Boys Don't Cry

Prelude to Wammy's House

Newport Road, Middlesbrough, Britan. It's an absolute slum. Barefoot children play with ragged basketballs on the worn, cracked macadam. They run and skin their knees from police, the man across the street, or a homeless kid.

Not any homeless kid, the one who wasn't fun to push down because he'd get up. He'd turn and look you right in the eyes, and you'd HAVE to see his near-black irises lined by dusky insomnia. Or nightmares. Or the mark of the boogeyman, death, or Satan. He had no fear, or hunger, or sadness...did he? Did he have parents, and if so, were they perhaps scarier? Or... why hasn't he been taken in? Seemingly obvious, but the raggedy children have seen ancient women carrying screaming crack babies to their bosom like the baby Jesus himself.

And one day, they saw a black Bentley drive through. The windows were tinted enough to make it hard, but not impossible to see into. The driver was looking around. Knowing it could have been an officer, the children scrambled for a shelter or their equally raggedy parents. All too often, parents get carted away yelling, the kids are left crying, then taken away somewhere, too.

He stopped. The air became tense, uncertain. Why would an officer drive a Bentley, anyway?

Simply because he wasn't an officer. He stepped out in a simple suit and hat, a gray mustache sat under his nose. He was aged, but tastefully so, not liver-spotted or frail smelling. To everyone's relief, then curiosity, the man walked to the spot about six feet or so from the homeless kid, who was squatting up against an abandoned brick building. But, he got back in the car. The game continued until he drove back.

He stepped out of the car, and walked back to his previous position. Lucky for him, the homeless kid didn't budge. He'd only walk around once every few days, it seemed, when he'd watch the other children play, or... Well, what can I say? The children only really saw him then. He probably ate and used the bathroom somewhere, but who cared to find out?

The man cleared his throat, and said, "I'm here to take you home."

What now? And why? And how? Suddenly, the kid mattered. Where did he come from? Why didn't we ask his name? Would he have answered? Was he even homeless, or just too poor for shoes, or did he choose not to wear shoes, or just chose not to wear a different outfit? Was he getting hit at home, like some are? Is that why he never went to school? Did they make him stay outside all day? Wait, how old is he?

Mothers smiled, the few fathers there either gripped their child or their beer.
Old Mrs. Hughes dabbed her eyes with an old hankerchief, grinning ear to ear.

The kid got up and ran to the man, who squatted at the knees to catch him. He wrapped his legs around the man's jacket and laid a thickly haired and dirty head on the man's shoulder. Instead of the expected response, to shove the street vermin off, the man heartily patted the child's back, and proceeded to keep his strong hand there. He was carried to the car, but when put down into the backseat,was there a tear in his eye? He reached upward for the man, still, but came to peace with being placed down. Before they knew it, the homeless kid was but a memory, the car driven away to wherever it was to go.

[I have an audio recording of this on hand, if you REALLY love it. I can send it via email. Inbox me for more information.]