"A Sleepy Little Village on the Edge of East Blue"

Little Tommy Tucker
Sings for his supper.
What shall we give him?
White bread and butter.
How shall he cut it
Without a knife?
How shall he be married
Without a wife?

He always started from the cliff. Naturally. It had the best view of the sea horizon. Also, he liked the solitary walk in the mornings from his house to the edge of the forest. Also, it was convenient. He could begin there, cut through the woods, run up the village's largest and almost only street, and head in a straight line to his own house up on the hill. Then it was just a hopskip to his schoolbag hanging over the back of the chair, a stretch of his arm for the slingshot on the table, and then a mad dash back down the hill to school. Sure, he was usually the last one in his seat, but he got there before the bell finished ringing, and that was what counted, right?

At school, as the teacher wrote the day's schedule on the blackboard, his neighbors always took the opportunity to harrass him. "Hey, Pinocchio," one would start, "why don't you knock it off with that pirate stuff? My dad says you put him off his breakfast."

"Yeah, and my dad calls you a damn nuisance."

"And my dad says if he has to listen to that pirate crap one more time, he will seriously beat your ass black and blue. Remember, he's the blacksmith, so he knows all about beating, if you catch me."

He would give them all a wink. "Tell your folks they shouldn't feel bad. It's no great shame to fall for one of Captain Usopp's tall tales!"

Then they would all chorus, "They didn't fall for it!" and cuff him about the head before turning their attentions, grumbling, to the teacher.

But he would just laugh and start doodling in the margins of his book.

Every day. The same ritual in this little backwater town where nothing ever changed. The villagers threatened and complained, but he knew they counted on his presence in the mornings. The daily disruptions had become part of village life, the part that never changed. Stopping his runs through town - now that would be the really shocking thing. Their threats and blusters, like his classmates' taunting, were all part of the ritual.

Today he was annoyed to find the routine broken. Mrs. Wimple was already in the house when he burst through the front door. He'd forgotten she still came around sometimes. Mostly he liked Mrs. Wimple. She'd been coming to the house for years, ever since his mother became too sick to keep the house running. Mrs. Wimple had done everything during those awful, bewildering first months after his mother died. She had kept him in the house and out of an orphanage. She had taught him how to wash laundry and make a basic meal for himself. Now that he was fourteen and almost grown, he could manage fairly well alone. But sometimes she still came stumping up the hill with a change of bed linens to replace frayed ones, or a bit of meat pie and the recipe. So mostly he liked her and was grateful to her. But she did make him terribly late for school.

"Really, Usopp," she said the minute he entered the room. "I don't know what you do to this house when I'm not here. Just look at this!" Mrs. Wimple held up a very gray, very dusty sock. "I found it behind the stove, of all places."

He smacked his forehead. "So that's where it went!" he exclaimed. "I must have dropped it when the Ash Rats crawled down from the chimney. They're horrible creatures, you know. They track ash and dirt all over the house. The only thing that stops them is the stench of an old smelly sock -"

Mrs. Wimple wagged a finger in his face, stopping him. "None of your stories, now," she warned him. "Sit down and eat your breakfast before it gets cold."

"But -"

"But nothing. You are far too skinny for a boy your age. I always said to your poor mother, 'If you don't want that boy to be a beanpole, you had better feed him right,' but look at you! You look like you've never seen a plate of bacon and eggs before." Her eyes followed him severely as he took a place meekly at the table.

"I have school," he explained weakly, even as he picked up the fork.

Mrs. Wimple, satisfied that he was eating, immediately started bustling around the small house like a very clean, talkative cyclone. "You'd be able to fit in breakfast and the school bell if you didn't do that fool shouting about pirates every morning," she snapped. "I am not blaming you, Usopp, you know I do not blame you for a minute. I have never regretted sorting you out and your poor mother before you, even though you are likely to send me to an early grave. And others may talk, but I do not hold you the least bit responsible for that pirate father of yours. Though what kind of father leaves his wife and child all alone in a place like this, I'm sure I don't know. But there it is. He's gone, and it's not your fault you're his son, poor lamb. But your stories!" She threw up her hands, inadvertantly dropping a pile of sheets as she did so. "Usopp, you are old enough to know, the villagers have been talking."

"I already know," he said through a mouthful of bacon. "They've been talking for years."

She ignored him and swept on. "They have been telling me," she continued grimly, "that you are a disruptive liar who ruins the peace of this village, and they want me to do something about it. Me!" She threw up her hands again. "As if I ever could control you. As if I were anything more than the person who does dusts your tabletop and finds your dirty socks behind the stove!"

"You've been very kind to me, Mrs. Wimple," he said. This was another kind of ritual. She made this speech, with variations on what she found where, every time she visited.

Mrs. Wimple dumped the sheets into a basket and sniffed, mollified. "Usopp," she began, then hesitated. He half turned around. Mrs. Wimple never hesitated. "I just want you to be happy," Mrs. Wimple said finally. "Your mother was one of the grandest women there was, and you are lucky to have had her, even if she was taken too soon. Your father, scoundrel though he may be, was not all bad."

"I know that."

"I'm not finished," said Mrs. Wimple sharply. She thumped the laundry basket down on the bed. "This is a small village, Usopp, and I don't mind saying that you may be too bright to live happily here for the rest of your life. But you can't leave right now, do you see? You have to live with us folks who like our peace and sense of safety. Someday you might leave us for one of those big cities. But until that day comes, try to live quietly. Try-" she cast around for the words, "try to be a good boy."

He scraped back his chair and got up. Walking to the sink to put the dishes in, he said lightly, "Yeah, sure I'll try to be good." He turned around with a cheerful smile. "That's the bell, Mrs. Wimple. Gotta run." He grabbed his schoolbag from the back of the chair and the slingshot from the table and dashed down the hill to school.

Sorry, Mrs. Wimple, he thought. But it's no great shame falling for one of Captain Usopp's lies.

Yes, he was a liar, and a troublemaker, and a son of a pirate, but there were some things he knew were true:

He had loved his mother.

Only the villagers never understood how much. Every morning, as he shouted "Pirates are coming!" through the town, they shook their heads and thought him crazy.

He was a brave warrior of the sea.

Only he didn't have a ship, or a real crew, or any idea where to go, or anyone who might tell him. All he had were a clever mind, a clever tongue, two clever hands, and a slingshot.

He was his father's son.

Only he didn't have a father.

------

notes: The Tommy Tucker nursery rhyme really is about orphans, which made it an obvious choice for Usopp. He's such a poignant character, the way he is left on the outside of everything - his parentage, lack of parents, physical appearance, ambitions, persona. All of the Straw Hats joined Luffy partly as a way to "find themselves," but Usopp is almost the only Straw Hat still trying to figure out who he is and where he fits in the world. Anyway, it's really wonderful to see Usopp's and Luffy's coming-of-age stories unfold. Oda does such a great job of playing the two off each other - they're both boyish and going after essentially the same dream. But Luffy has complete confidence and faith, while Usopp...doesn't. And I think that makes his the more heroic journey, since he has to struggle both physically and emotionally. I will not lie. I cried for Usopp during the Water Seven arc. I love this kid.