Mourning Mr. Chavis

Mornin' Mr. Chavis! He always stood there, right there on that corner by the market, always in a dark suit and a well pressed shirt. Remember? He wore a fancy brimmed hat and used a walking cane. ~

His laugh was classic, bluesy like. His lips were full, his smile so broad it spread across his entire face. He had greying bushy eyebrows that highlighted his kind brown eyes, his hands were well worn, chafed, like a man who'd done a lot of hard hard work, which would be no real surprise in the part of town where many were fisherman, builders and labourers. He was spry for an elderly Black man in his eighties althoguh he had a slight limp. What a struggle it must have been for him hanging onto his own home as gentrification began to swoop in. My parents were part of the swoopers. We fled D.C. from 27th and Mst from an old red stone just by a sprawling park, one where I usually played frisbee with my neighbor's dog while my father read the newspapers - which seemed to take all day. That's quite irrelevent yet teen minds wander. At least mine did and still does.

Everybody at the fish house greeted Mr Chavis. I don't know why I didn't ask him a lot of questions when I had the chance. Teens are weird, we're all self-centered to an extent, trying to figure out who we are in a world we really don't understand. Mr. Chavis was part of my routine, my walk to school and my welcome home everyday. I often stopped into the fish market for chips and sat on the stony wall near Mr. Chavis going on about my day. His grin was wide, he let out a "hee-hee-hee" and never more than that. I guess he didn't know what to think about a young white girl in her Catholic School uniform befriending him and eye contact was rare. The times were changing but a man of his experience knew his place. I certainly didn't know mine.

I remember when the signs went up on Pinkney Street, the alleyway behind our house: For Sale. That meant every rowhouse along with the cracked paint and wooden steps, the Black neighbors, the dandelions poking through the cobbled sidewalks, the trash bins, the way it felt, the life of generations. Mr. Chavis where did he go?

After a few months passed I was walking home from school and there was Mr. Chavis, standing on the corner, by the market looking weathered and older than ever. I ran to him and asked where he'd moved. He didn't say, just said, "yes ma'am" then did his old familiar laugh. I sat next to him for awhile and he seemed happy to see me in his own Mr. Chavis way.

I grew away from hanging around him to going to teenage parties, to college, to finding my way in life. When revisiting the town after many years I went strolling up Pinkney Street thinking of Mr. Chavis. I felt bad about just moving on and never saying good-bye. I asked someone at the fish market about him and they said they never knew him. What? How could anyone not know Mr. Chavis? He was always there! He was an icon to the locals. I asked an old bartender who'd worked at the pub on the corner forever, he knew who I was speaking of and said, "You mean Mr. Johnson? He died of course years ago." No. His name was Mr. Chavis. "Well the man you're speaking of was Mr. Johnson. Don't know a Mr. Chavis." Hmm?

My curiosity led me to the library and I began to fish through old Annapolitan Newspapers for obituaries. None for a Mr. Chavis. I asked a librarian how to find out who sold the house on Pinkney years ago and she guided me to an archive room. I looked for his address, 12 Pinkney Street. There it was. Sold. November 1979 to one Mrs. Mary Tosh. The seller? Mr. Johnson! ~

Love thy neighbors. He never corrected me once. This charming man part of my daily life whose living room light I could see from my bedroom window. It's hard to remember him as Mr. Johnson. ~