Life didn't deal John Allen a promising hand. He was born, black, dwarf, and hunchback.
If any of that troubled him, I never heard him say so. His daily work was pasting type & art onto key-line photo-ready pages.
It was a job that required a clear head, but asked nothing of the heart. Also, it didn't pay much. I once heard John say, "You know, If it wasn't for the money, I'd quit
this job".
John had a dry sense of humor.
He might have looked for a more interesting job with better pay. He didn't. I think John thought steady work at a livable wage was good enough. His mind was elsewhere.
I talked with him often about books and music. John knew things I wouldn't have known about except for him.
He loaned me several books, two of which were
The Cradle of Erotica by Sir Richard Burton (not the actor) and a compilation volume of the Marquis de Sade's scandalous writings.
Both books were salacious. In the case of de Sade, downright evil. Burton's book was more clinical. Burton cataloged sexual extravagances he personally observed in nineteenth-century Africa - from Arabia to the Congo.
Despite an overabundance of seedy focus, the qualities these books lacked in wholesome value were value-counterbalanced by their historical significance.
It was an education.
John's interest in music was authentic blues, from the earliest to the latest, including the merging of blues sensibilities into pop stylings. Blues for John wasn't about technique, it was about soul.
I asked his favorite musician. He named two: Lightnin' Hopkins and Nat King Cole.
I didn't expect that answer. What could possibly link these two very different artists? John explained. He bumped his small fist on his large chest, "They got it here".
He was right. John heard what most don't: technique can be mastered with serious practice - soul only comes from the heart.
John had more reason than most to know about heart.
One day he didn't come to work. He always came
to work.
He didn't come the next day either, or the day after that. I had an address but no phone number. I went to see
if he was alright. The house was a run-down three-story Victorian in a poor part of town.
John's apartment was a bedroom on the third floor.
"I've been sick".
"You look sick. What did the doctor say"?
"Don't have a doctor. Just waitin' it out. I'll be back in a couple days".
He was back in a couple of days, like nothing happened.
Life's tough. Ain't no reason grumblin'.
John wasn't just resilient, he was resourceful, too. Every year he took his one-week vacation to visit his beloved mama in Tennessee. It was a grueling trip by Greyhound.
"That must be a long hard trip"?
"I chug a pint of Mad-Dog 20/20 before I get on
the bus. Next thing you know I'm in Tennessee. Can't say what's between here and Tennessee".
When life deals you a bad hand you have to get smarter how to play it.
I always called John, John. Others called him Johnny; I guess because some people saw him as small and sweet, like a child. He was that. He was also a keen observer of human antics.
Overheard gossip, plots and flirting entertained him like a daily soap-opera. A smile or quiet chuckle was the only tip to know he was listening.
Most of the people in the department were in their early twenties. John Allen was older by several years. He'd seen many flights of fancy crash & burn. He knew what the young folks would only learn later.
Despite knowing the ending, he still got a kick out of watching the posing, primping, plans and intrigues of the youngsters. Not many noticed that he noticed. I did.
John Allen taught me nothing is as it might be. He showed himself more than he might have been. Birth problems didn't stop him from living.
That's more than most could manage.
It's admirable.