Christopher’s Story

Callouses cover his hands as he toils under the moonlit sky. Crickets chirping melodies of salvation bring him comfort and the world around him seems bleak and destitute. His garments are mere rags and his shoes are fashioned from cardboard and string. His faith is the most valuable thing he owns.

In the distance, he hears the wailing women crying out to God. It is said amongst the townsfolk this ritual began during slavery. The slaves would gather in the cotton field and pray for their freedom. Now, every evening the elderly women gather in the same field to pray and weep for the children – children like him who have nothing.

He had been abandoned by his father and his mother listened to the voices in her head which led to her permanent home in the state mental institution. He had no family. His only means of survival had come from the kind townsfolk who offered him work for meals and a warm place to stay. However their kindness never made the transition to love. If only someone, maybe one of the wailing women, would open their door and heart to him.

His search for potatoes yields a feast he expects to last him for at least three days. He gathers his meal and heads for the makeshift home constructed out of cardboard boxes and palm tree branches. He was a man at 12 years old. His innocence stolen by life’s circumstances; however, he remained optimistic about life.

Outside his humble abode he prepares a fire for his meal of potatoes and two leftover carrots that had fallen from the grocers dumpster. The lad was a pauper’s chef and his meals were fit for a king. And occasionally, on cool summer nights he would entertain imaginary royalty to keep him company. As the wind began to howl, the poor boy pulled the collar of the disheveled jacket to cover his chest. The night winds were growing colder, winter would soon be upon him. All of a sudden he heard footsteps approaching him.

“Christopher,” whispered the old man. It was Patches, the town drunkard. The aroma of Christopher’s dinner had awakened Patches out of his drunken stupor. “Sumpin’ sho’ smell good, boy. Got enuf to shay wit me?” he asked.

“Sure Patches. I was expecting the king and his lady, but it appears they are running late. Pull up a seat. There is plenty to go around,” said Christopher.

“Boy, ain’t no king or no lady comin’ out cha to eat wit you. Jes’ me.”

As Patches grabbed a potato from the fire, bright blue flames licked at his knuckles. “Oww, dat deh is hot!”

Chris let out a giggle. Served Patches right for insulting his guests and his wits. The two sat in silence, eating until their stomachs were so full they could barely move.

“Sho’ is gettin’ cold. You gonna need sumpin’ betta den dat to keep ya outta da’ cold,” said Patches. “I gotta sista who don’t live too far from ya. She ain’t got no chillun’ or no husband. I can see if she would take ya in. She ain’t got no use fo da likes of me, but you – deh’s hope for you.”

Christopher welcomed the idea of having a place to lay his head at night. His homemade shelter was located a few yards away from a hobo camp. Every day new men would show up, most, like Patches, were harmless; however, the others were men recently released from chain gangs. These men knew nothing but hard living and violence. Two nights ago, a late night brawl over a newspaper resulted in a man being stabbed to death.

If it wasn’t for Patches, Chris would have no one to protect or look after him. Patches was considered the mayor of the shanty town. Although he had no formal education, life had been his teacher and he had learned his lessons well.

Chris had overheard stories about Patches’ past life, about how he had once been a train conductor and that after his wife had died he began drinking heavily. Patches soon lost his job and everything he had owned, forcing him to live among the other vagrants and vagabonds of the Shanty Town. His stature and intelligence-he was almost seven feet tall and had completed the 9th grade-allowed him to be elected mayor. His appearance intimidated many and only a few actually had the nerve enough, after a few beers, to test him. These small contests of might all ended in Patches’ favor.

The following afternoon, Patches found Christopher rummaging through the grocer’s dump searching for food.

“I spoke to my sista’, she say ya can come. But ya bet be on ya best behavya, or she gon’ put you out. Ya here me boy,” said Patches.

“Yes sir. Thank you, Patches,” said Chris almost bowling Patches over as he hugged him. “I will be so good; she won’t have to worry about me.”

“We got ta go git your stuff from the woods. She gonna be waitin’ fer ya at fo’ o’clock, on the corner of fif’ and Main Street.”

It was 3:30 p.m., and the walk to the woods took about 10 minutes. They hurried to Chris’ cardboard shack to gather his belongings. Five minutes later they were headed to meet Patches’ sister.

His sister arrived at four o’clock on the dot. She slowly pulled up to the curb in the fawn grey Ford Model T. Chris had never ridden in a truck, or a car for that matter. His parents were poor and could barely afford food much less a luxury such as a car.

Chris hopped in the truck as Patches threw Chris’ belongings on the truck’s bed. “Thanks again Connie, I sho’ do ‘preciate ya fo’ doing dis,” said Patches.

“This child needs a home, and I couldn’t live with myself knowing he needs help,” said Connie. Connie and Patches looked nothing alike. She had light brown eyes that sparkled as the late afternoon sun hit them. Under her hat were dark brown locks that caressed her shoulders. She appeared to be considerably shorter than Patches at least from what Chris could tell.

“Patches, you take care of yourself,” added Connie as she pulled away from the curb. Patches stood on the corner and waved at Chris as they drove off.

“So child, what’s your name?” asked Connie. “Where is your family? How old are you? Where were you born?” The barrage of questions flowed from her lips like bullets from a Tommy gun.

“Chris, ma’am. My ma’s in a mental hospital, my pa left us when I was just a baby. I’m 12 and I was born at home in Hankersonville,” he replied.

“Hankersonville? That’s about two hours away. Did you walk all the way from there to Mandalin?” she asked with a southern twang.

“No ma’am. I rode the rails here. Mandalin seemed like a nice place. I saw the statute of Horace Mandalin in the town’s center and decided that if a man like him felt this was a good place then maybe I should make this my home too,” said Chris.

Horace Mandalin founded the town in the early 1800s. He was a former slave who had bought his freedom from an old Georgia plantation owner. Horace had worked hard and earned $500 which he used to purchase 100 acres of land in a remote area. He bought the land for $300, a very cheap price because the land was desolate and no one ever thought anything would grow on the land. But here it was the early 1900s and the land was flourishing with farms.