Black Shorts

We will write short stories this week. The short story was the river by which many African American writers traveled, the fire that lit their way. I wrote the following short story after observing Chicago's homeless. I want others to recognize the humanity of others, even those who struggle in society. The short story is below:


Not So Strange After All

By

Alfred W. Tatum

“Get away from me you devil-loving maggot.” His name was Leon. My name was Leon. I noticed him sitting outside of CVS pharmacy jingling a green and white cup. “God, Bless. Have a nice day,” is what he said to everybody who gave him some change, and to those who refused. That’s why I was surprised with his outburst when I decided to sit beneath the large storefront window next to him. I was not close enough to offend, but close enough to chat. I circled the block several times before engaging in this strange behavior. I could not help myself; he had a striking resemblance to my father who had died a year earlier from an acute case of pneumonia. I wanted to know the story behind the man who sat spread out on Canal Avenue with a matted, salt and pepper beard. It was something about his hands and the cup that did not match. His fingernails were striking. I expected them to be dirty, unmanicured, and trouble-looking. But, they were clean and well cared for.

“Your hands. I noticed your hands are well cared for.”

He stared at me with eyes of pointed rejection. His wide nostrils were flaring, sort of bullish. I became nervous, only finding comfort in the fact that the streets were crowded during the early evening as people rushed to get home to their spouse and children. He would be crazy enough to attack me for sitting next to him.

“Your shoes don’t fit,” he said.

“What?

I was wearing black shoes with no strings; they were slip-ons.

“They are artificial. It seems like you are striving for something you are not.”

I was offended and curious at the same time. The homeless philosopher, I thought.

“Why do you believe you have the right to sit next to me in my personal space? Do I have the right to walk into your home and ask you questions?”

I remained silent.

“I hate those shoes on your feet; I really feel sorry for you.”

This came from a man wearing a pair of dirty Nikes with shoestrings that only covered the holes on the bottom half of his shoes. It seemed like he cut one shoestring in half to use for both shoes. I paid $190 for the Italian leather on my feet, but my feet began to feel uncomfortable.

“I bet you paid more than $100 for your shoes so that you can feel good about yourself.”

It was as if he reached into my thoughts without my permission.
As I begin to rise to walk away, he grabbed my arm.

“I thought you wanted to talk – to find out about me. I see your type all the time.”

My type? The way he said, “your type,” pinched me. I was trying to frantically piece together the clean hands and the dirty shoes. They told more than one story. The language he spoke did not match the coffee cup.

“Hi Leon,” I heard the lady say. I immediately responded, and she said, “No, I was talking to the other, Leon.”

“How are your wife and kids,” she asked.

“Too far away to know, and too close not to care.”

“Who’s your friend?”

Friend? What did she mean, friend? How could she possibly view us as friends? We could not appear more different.

“Or, is this just another one,” she asked.

“Just another one,” he said.

She looked down at me and said, “I like your shoes. They’re nice.”

They both started laughing as she dropped a few coins in his cup.

“See you later, Leon.”

“Bye, Ms. P.”

“You too, Leon;” this time she was directing her comments toward me.

I managed to utter a soft-spoken, bye, not really knowing how to react. I was beginning to feel trapped in a strange fog. I wanted to leave, but I did not know how to sever the ties.

“It’s okay if you leave now; you are the not the first, you know,” he said.

He read my mind again. He gave me the permission that I wanted, but I still didn’t know how to take it. The laughter, being called friend, and the lady complimenting my shoes poked at me. I stood, not really making sense of what had happened during the last fifteen minutes.

“Can you spare some change before you leave, friend?”

I reached into my pocket and pulled out a dollar to drop in the cup.

“On second thought, you keep your money to get a new pair of shoes.”

I walked away glancing down at my feet. I still had a chance to catch the train home.
I felt like “just another one.” After sitting down on the train, I noticed that there was more Italian leather on people's feet, than Nikes.

I sat silently on the ride home, just wondering, thinking.