my body,
without his two large bad dogs harassing me, popping me a nod now and
again when we crossed paths, Those days, I did not know Benny was an
ex-con, on the street he was people to me. He always had a strange look
for me, a haunting weird topsy-turvy indication of nothing I knew. I
turned away again from the lad and Melissa, facing the far concession
stand. thinking a bit more. No one really knew I had been acquainted with
Benny Greco who had family they say sitting on the Sault Saint Marie bench
as a judge. Those two were opposites sides of a coin for many many years
in the same city, separated by distance and idealogy until Benny passed
away. Judge Greco it's said is not as harsh as Judge Cohen, a strict
stickler for truth, honesty and integrity, the veritable no nonsense type
who seemed to be carrying a responsibility for our world on his laborious
shoulders.

I felt nauseateted, wondering about my three year old son born in the
Sault, destined for glory or ignomious death. Here I was again waiting
for transit to visit Darwin, another native friend of mine. The cross
roads of Sault Sainte Marie, where it seemed as if many tears had tumbled
uncontrollably. Teenagers had suffered at the hands of the police, goaded
into action and taunted to outbursts. This bloody city has too many
lawyers I had thought. How do they all survive, I had asked myself one
time? One sure proposition which surfaced was the local police acted as
the job producers, rounding up kids, using their special techniques, then
following up, waiting for them and goading them towards a double shot. I
had sat through juvenile court hearings a few times watching how lives
crumbled. I felt sickened again as more memories surfaced. The tower
clock struck as the bus routes slowly winded down to where I was. A quick
trip up the hill, and I was at Darwin's door. I sighed when I saw him
feeling guilty, he never spoke about it but I felt like he himself had
been cut down mercilessly. Leaving tomorrow, Darwin, taking my son to
Toronto, for the Christmas. He smiled and pointed outside, no snow. Ah
I nudged, but I have a tape of Christmas music I had produced and played
on called Wild Wild Christmas, this is it, I said, Merry Christmas. I gave
the tape to him. He acknowledged gracefully, another Blue on the way.

Life is in turmoil, boarding the mostly noisy Dash-8 for Toronto, without
a real gift for my son. I was feeling wistful, dazed and confused, the
captain, a youthful looking Metis woman tag-named Sarah, welcomed us
aboard, with a large captivating smile, she even took my son in her arms
giving him a hug. Wow, I felt warm, the outside cold from the Sault Sainte
Marie International Airport had departed with the closing of the airplane
door. Everyone wanted a chance to pamper my son. I smiled at them all
accustomed to the rapt attention, my son who was a clear speaker, brought
into the equation. I suppose there are less people going to Toronto two
days before Christmas than those visiting the Sault since there were a
number of empty seats. After my fatherly duties, I settled into my seat,
to ponder the last bits of information I had heard in the Sault. Tom,
otherwise known as Big, had thrown my running shoes off Cathy's balcony,
onto the ground and had subsequently rubbed dirt on it, because, Cathy
would not let him in and had told him I was not there. Big, surprise, I
had taken off my shoes and had left then outside the door. Not here eh,
Cathy, he had probably mumbled to himself. Lies catch people in different
ways. Someone told me the great Judge Cohen had cheated him in court
apparently colluding with the crown prosecutor and police convicting him
in an empty courtroom. What. Hell. I was surprised, shocked, it did not
sound like our well known Judge Wayne Cohen at all. You gotta be kidding
I had replied. That is not all, he had said, after prison, the same Wayne
Cohen saw me near Queen street and stuck his tongue out at me, trying a
goading attempt. What an asshole I said, confused.

We had returned from the Don Mills shopping mall around 3pm that
afternoon, all happy from our visit to Santa Claus. A pretty charming
young lady called Jasmine was Santa's helper. My son who is a delight,
a charmer in his own right, had asked her what was her name, when she had
replied Jasmine, he promptly quipped. Jasmine Clause? We all laughed, the
Christmas spirit had gripped us. Where is the snow he asked her, She
replied laughingly, Papa is bringing it tonight with the gifts, winking
unabashedly at me. December 24Th 1988, and no snow as yet that year, with
none forecasted, boy, Jasmine Clause would have to pull that one off all
by herself. Home at, 876 Lawrence East, we used a small tree and many
lights to decorate and color our cozy basement palace. A few people came
over like Faski, to have a beer, Chris originally from Halifax came to
sip eggnog and rum, and the odious, rotten Gad Goldman, for God knows
what, checking up on me mabye. At 10pm we turned in for a green Christmas.

I felt it when my son rose, two seconds later there was the most
delightful cry I had heard all my life. Papa, Papa, Christmas is here,
Santa brought it, he paused, and Jasmine Clause, he shouted out. I
tumbled outa bed rushing over to the side window where a picturesque scene
greeted my eyes. The ubiquitous snowflake had made its first appearance
that year on Christmas day.

Happy Birthday - Merry Christmas.