Everybody thinks Jason is great. Jason is so nice. He never says anything mean. He will eat where you want to eat (unless it’s Pasta Pomodoro). He is a supportive friend. He is so interesting. He is so smart. And, hoo! Funny? The man was born with double the funny most people are born with! If not triple.
Jason is leaving soon for a small, virtually abandoned mining town in Vermont, where the economy is practically suicidal. He will be working with small tiny kindergartners who cannot read or write or say their small tiny alphabets or see out of both eyes at once, in the one room schoolhouse on the edge of town, surrounded by barking rabid dogs and viscious gangs of disgruntled urban youths. (It’s a hell of a commute, but these youths are dedicated.) Every day on his way to work he will dodge gunfire and rabid saliva, but he will show up with a cheerful smile and a will to teach which the kindergartners will find inspiring.
After work and more bullet dodging, Jason will return to the cramped room at the Y that he will be sharing with eight taciturn miners. Gradually, the light from Jason’s sunny, eating-wherever -you-guys-want-to-eat demeanor will creep into the black hearts of these men. Each of the miners will meet a kind, pretty postmistress and marry her and never beat her or anything. (Except one miner who will die from black lung, but not before recognizing life’s beauty and goodness and also making peace with his estranged eldest son.)
Yes, everyone thinks Jason is great. But frankly I think he’s just riding on his reputation these days.