JJ Dufresne: His Creation Story

On November 13, 1975, Ted and Nancy Dufresne brought their new addition, their third of three sons, home from the hospital. Home was a comfortable ranch style house (three bedroom/two bath, den, avocado appliances, garage, red brick patio, basketball hoop in the driveway) on Pluto Street in Cosmos, Minnesota. A town of 582 citizens, sixty-eight percent of whom identify themselves as Lutheran or Catholic, the streets of Cosmos—Astro Boulevard, Milky Way Street, Gemini Avenue, Saturn Street, Zenith, Neptune, Capricorn Avenue, Mars Street, Jupiter, Pegasus Avenue, and so on—are safe. Little kids race each other on Big Wheels unsupervised. Seniors stroll around the block twice daily, doctor’s orders. Dogs don’t bite, and they don’t bark, and they never mess on the neighbor’s lawn, unlike this newest Dufresne boy who will, three years from now, pull down his pants, assume a squatting position, then take a dump in his front yard. This action will lead to his first spanking, administered by his father. It will also give his brothers a reason to mock him during Thanksgiving dinner every year for the rest of his life.

It’s not hard to imagine Cosmos, Minnesota. It’s a place where soy beans rise out of black nutrient-rich soil, where somebody’s mom is always pulling a pineapple upside down cake out of the oven or a batch of sugar cookies or a loaf of banana nut bread, and somebody’s dad is forever standing poised over the barbeque, grilling pork ribs. Somebody’s brother has what it takes to make Eagle Scout and somebody’s sister is a blue-eyed blonde of heartbreaking beauty, the kind of girl who at age eight and twelve and fifteen, seventeen and twenty-two will crinkle up her lovely perfect nose when the youngest Dufresne boy asks does she want to go to the movies with him. She might say I like you but only as a friend but she’s thinking are you fucking kidding me?

It’s not hard to picture Nancy Dufresne changing her newborn’s diaper while her two older sons, ages five and six, hold their noses and their breath. They’re squawking jeez oh man, he stinks, we’re gonna faint before they collapse dramatically to the harvest gold wall-to-wall shag-carpeting. Later today, one of them will flick loose that weird brown thing hanging from the baby’s belly button that looks like a dried-up, shriveled-up piece of poop and try to force it first into the other’s mouth then in his ear then up his nose. One will threaten to shove it up the other’s butt because that’s where poop comes from.

Ted Dufresne stands at the barbeque, grilling pork ribs. He named his new son after both his grandfathers. Jefferson Jameson is a lofty name to put on a little boy so Ted proposes they call him J.J. What do you think of that? he asks his wife.

Oh that’s cute! says Nancy. I like it!

One day, thirty years from now, Ted will wonder, but not often, and only to himself, if this is where it all started, where he went wrong, what he did wrong. If taking away a dignified name, one with history and tradition and weight, and replacing it with a name that’s not even a name but two letters, no heavier than a basketball thumping twice against the pavement, is why the boy turned out like he did.

Nancy might wonder, but not often, and only to herself, about some of her youngest child’s…interesting choices…but she’ll never doubt his inherent goodness. When this boy is six years old, he will zip into the kitchen wearing nothing but his Superman Underoos, he’ll ask her to turn a red pillow case into a cape, he’ll tell her he’s like Superman, he’s strong and powerful and brave, he’s going to be a hero, do great things, save the world. Nancy tells him she doesn’t doubt it. Nancy will never doubt her love for this boy or his for her. It’ll never occur to her to.