Walk to Beautiful: The Power of Love and a Homeless Kid Who Found the Way

by Wayne, Jimmy

  Finally a stranger in a black hot rod with loud mufflers pulled over and offered us a ride. I crawled in the backseat, and Mama sat in the front. The windows were down, and the cool night air was blowing in on my face as we drove off into the night with another strange man.

  I never found out for sure what happened to Leonard. Some say he died from complications stemming from the attack, and the crime remains unsolved to this day. Others say he is still alive, living under a different name. But I can’t help thinking that someone in Mama’s circle of friends knows the truth.

  THE CHURCH BUS CAME RIGHT ON TIME AND SAT IN FRONT of our house the following Sunday morning. The driver blew the horn as he always did.

  Mama staggered to the front door and yelled out, “We ain’t going this morning!”

  I heard the church vehicle drive away, and I cursed the day we’d ever moved to Vance Street.

  Five

  MATINEE MADNESS

  I TEND TO BLOCK OUT MANY OF MY MEMORIES OF VANCE Street because most of my early years spent there were filled with visions of violence. But I did have one happy experience while living there. When I was about seven years old, Mama wanted to get away from the negative environment for a few days, so we went to visit our grandmother’s sister, Patricia’s and my great-aunt Wilma, who lived on Hill Street, on the west side of the Loray Mill. Hill Street was just a few blocks away from Vance Street, but it was an entirely different world.

  Aunt Wilma was a pleasant and kind woman who always had a homemade cake sitting on the table. Her home smelled like someplace people actually wanted to visit.

  One day while visiting Aunt Wilma, a bunch of kids were playing outside, so Patricia and I joined them. A lady in the neighborhood gathered some of us kids together and said, “I’m taking my daughter to a movie, and you can come along. But first, you must ask your parents if it is okay for you to go to the movie with us.” Kids scurried in every direction, begging their parents for permission to go to the theater.

  Patricia and I didn’t budge. We knew Mama didn’t have the money for a movie ticket. Nevertheless, I wanted to go, so I told the lady that Mama wouldn’t mind if my sister and I went to the movie. We joined the other kids and followed the woman closely. Together we all crossed the busy street and headed up the sidewalk to the theater’s ticket window with our movie money in hand—well, at least the other kids had their money in hand. Patricia and I didn’t have a dime.

  The other kids excitedly handed the woman their money, and she purchased their tickets. When she realized Patricia and I had no money, she was a bit irritated. This obviously put her in a jam; she could either buy tickets for Patricia and me or we’d all have to walk back home together without seeing the movie. She had enough wisdom to know that she didn’t dare leave my sister and me outside while she and the other kids went inside to watch the movie.

  She eyed us suspiciously as she slowly reached into her pocket and pulled out some money. She handed the money through the small opening at the bottom of the ticket window, and the person inside handed her two tickets, one for me and one for my sister.

  We all went inside and sat down in chairs that were like those in our school auditorium, but it was a dimly lit room. Some people were already inside, sitting and eating popcorn and drinking colas while waiting for the show to begin. A beam of light came on from behind us and shined on the white floor-to-ceiling screen hanging in front of us. I couldn’t believe it. This is the biggest television I’ve ever seen, I thought.

  I sat there mesmerized, on the edge of my seat the entire show, with my eyes glued to the screen. The man on the screen ran down the streets of Philadelphia and up to the top of some steps, where he began shadowboxing. Children followed him just as we had followed the lady to the theater. The boxer held his fists high above him as if he had already won the fight. Children surrounded him, and the sound of French horns made me believe I could be him.

  It was the first time I’d ever been inside a theater to watch a movie and the first time I saw Rocky.

  MAMA ENJOYED MOVIES, TOO, I DISCOVERED, BUT HER movies weren’t as inspiring.

  Mama had a friend with whom she liked to watch movies. He was a balding old man, twice her age, who looked as though he could be her father, and Mama always acted like a silly little girl every time he was around. In the middle of the day, Mama took us to her friend’s house to visit. Some other men and women were already there. “Sit here on the couch, and do not get up,” Mama instructed. “You better not move,” she warned us. Then Mama and the old man and the others went into a back bedroom.

  Patricia and I sat there and looked at each other. We had no food or water and nothing to do. We sat . . . and sat . . . for as long as we could. Like most seven-year-olds, I had an extremely limited ability to sit still. I could hear a staccato sound, almost like a rattlesnake, or a ticking like that of a machine gun firing nonstop in the distance, and I was curious. I wondered what could be making that noise. The sound was coming from the bedroom, where Mama and the others had gone.

  Still, Patricia and I waited. After what seemed like hours, I couldn’t sit any longer. I stood up, quietly walked to the front door, and slowly opened it, careful not to make any noise. Although Patricia was only a year older than me, she often played the role of caretaker. “Don’t go outside,” she said fearfully, “or you’ll get in trouble.”

  I ignored my sister’s warning and went outside anyway. Once I stepped off the porch, I heard music coming from a few houses down and across the street. I’d never heard this style of music before, but it sounded good. I walked down the street to that house and stood in the road, staring at the people who were dancing on the porch and in the dirt of their front yard. A number of the dancers wore polyester pants and colorful silky shirts, and many of them had a lot of hair on their heads. This was my first experience with black music.

  Their bodies were moving in perfect rhythm with the sound belting out of the tall cabinet speakers in the yard. At one point a man leaned forward so low that his Afro haircut nearly touched the ground as he danced. Never before had I seen anyone move like that.

  They were dancing to the music of a new group that I later learned was known as The Gap Band. The dancers were having so much fun; I could feel the energy coming from them, and I wanted to be a part of it.

  The song finished, and everyone in the yard applauded, laughing out loud, hugging, slapping each other on the back, and wiping sweat from their faces. One of the dancers noticed me staring at them, and for some reason, I got scared.

  I thought, Oh, no; Mama’s probably looking for me. I ran back to the old man’s house and up the steps, quietly opening the front door. I walked inside and saw that Patricia was still sitting on the couch right where I’d left her. I noticed immediately that she’d been crying. “You weren’t supposed to leave,” she whispered hoarsely. I could tell she was scared and had been worried about me. She knew better than to cross Mama. “Mama’s going to get you.”

  I stood there in the living room for a second, and then, despite Mama’s firm instructions, I walked over to the bedroom door and turned the doorknob. When the door opened, the sunlight illuminated the room, and I saw two reels turning on a film projector that was casting a beam of light onto a sheet hanging on the wall at the foot of the bed. The sheet was a makeshift movie screen, and on it were naked people. There were also naked people in the bed, and one of them was Mama.

  “Get out of here!” Mama yelled loudly when she saw me. I quickly backed out of the doorway, toward the couch where Patricia was still sitting. A few minutes later Mama came out half-dressed, clutching some of her clothes to her chest. She was not happy.

  “Come on, let’s go!” She nodded toward the door.

  Matinee madness was over; it was time to go back to Vance Street.

  Six

  HANGOVER STREET

  WE MOVED A LOT WHEN I WAS A LITTLE BOY, MOSTLY within a twenty-mile radius and usually every time Mama ran out of rent money. Althoug
h we were flat broke, Mama always worked out some way to satisfy the landlord, even if it didn’t last for long.

  Not surprisingly, when our landlord evicted us from our house on Vance Street in the middle of the winter, we didn’t move far—just a short distance away to Hanover Street, which wasn’t exactly a step up. Mama negotiated with a landlord who allowed us to live in an empty mill house, but we couldn’t afford to pay the gas bill, so there was no heat. A wood-frame mill house without heat in the winter affects the body much like rigor mortis does after a person has been dead three hours, only quicker. The cold seeps through the floors, walls, and windows into your skin, chilling to the core of every bone in your already cold body.

  Pipes burst under the house and kitchen sink. Doorknobs felt ice-cold, almost sticking to my hand when I tried to turn them. Even the water in the toilet bowl froze like a mini ice skating rink.

  Mama persuaded some of her Vance Street cohorts to haul our few possessions and what little furniture we owned to Hanover Street. That was the good news. We now at least had blankets and a bed. The bad news? Mama’s shady friends now knew where to find her, and they did. Often.

  Eventually Mama scrounged up enough money to get the gas turned on, and almost immediately our house became the favorite party spot, especially on weekends. Mama’s friends brought booze and drugs, and they began piling in every Friday before dusk. They partied late into the night, winding down early Saturday morning, and then starting up again Saturday afternoon. Mama soon began referring to Hanover Street as Hangover Street.

  Sloan was a newbie who came around on Fridays, always with a pocketful of cash and some alcoholic beverages to drink. Straight, relatively conservative, and clean-cut, Sloan’s short haircut made him an obvious target for the roughhousing hippies. After they’d all been drinking heavily and smoking pot for a few hours, a few wild and crazy hippies grabbed Sloan and held his arms and legs while another drunk or druggie peeled off Sloan’s clothes. Sloan put up good fight, kicking and screaming, but he was no match for the thugs.

  Laughing uproariously and yelling the entire time, between gulps of beer or whiskey, the bullies stripped Sloan naked and then bound his hands and ankles with duct tape. One of them continued taping Sloan’s legs together as the others helped hold his body. Together, they circled that roll of duct tape around and around his entire body from his feet up to his neck, wrapping him like a mummy.

  Sloan begged Mama to make them stop, but she thought it was funny. The hippies continued torturing Sloan by tickling him and doing obscene acts to his body parts. Finally, before things turned more violent, Mama yelled, “Okay, that’s enough! Leave him alone.” The drunks and druggies laughed and rolled Sloan onto the floor, where they left him, “accidentally” tripping over him each time they caroused through the room.

  At some point one of the dopers had mercy on Sloan—well, a warped sort of mercy, anyhow—ripping the duct tape off his hairy body. Ironically, Sloan came back for more abuse every weekend. I guess he figured a painful acceptance was better than none at all.

  ONCE MAMA’S FRIENDS ARRIVED ON FRIDAY, ANY FOOD WE might have had in the cupboards or in the refrigerator disappeared. The freeloaders scarfed up every morsel, regardless of how hungry Patricia or I might be. By Saturday they had eaten everything in sight, but since they were so high, nobody seemed concerned about going out for food. And nobody noticed that Patricia and I hadn’t eaten since our last meal at the school cafeteria through the free lunch program.

  With my stomach growling, I came up with an idea of how to get food for my sister and me. I watched Sloan and the others drink until they passed out. When I was certain they were blitzed, I slid my hand down into their pants pockets and removed all their beer money. Saturday morning, while they remained hung over, I walked down the street to a small mom-and-pop convenience store, where I bought hot dogs and drinks.

  Even at seven and eight years old, I knew that if I didn’t do something, Patricia and I would not eat until we went back to school on Monday. So as I grew more street-smart, I also became more skilled at relieving the drunks and druggies of their excess cash. Sometimes, I intentionally bumped into one of the inebriated bums while he was still awake. He’d think it was an accident and throw his hands in the air. I’d run around him a few times, and before he realized what was happening, my hand was in and out of his pocket.

  Duct-taped Sloan was an easy mark. He foolishly carried an entire week’s worth of pay in his pants pockets. Usually by about three in the morning, whatever money he hadn’t spent on alcohol was mine. I’m not proud of stealing, but it was a means of survival.

  Getting robbed and duct taped didn’t deter Sloan from coming back to Hanover Street. But one night after the dopers taped Sloan, one of them punched and kicked him as he lay on the floor. Another jumped on him and did worse. Sloan squalled from the floor, begging Mama to stop the abuse, but Mama couldn’t help him. Another druggie placed a piece of duct tape over Sloan’s mouth, and the bullies continued beating him. When they had satisfied their bloodlust, they left Sloan lying on the floor, still taped, tears streaming down his face. It was sick.

  I felt sorry for Sloan and guilty that I had taken his money, but it was too late, and there was nothing I could do. I had spent his beer money on food. I thought about trying to pay him back, but after that humiliating beating, Sloan never returned to our house again.

  PATRICIA AND I ATTENDED WOODHILL ELEMENTARY. I WAS a slow student, not because I wasn’t bright but because I had too many other things on my mind besides learning about Dick and Jane. To me, school was just another place to eat a free lunch and play dodgeball.

  One day my second grade teacher made me stay after school but wouldn’t explain why. When she finished her duties, she told me to get in her car; she wanted to drive me home. On the way to my house, she lit a cigarette and took a few draws.

  I spoke up and reminded her of what she’d said earlier that day: smoking is harmful to your health.

  She looked over at me and rolled her eyes. “You’re right,” she said. But she continued smoking.

  When she pulled in our driveway, she snuffed out her cigarette, got out of the car, and walked to the front door with me. She asked if she could speak to my mom. I opened the front door, invited the teacher inside, and yelled for Mama.

  The moment Mama saw the teacher, she assumed I had done something wrong. “Whatcha done now?” she yelled at me, her eyes flashing, right in front of my teacher.

  The teacher intervened. “Jimmy hasn’t done anything wrong, ma’am,” she said flatly. “Look at his shoes.”

  The three of us simultaneously looked down at my feet. The entire front of my shoe was torn open, and my dirty sock was exposed. I had been wearing those shoes for several months, and the kids in class had been making fun of me. I had become oblivious to their comments, but the teacher had not.

  She glared at Mama and said, “Go buy your kid a pair of shoes.” The teacher turned on her heels and walked out of the house. I didn’t realize the significance of the teacher’s words, but Mama recognized that the teacher was not making a suggestion; she was issuing a warning.

  I’m not sure where Mama got the money, but a few days later I got a new pair of white tennis shoes with black stripes on the side. I thought surely those shoes would make the kids stop picking on me. When I showed up at school, wearing my new shoes, one of the kids pointed at them and started laughing. “Those aren’t real,” he told everyone in the class. I didn’t understand what he was talking about; the shoes felt real to me.

  But apparently my new shoes were Adidas knockoffs. Some of the kids who were sitting near me got up out of their desks and ran to the other side of the room, as if my new, cheap shoes had cooties. Ironically, most of the kids in my class were poor, so why they would make fun of my shoes never made sense to me.

  But those knockoff Adidases did one thing for me that none of my detractors could deny. Perhaps to help ease my pain at being teased by our peers, A
nne, a fellow second-grader who lived next door and was the love of my young life, laid a big kiss on me.

  She and I were playing inside a cardboard box I’d found behind a factory near her house and dragged into her front yard. We had gotten inside the box and were just sitting quietly, staring at the walls. Anne leaned over and put her lips on mine. When she finished kissing me, we sat there again, awkwardly looking away from each other. I couldn’t believe what had just happened, but I knew I wanted to do it again!

  Seven

  GHOST TALES

  POVERTY IS A RELATIVE THING. WHEN WE MOVED FROM Hanover Street to Pine Manor Apartments in Kings Mountain, North Carolina, it was the first time I had ever lived in an apartment. I couldn’t believe the luxury! We had heat and air conditioning, running water, and electricity, and the apartment complex had its own Laundromat that also served as the school bus stop during the winter.

  I was afraid to go inside the Laundromat, and I didn’t most of the time unless it was freezing cold outside. Then I would go inside and stand in a corner, where I could remain inconspicuous, staring through the window toward our apartment door, down the hill.

  One morning a few of the bigger kids wrestled a smaller boy into one of the dryers and held the door closed while one of the bullies put a quarter in the slot and turned the machine on. Everyone laughed as the boy rotated around inside that hot tumbler as he tried hard to brace himself with his feet and hands. But the dryer eventually turned hot, and he lost his grip, bouncing around like a Ping-Pong ball, the dryer fins beating up the kid something awful with every rotation. When the bullies finally pulled him out, the young boy was burned and bruised. Being of small stature myself, I decided to wait for the school bus outside in the cold from then on.