The Dark Heart of Dixie~ by Crunch
M'eh, what can I say- it's different. The next in my cornucopia of crappy- one-chappies! Enjoy all!
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Don't ever let anyone tell you that a newsie is homeless. That's just a myth. . . a misconception, as Davey would say.
A newsie is never homeless. A newsie has a thousand homes for every day- the trouble is finding the one that won't leave you dead come morning. Take myself. I've had twenty or so homes in the last year- not bad for a kid with pockets as empty as his stomach. In the sewers, on top of statues, underneath the vegetable wagons - any place with half a roof for those long nights when I couldn't afford my bunk at the lodging house.
Now, of all the places I've lived, the church down on fifth and Kent was the classiest. That was high living- nothing like the orphanage, with its cold walls, cold beds and cold women in icy black habits, faces like chipped and weather worn gray concrete behind their habits. This church was warm; rosy stained glass windows, velvet covered pews that made real cushy beds, candles and big ivory basins of holy water, even a real organ. Aint none of my other pals ever lived in a place with an organ!
It wasn't perfect. Still frosty in the winter, swampy in the summer, and I'd have to be out of there at dawn to avoid the church rush, or so help me God. But you haven't heard the best part. The part that made that place my home.
See, there was this couple who went to that church every Sunday, come rain or shine. He was white; she was black as the coffee you buy for ten cents a cup at Tibby's- perfect for those frosty winter mornings.
And every Sunday, I'd crouch behind a pillar or press my ear to the air shaft as the black woman kneeled in confessions, pouring her heart and soul out through her tears, for all the good it did her. She sobbed about her past, and her future, and her poverty. But most of all, she sobbed about a boy she'd left behind.
"Lawd, oh Lawdy, fahgive me, my liddle boy. My beauteeful liddle boy!"
She'd cry, dabbing at her dark plum of a face with the hem of her sleeve, or the edge of the kerchief wound tight around her coiled hair. She'd tell the preacher about a little boy that the world wouldn't accept, so neither would she. Then she'd cross to the tiny chapel at the rear of the church and light a candle, sometimes two, for the little boy she left behind.
See, she and her companion- that's all that they are, all they ever can be, as different in color as they are, like night and day- she and her companion had to move to the deep south some years back. The man had lost his job when his thread factory burned to the ground, and the dark heart of Dixie was the only place to find a well paying position. She would come with him- not as his wife, of course, but as a companion, as a maid, she was all right. But they couldn't take the little boy.
"On'y eight years ol', he was. Eyes like big brown diamonds, smile like da sun."
But they couldn't take him to Dixie. It would be bad enough for her, but she would manage. She'd have the law on her side now, with the days of slavery near on thirty years gone, but the people- the people of Dixie were a different story. And a place like that, that was no place for a little boy with a smile like the sun, and skin black as the night. So they left him behind, on the steps of an old monastery, in the care of the icy women in habits. By the time they'd moved back north, he was gone.
Of course, she never told the preacher this, but I knew the story.
After she dried her tears every Sunday, the woman and her companion left the chapel, him ahead and her behind, and sometimes I wanted to follow them. I wanted to tap the man on the shoulder, throw my arms around the woman's waist, and let them take me away to a home I barely remember. Times like that, I could almost feel his leathery palm on my back, and her apron against my cheek.
"Oh, s'my boy, my beauteeful liddle boy. Thank da Lawd, my liddle boy's come home."
But I never did go. Because Dixie isn't just a line on the map that hangs in the window of Tabor's books and porn-o-graphy shop, and it aint just a place you can pack your bags and leave behind.
That women, the women who walks a step behind her husband, the women who left her black baby on the steps of an orphanage cause she couldn't show his face to the folks down south- that women is still in Dixie.
Maybe she'll break free someday, and maybe when that day comes I'll take her hand and lead her home. But until then I'll sleep in the sewers, on top of statues, underneath the vegetable carts; anywhere I have to, thank you very much.
Because a little orphan named Gideon, with a smile like the sun and skin like the night, he might be homeless- but a newsie named Boots, why, as long as he's got a church to sleep in, or any place with half a roof to lay his head, he is never homeless.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Well, I just thought Boots needed a story of his own. So, as ever, ReViEw! Keep hope alive in a humble little writer! ;)
M'eh, what can I say- it's different. The next in my cornucopia of crappy- one-chappies! Enjoy all!
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Don't ever let anyone tell you that a newsie is homeless. That's just a myth. . . a misconception, as Davey would say.
A newsie is never homeless. A newsie has a thousand homes for every day- the trouble is finding the one that won't leave you dead come morning. Take myself. I've had twenty or so homes in the last year- not bad for a kid with pockets as empty as his stomach. In the sewers, on top of statues, underneath the vegetable wagons - any place with half a roof for those long nights when I couldn't afford my bunk at the lodging house.
Now, of all the places I've lived, the church down on fifth and Kent was the classiest. That was high living- nothing like the orphanage, with its cold walls, cold beds and cold women in icy black habits, faces like chipped and weather worn gray concrete behind their habits. This church was warm; rosy stained glass windows, velvet covered pews that made real cushy beds, candles and big ivory basins of holy water, even a real organ. Aint none of my other pals ever lived in a place with an organ!
It wasn't perfect. Still frosty in the winter, swampy in the summer, and I'd have to be out of there at dawn to avoid the church rush, or so help me God. But you haven't heard the best part. The part that made that place my home.
See, there was this couple who went to that church every Sunday, come rain or shine. He was white; she was black as the coffee you buy for ten cents a cup at Tibby's- perfect for those frosty winter mornings.
And every Sunday, I'd crouch behind a pillar or press my ear to the air shaft as the black woman kneeled in confessions, pouring her heart and soul out through her tears, for all the good it did her. She sobbed about her past, and her future, and her poverty. But most of all, she sobbed about a boy she'd left behind.
"Lawd, oh Lawdy, fahgive me, my liddle boy. My beauteeful liddle boy!"
She'd cry, dabbing at her dark plum of a face with the hem of her sleeve, or the edge of the kerchief wound tight around her coiled hair. She'd tell the preacher about a little boy that the world wouldn't accept, so neither would she. Then she'd cross to the tiny chapel at the rear of the church and light a candle, sometimes two, for the little boy she left behind.
See, she and her companion- that's all that they are, all they ever can be, as different in color as they are, like night and day- she and her companion had to move to the deep south some years back. The man had lost his job when his thread factory burned to the ground, and the dark heart of Dixie was the only place to find a well paying position. She would come with him- not as his wife, of course, but as a companion, as a maid, she was all right. But they couldn't take the little boy.
"On'y eight years ol', he was. Eyes like big brown diamonds, smile like da sun."
But they couldn't take him to Dixie. It would be bad enough for her, but she would manage. She'd have the law on her side now, with the days of slavery near on thirty years gone, but the people- the people of Dixie were a different story. And a place like that, that was no place for a little boy with a smile like the sun, and skin black as the night. So they left him behind, on the steps of an old monastery, in the care of the icy women in habits. By the time they'd moved back north, he was gone.
Of course, she never told the preacher this, but I knew the story.
After she dried her tears every Sunday, the woman and her companion left the chapel, him ahead and her behind, and sometimes I wanted to follow them. I wanted to tap the man on the shoulder, throw my arms around the woman's waist, and let them take me away to a home I barely remember. Times like that, I could almost feel his leathery palm on my back, and her apron against my cheek.
"Oh, s'my boy, my beauteeful liddle boy. Thank da Lawd, my liddle boy's come home."
But I never did go. Because Dixie isn't just a line on the map that hangs in the window of Tabor's books and porn-o-graphy shop, and it aint just a place you can pack your bags and leave behind.
That women, the women who walks a step behind her husband, the women who left her black baby on the steps of an orphanage cause she couldn't show his face to the folks down south- that women is still in Dixie.
Maybe she'll break free someday, and maybe when that day comes I'll take her hand and lead her home. But until then I'll sleep in the sewers, on top of statues, underneath the vegetable carts; anywhere I have to, thank you very much.
Because a little orphan named Gideon, with a smile like the sun and skin like the night, he might be homeless- but a newsie named Boots, why, as long as he's got a church to sleep in, or any place with half a roof to lay his head, he is never homeless.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Well, I just thought Boots needed a story of his own. So, as ever, ReViEw! Keep hope alive in a humble little writer! ;)