The Help

Everyone keeps telling me I need to read or see "The Help". I know the gist of the story-charming black ladies take care of the wealthy white's children. Being a southern white girl, my family, too, had help. Although, our help was far different than anything you will ever read about or watch on the big screen.

Enter Rickey Jarrett. Rickey was known around our small town as the big black guy that walked back and forth from his house on Wilson Street to the Family Pantry for a dark meat chicken plate and taters every other day. He knew everyone, spoke to everyone, and was extremely loud and embarrassing most of the time. He weighed close to 400 pounds, he had a lazy eye, and his t-shirts were usually half an inch too short for his big stomach. He was a DJ back in the 70's and had acquired the nickname, "Rickey G". We were never sure why the "G" was tagged on to his name, seeing as how his last name started with a "J". Maybe he didn't even know this. He was rather slow but completely harmless, kind of like Solomon on "The Hand that Rocks the Cradle."  Yes, this was our "help".

Rickey came to know our family in the late 70s or early 80s when he started working for my grandfather.  He soon helped any of my family when we moved, needed yard work or any kind of manual labor- then his resume began to include house cleaning and ironing. But, Rickey wasn't great help. He took 12 breaks an hour when mowing the yard. He would barge in the house as if he lived there and raid our pantry and drink all the Pepsi before he could weed the flower bed. He sat down to iron our clothes, sometimes playing Nintendo in between every article of clothing. Rickey called my mother and I "honkey" more than he called us by our names. Even though he wasn't much help at all, we kept him around. I am not sure why we kept him around, but we did.

I don't think Rickey ever called my grandparents or my father "honkey" when he helped them, but for some reason, he deemed this appropriate for my mother and I. He never talked to us in an aggressive manner. He just spoke to us as if we were his little sisters.  Oh, how embarrassed I was when my friends would come over and he would mop the kitchen floor, while singing Motown songs, look at me and say, "Hey, honkey." I would reply, "Shut up, fat ass." I'm sure you didn't see that in "The Help." Why couldn't our help be like the sweet little black lady in the book or movie? Again, I don't know why we kept him around, but we did.

Rickey showed up at least one Saturday out of the month to let us pay him to half ass work and bother us. Although he was slow and lazy, he managed to get everything done, even if he showed up at 8 am and didn't leave until 5 that afternoon. In his defense, he could starch a shirt like nobodies business. I guess after working for my family for nearly 20 years, we were comfortable around him, too, and we grew accustomed to having him show up once a month and make us laugh. 

Here are some "Rickey-isms" that I will never forget:

My sister had a black Scottish Terrier. One day the dog decided to attack Rickey's leg, to which he screamed to the Heavens, "This is black on black crime!"
Rickey on multivitamins- "I can't take vitamins. They smell like old folks foots."
Rickey on microwaves-"Just set the microwave to 99:99 and take the food out when you think it's done."
When asked why it was taking him 3 hours to iron one pile of laundry, Rickey replied, "I ain't getting paid by the hour." How does that make sense? If he WAS getting paid by the hour, he would try to hurry?
Rickey on death-"Hell, we all gotta go sometime."
Rickey on his roommate-"I had to put a lock on my cabinet because that bastard was eating all the Vienna sausages."
Rickey on not knowing an answer-"You tell me and we'll both want to know."
Rickey on racism-"You're just a cracker, honkey."
My friend and I once saw Rickey at the gas station and asked him to buy us some beer since we were 2 years shy of 21. He agreed, walked up to the register and says, "Yeah, those girls over there are too young to buy beer so I need to get it for them."

Rickey wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed and he wasn't the best help we could find, but he was around for most of my childhood. When I found out he passed away last summer, I cried like a baby. I've never mourned a 400 pound black man before, but I mourned him. My mother and I went to visit his grave after his funeral, and I remember thinking that I would never come home from school to find Rickey doing a Soul Train dance while dusting my living room.

After writing this, I know now why we kept him around. I know now why he was so comfortable around us, kidded with us, and why he kept showing up at least one Saturday out of the month. We loved that 400 pound black man. And he loved us. In a strange way, he was family.

I do have a picture of Rickey that would bring this whole blog home if I posted it right here, but the obscene words on his t-shirt are not appropriate.....