Mother Nature’s Son
This story’s title is based on the Beatles song, Mother Nature’s Son. It’s a little long, but I hope you enjoy it!
Mother Nature’s Son
The wind whips at the hair of the people passing below me. I can see the smog hanging thick in the air, an ominous, dark cloud of pollution. The streets are littered with bits of paper blowing about in the wind and styrofoam coffee cups. The hustle and bustle of the city passes below me, but up on the 27th floor, in between appointments, I’m somewhere else.
Way back when the park still smelled like flowers and the sidewalks weren’t covered with crushed beer cans and glass, people used to gather on the corner of Winthrop Street and Main to hear the beggar sing. He was always singing something to himself, sitting on his cardboard box by the side of the road, tapping his ratty shoe against the pavement. I used to wonder where he came from, and how he got to that particular street corner in Chicago.
My fascination with the singing beggar began when I was about 20. Everyone knew about him, even as kids, but our parents would always avoid Winthrop street, herding their children past the miniature concert and covering their ears. But as we got older, it wasn’t uncommon to see a cloud of teenagers after school, listening to the music of the beggar, which ranged from current music to show tunes, and even included some spirituals and hymns. I never went down with the others, though. I hadn’t quite gotten up the courage to see him until I was almost like he, down on my luck and barely making a living. One day, after having been fired from my job at the Quickee Grocer’s Market, I passed Winthrop street. Why not, I said to myself, why not go and see what the fuss is all about?
I sauntered down the street to the corner, following the sound of music. It was about noon, and every respectable person in downtown Chicago was busy at their office or at home with their kids. The beggar stood by the corner, not seeming to mind that he was breaking the lonesome silence around him.
“Born a poor young country boy, mother nature’s son. All day long I’m sittin’ singin’ songs fur every’un” he sang, leaning lazily against the side of his cardboard house. His voice was projected as if he was singing into a microphone. It must have been audible from inside a house, even. I waited for him to finish his little song, and clapped at the end.
“Thank you, thanks very much,” he said, the folds of his creased dark skin stretching into a smile. “Hey, I don’ think I seen you round here before, boy,” He commented. “You live in the neighbor’ood?”
“Yeah,” I said, casually. “I never came to listen before, though,”
“Say, what’s yer name?” He asked me.
“Robert, but everyone just calls me Rob. What about you?
“My name’s Petey Williamson, at your service,” He stood up and clicked his heels together, saluting me. He had a touch of the south in his voice, but he’d been living up here since I was a baby, at least. I looked at his wrinkled face and his rough hands, calloused and dirty. I felt something inside me snap under the combination of guilt for being better off than Petey and pity for him.
“Uh, I’ll be right back, Petey,” I said. I tossed him a dime, and he winked at me. I ducked into the nearest sandwich shop.
“Whaddlya have?” drawled the blonde cashier. I glanced at a sign pasted on the register that read “NO PASTRAMI LEFT”. From what I could tell, she had eaten it all.
“Two turkey sandwiches on rye, hold the mustard,” I requested. I paid for my lunch and returned to the singing beggar, holding one of the little packets in my hand out to him.
“Wha’s this, boy?” Petey asked, confused.
“A sandwich. You like turkey?” I tossed it to him. He reached out to catch it, and sank his yellow teeth into the thick layers of meat.
“Thanks, boy! Soon ‘s I finish this, I’m gonna sing for yuh again, te thank yuh,” said Petey eagerly, his mouth crammed with turkey. I watched partly in awe and partly disgusted as he devoured the other half of his sandwich. I nibbled mine as he wiped his hands and hummed a note.
“Oh yeah, we got trouble, right here in river city,” He began, slapping his knee to the beat. It was like being caught up in a musical, but in real life. I remember once when I was 11, my parents took me to see Wonderful Town, that musical about the sisters in New York. It had come out that year, and we went to see it a week after opening night. It was so exciting to experience that world, replicated in miniature on the stage. And so, I waved goodbye to Petey as I skipped off down the road, just as I had done nine years ago on 42nd street, humming along to the songs of my memory.
I went to see Petey more and more from then on. I used to stroll down in the mornings and listen to a song or two. Then I’d make small talk and buy my friend a sandwich for lunch, and we’d talk some more. Petey told some interesting stories, especially about his life before coming to “the big C”, as he called Chicago. On one of the days when I visited with Petey, he seemed more somber and reminiscent than all the times before.
“Hey, Robbie boy, sid’down and lemme here tell you a story,” He said, patting the edge of the curb beside him. I obliged, sitting cross-legged like an Indian on the road.
“Now, you’se probably been wonderin’ why an’ how I got to this corner an’ why I been sittin’ here since you was a baby; before, even. N’ here. I’ll tell yuh.
“I was born in Louisiana, ‘long the Mississippi. My papa was a stonemason, workin’ all day long in the stone yards owned by the whitefolk. Daddy hated the whitefolk with a passion like you’se never seen. One day, the owner of the stone yard came over to Daddy n’ started yellin’ at ‘im ‘bout this n’ that. N’ so my papa got so damn mad that he took a sharp stone n’ hit ‘im over the head. The man died, n’ Daddy was put in jail fer killin’ him. This wus right ‘round 1904, mind, so the whitefolk hated us even more than they do now. But anyways, my momma wus left all alone to take care of me n’ my kid brother Samson, n’ she didn’ even have a job. Samson died ‘bout the year after Daddy was put in jail, mind. He was only ‘bout two years old then. I was ‘bout ten, so my momma sent me off n’ outta the house since she couldn’t care fer me no more. I wus angry with her, but she was sick too, with what little Samson died from, so I let it be.
“Now, she sent me on a train to Buffalo, New York, where suppose’ly theys wer nicer to black people like us. This ol’ wrinkly fella, name of Dawson, took me in n’ taught me howta read n’ write. That there man, he wus the nicest white man I ever seen, ‘sides you. He was a theater manager, he wus, n’ I used to sit all day in the auditorium n’ listen to the performers doin’ their songs n’dances. In fact, I seen that ol’ vaudeville singer, Al Jolson wus his name. Y’know, the one that died ‘bout fourteen years back. He usedta sing in blackface, makin’ fun of folk like us, but I didn’t mind. He wus a little funny, imitatin’ black folk. He couldn’t get the accent right, so I pulls him over after his audition n’ I says, “Al, mister, you gotta lot of talent, but I think you gotta work on yer accent a little more.” Thas’ what I says all right, n’ so he asked me how he wus suppose to do that. So I taught ‘im howta do my accent. Unfortuna’ley he got turned down by Mr. Dawson, so he went on his way to New York City where he got famous. I think it wus because of me n’ my help…‘t least I hope so.
“I learned to sing from the theater too, so I asked Mr. D, tha’s what I called him, if I could sing a little song at the theater. He said yes, n’ so I went on stage ever’ night for three whole months singin’, n’ dancin’, doin’ my stuff. I sang the songs that my momma used to sing for me when I wus a little kid, kinna like a tribute to her, since I hadn’t heard from her since she sent me on my way when I wus ten.
“I hung ‘round Dawson’s fer ten years after I came, n’ I left when I wus ‘bout yer age. Dawson says to me the day I decided to leave, he says, “Petey, youse gotta lot of talent,” He says jus’ like I says to Al. N’ he says, “I wish you weren’t goin’ ‘way, since audiences jus’ love you, n’ I guess I love you too,” Yuh see, he n’ I were kinda like father n’ son. But I had tuh leave, ‘cus my momma sent me a letter at Dawson’s (the lord knows how she found my address), n’ she told me she moved to California n’ found a job as a nurse. I guess she got better from what Samson had, even though he died. So I says goodbye to Mr. Dawson, n’ he gives me a hug and his telephone number. He says to contact him when I get to California, cus he wants to make sure I’m okay.
“So I get to California, n’ momma’s waitin’ at the station fer me. Even though I wus 20 years old, I cried like a little baby. I lived with her for four years, singing in the vaudeville circuit in San Francisco, n’ she worked at the hospital. That’s where she got the Spanish Influenza, they called it, n’ she died a couple days after she got it. I wus really alone this time: no momma, no papa, no brother, nothin’. I even called to check on Mr. D and they says he was dead too. So I quit my job n’ decided to take a train to anywhere it wus goin. I got on the train to Chicago, the firs’ train I saw, n’ I left. N’ when I got to the big C, jus’ as I got offa the train, I sees this little puppy, thin n’ bony, with matted n’ sticky hair like it hasn’t been washed in years, n’ I go over to it an’ I says, “Hi, my name’s Petey. Howdya like to come see the world with me?” N’ the dog, who I named Samson, went ‘round Chicago with me fer to find a house. I found a little apartment n’ I paid for it with my money I got from singin’ my songs (it wus a lot too, enough fer me to buy the whole thing n’stead of renting it). Samson n’ I lived there for a good long time, until my money ran out. I couldn’t go back to work since vaudeville had died, n’ I had no other skills. N’fact, it was jus’ about 1930 when I got kicked outta my house by the gover’ment. They says that there wus a depression on, whatever that meant, n’ I wus to leave if I couldn’t pay my taxes. So I moved downstairs, onto the street below my apartment, which is this street here, where you’se been sittin’ all this while while ol’ Petey tells his tale. You can still see my kitchen window, three stories up if you look.”
I sat in stunned silence for a few minutes, silently going over Petey’s eventful life in my head. How on earth could he live on this street corner, from the thirties to the sixties? 34 years is a long time to be homeless, I thought.
“Where’s Samson?” I asked.
“Aw, him? He died ‘bout ten years ago, of oldness I reckon. He wus my best friend, though. I wish I had a dog s’ good s’ Samson.” Petey settled down, humming a sentimental tune, and I thought it was time I slipped away. I tottered down the street, the heavy weight of guilt sitting in the pit of my stomach as I opened the door to my house. I didn’t have to live surrounded by cardboard walls.
It was a month before I saw Petey again. I didn’t want to go out and face him, after that story, without something to give him. So, for a whole month, I ate little and got a temporary job as a bookshop clerk, so I could save up enough money to buy Petey a puppy. When I finally had enough, I chose a friendly golden retriever from the pound, bought a blue dog collar, and arranged for a tag to be engraved with the following inscription: “If found, please return to Winthrop Street, Chicago, and follow the sound of singing”. I proudly walked out of the pound, and brought Petey his new friend.
“Petey, I have something for you,” I said, standing next to him. He had been singing a song from “Bye Bye Birdie”, a musical that came out almost a decade ago, when I let go of the leash and allowed the puppy to run towards Petey.
“Aw, Robbie!” He exclaimed as the dog covered him with wet kisses. “You ol’ softie! I think I’m gonna call him Birdie, fer the song.” He looked me in the eye, and I could tell by the layer of water in his eyes that he was tearing up. “Robbie, thank you. You been the nicest friend to me, boy, n’ I wish you get all you want in life,”
I walked away that day with a spring in my step. I had done something for someone else for once in my miserably pathetic life, and it felt good.
“Rob, you’re such a gas!” Linda cried, as she clung to my arm. Linda was a girl that my friend Andrew set me up with, and we went dancing. She seemed to me like a nice girl, but she apparently thought I was hilarious. We strutted down Main Street and away from the restaurant we had just left. As we passed Winthrop Street, something seemed amiss. There was no music coming from the man on the corner. There was no man on the corner. Where was Petey? I rushed down Winthrop street, with Linda reluctantly following.
“Petey?” I called, tapping lightly on the cardboard flap of his box. “Petey?” I heard a soft whimper in response to my increasingly frantic cries. Eventually I opened the flap, to reveal my old, disheveled friend, curled in a ball. He twitched, revealing his left leg, which had a large gash along it. Red liquid gushed out of the wound, which Birdie was attempting to lick clean. Petey looked at me with wide eyes, desperate and vulnerable. He had lost his air of intelligent toughness. Now, he just looked scared.
I felt the blood rush to my cheeks and my heart begin to pound. I felt like crying and screaming at the same time, which is what I did. Eventually I controlled myself enough to ask, “Who did this to you?”
“It wus them whitefolk, Robbie boy,” Petey began in a pained, weak voice. “They got me down, I don’ know why. They pushed me to the ground n’ stabbed my leg open. Said that a black man like me didn’t belong in this world. They says I was goin’ straight to hell, then left me here to die,”
“Who were they? I swear I’ll tear their heads from their bodies when I find them!” I bellowed. “Was it the Klan? Did they do it?”
“I don’ know, Robbie, I don’ know. Listen, can you get me to a hospital or somethin’?” Petey whispered, his strength fading. I really wanted to cry, to collapse into someone’s arms and cry like a child. But instead, I banged on every door in Winthrop Street, asking to borrow a phone to call 911.
I sat in the ambulance with Petey while Linda stayed with the dog back on the street. I sat in the emergency room while he was rushed into surgery. I guess they tried to sew him up, but he’d lost too much blood. I could tell Petey’s fate when the doctor emerged from behind the mysterious double-doors, still in scrubs, and shaking his head. I knew that Petey had died.
. . .
Petey was a remarkable person. He had the power to make someone laugh and smile with his songs, or reduce them to tears with his stories. He certainly got me to clean up my act. As I sit here in this office with its leather-covered modern chairs, its wide windows that open out onto the heart of Chicago, and the case file sitting in front of me, I realize how much Petey changed my life. If it wasn’t for his accident that night, I never would be here, staring at the backwards lettering on the glass door in front of me, which reads “Robert Weiss, Attorney at Law”. I run my finger along the glossy finish of the wood desk absentmindedly as Amy, my secretary, knocks on the door.
“Your Pro-Bono case to see you, Mr. Weiss,” She announces in her raspy, nasal voice.
“Send him in,” I say, as I prepare to attend to my client’s needs. I guess I can’t go back and save Petey, but I can save the millions of people like him. And that, I think, would have made him happy. A song pops into my head, and I hum it to myself. Ooh, Mother nature’s son.
