Some Aren't Meant to Win

1917-1932

Peter Hendrix wasn't brought up in a super nice neighborhood or had caring parents. He was orphaned at five years old in late 1922. His parents were killed for getting involved in something that they shouldn't have. Because of being orphaned so young, he knew no different to living on the streets and eating food from dumpsters and gutters. He also learned to steal from markets and pickpocketing passersby. He stole clothes from alleys and train stations, none of it ever fit, but he wore it.

He was ten when he spotted his prime target for pickpocketing.

The man was in a suit, counting dollar bills in his hands while his wife and two children walked in front of him. His daughter was on her older brother's shoulders, giggling, and their mother smiled at their joy.

The man finished counting and shoved the bills lazily into his back pocket, almost missing it.

With a quick plan in mind, Peter ran straight at the family after two other street boy's walked by. He rammed into the suited man, his hand slipping back and pulling the bills into his own fist.

"Watch where you're goin', kid!" the man yelled, shoving Peter to the dirty cement.

Peter used the fall to slip the cash into his own pocket before raising his hands in mock surrender.

"I-I... I-'m s-s-so-sor-r-ry, s-sir," Peter apologized in a stutter.

He couldn't speak fluently, having never been taught how. His parents ignored him as a child, so what he could get out was from listening to the people around him on the streets.

"Run along, boy," the man spat.

Literally, it landed on Peter's cheek.

Peter acted like a scared child and scampered to his feet and ran off in the direction of the alley he slept in.

He sat there counting the bills for a few minutes with a large smile on his face at his accomplishment.

Yeah, that's a total lie, he couldn't even count to five. He just admired his work and daydreamed of the full stomach that he could have because of it.

He hid his winnings away behind a carved out brick that hid behind a pile of garbage cans.

It was a couple days later that he decided to use some of that money to buy a pair of shoes that would fit Peter's growing feet. He had never bought a pair of shoes before, only ever found some left and forgotten and for his taking.

He chose to go to a market in Brooklyn as he always heard people walking down the streets talk about how they had more variety over the great bridges.

He needed food as well, and decided to treat himself while he was at it. By paying, of course!

He was bagging a handful of purple fruits that he didn't know the name of when someone ran into him. The impact caused Peter to stumble backwards and drop the bag, fruit going everywhere.

"I'm sawhry," the person apologized to Peter in a thick Brooklyn accent as he gathered up as many fruits as he could off the ground.

He put them back in Peter's burlap bag and looked up to meet his blue eyes to Peter's brown ones.

"Hey, you're the one that stole my father's money, ain't ya?" the boy asked Peter.

Peter paled at the boy's words, taking a step back, ready to run.

"Don't worry 'bout it, he don't need it. Yuh seem tuh though," the boy reassured him. "My name's James."

"P-Pe-et-t-ter," Peter responded, confused by James' response.