“Ma’am, can you help me out with some change?” he asked. It took all his might to keep up his insincere smile. He felt absolutely wretched. And frowning would have been much more fulfilling. But he was at a juncture in life where humor was a foreign concept and absolutely nothing was funny anymore.
The woman hadn’t anticipated she would be solicited for help. However, she was a God-fearing woman whom looked forward to opportunities to serve her lord and savior. “What?…ahhh?…What do you mean son? Are you hungry?”
He began to grin slyly. The word “son” was an indication he had successfully tapped into her maternal instinct, something he had learned to use to his advantage when dealing with older women. He was certain that he was about to receive a blessing.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said without a moment of hesitation. He really wanted 16 more dollars to go on a “dipper-mission.” But if it was food she offered, food he would receive. The only thing getting turned down on this day was his collar.
“You want a couple pieces of chicken and a drink, young man?” the woman asked. She could tell he indulged in the illicit, so she wasn’t the least bit inclined to give him any money.
His stomach growled as he answered with a smile and as much appreciation as he could muster. “Thank you, ma’am, I’m very hungry.”
Moments later she appeared with two big bags. “Thank you, ma’am,” he stammered.
Black became overwhelmed with a sense of peace and tranquility in her presence. This soured to awkwardness. He rarely experienced those types of emotions — peace and tranquility had become nonexistent for him.
“You are very welcome, son,” she said, looking deep in his eyes. For a moment, he felt unsettled. Some questions were about to fly his way.
“So, what happened? Why are out here like this?”
He felt as if his back was pinned to a wall with nowhere to run. The woman represented a deadly predator, and his story was her prey. His heart began to race as he questioned how honest he really wanted to be with this total stranger. Should he mention the drugs…jail time, or the dysfunctional family he represented?
The man cleared his throat and the woman smiled in patient anticipation. Then, suddenly, he was consumed by a moment of clarity and a rush of enthusiasm that he could define only as an epiphany.
Here goes nothing, he thought, as the words began to roll off his tongue.
“Homelessness has become much more to me than just a consequence, circumstance, or situation,” he said. “It has become an act of rebellion. A response to a world that time and time again, rebuffed my overtures of love and admiration. Out of anger, hatred, and hostility, a conscious decision was made to be a contrast to an establishment that I felt would never accept me with open arms.”
He peered deeply into her eyes to emphasize his words, and the woman began to appear stressed. He decided to continue his soliloquy anyhow.
“Basically, I decided that normalcy wasn’t in the cards for me and the life of a square was something I’d never again attempt to achieve. I no longer desire your cars, clothes, careers, or coves. I would be different in every way. To me, those things represent ties, ropes, and, chains Linking to the same establishment that has rejected me time and time again.”
He paused again to let his words hit home. He looked around, hoping he could catch a few other bystanders ear-hustling. He would have loved to have had an audience to listen to him explain the true method behind what appeared as madness to most.
“When the establishment goes north, I’m going south. I don’t have any interest in participating in a society that I feel is set up for the rich to profit and prosper by means of objectification of the poor. I honestly feel that the powers that be are making a fool out of the masses.”
Then he pointed his finger at the air defiantly to further drive his point home.
“For the life of me, I don’t understand why others aren’t taking the same road that I’m on. Despite what anyone says, I feel like I’m taking the highest road. I refuse to let the Man take advantage of me. I’m making the next best thing to the ultimate sacrifice to prove it. What most view as a normal life, is really no more than modern day slavery… and I’m a runaway slave! Forever seeking that nonexistent promised land.”
The woman was speechless for a long moment. She didn’t know what to say or think. Normally, after a rant such as that, she would have been certain the orator was mentally challenged. However, something was different about this guy, she thought.
She smiled, “You are something else, I tell you. So, are you out here often?”
“Yeah-almost every day.”
“Well I’m going to come back here to see how you’re doing from time to time. Is that alright?”
“Of course. Don’t be a stranger,” he quickly responded.
“Okay. My name is Harriet. What’s yours?”
He smiled that smile that melted her heart initially and she returned the gesture. “My name is Black Fields…”
To be continued. This is an excerpt of Duane Foster’s manuscript “The Black Fields Chronicles: THE HOBO.”
