PREVIOUSLY: Conversations with kind strangers like Harriet are exceptions, not the rule, for Black Fields. As he panhandles, he is acutely aware of how each passing person looks at him, or through him…
Fields stood posted near the entrance of the Popeye’s, waiting for the next person to approach. Even though he was no longer famished, and his spirit had been uplifted by the woman Harriet who had stopped to talk to him. His cravings were overriding all thought processes.
PCP was the priority and he wouldn’t be denied.
It was around noon and the weather was pleasant. The block was beginning to bustle and the lunch crowd was descending. He peered at a group of professional women moving down the street. The women were polished and pristine, they seemed to shimmer and sashay as they proceeded down the block. All they needed was theme music.
His insides tingled and his mouth began to water as he briefly fantasized about a moment with one of the women. But thoughts about the length of time it had been since he’d last laid hands on a woman prevaded. “Only in my dreams,” he thought, as the desire he had momentarily felt transformed into frustration.
“Eff it!” he exhaled. Then he said out loud to himself, with much certainty, “I’m gon’ get me one.” He wasn’t referring to one of the women. He considered them out of his league and preferred to focus on more attainable goals, such as his substitute obsession of smoking PCP.
Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted an elderly woman stepping gently, looking at him somewhat leerily. As he turned his head to get a clear look at her, she clutched her purse tightly to her midsection.
Fields began to look around to see if he himself might be in harm’s way. To his right, he saw two police cruisers sitting in the 7-11 parking lot, along with several other vehicles and pedestrians moving about. To his left, he saw a group of frat boys. Nothing or no one looked threatening, except the pit bull the frat boys left lightly tethered in front of the door of the Chipotle.
He looked again at the woman, hoping her expression had changed. This time she quickly looked away. Her expression had not changed.
Fields looked down at the bag she was clutching tightly to her chest. It was a pink canvas bag, with artificial leather straps and a big nylon patch stitched on it that read, “Cherokee.”
When she noticed that he was scrutinizing her bag, her pace quickened, and her posture became even more stiff. She seemed as if she had just seen a ghost. Fields’s face grimaced as he watched her reaction to his presence. “W-T-F,” he mumbled to himself, infuriated by her assumptions.
Her actions implied several things. First, she felt he had no morals or values. In other words, he was a thief. Fields was sure they had never seen each other before, so he had no idea why she would even suspect such a thing. If he was interested in robbing, he wouldn’t be standing out in the open in front of this restaurant. “I can’t believe she thinks I’ll snatch a bag she bought from Target,” he thought. “All I’d get is some house keys, a bus pass, and some chewing gum.”
How could she not tell he had a different modus operandi? Begging.
Next, she didn’t like him. His mere presence, his existence, bothered her. Even though he didn’t steal and she had never seen him steal, she thought he was a thief. No one likes a thief.
The third thing is she thought he was stupid. He would have to be, to even think of snatching her generic purse with a 7-11 full of policemen to the right and a frat boy party to the left. Fields immediately thought of Emmett Till.
To be continued. This is an excerpt of Duane Foster’s manuscript “The Black Fields Chronicles: THE HOBO.”
