“Well, I do! That old shit-ass ain’t got no business beatin’ on y’all the way he does. He works you like dogs and then wants to beat the daylights out of you. Somebody needs to give his ass a good beatin’. We ought to gang up on him and just whup the tar out of him. I know both of us could take him. You and Sam could both take him. Why don’t y’all?”
“He’d just take it out on mama when we wasn’t around if we did. Besides, I got a couple of good licks in on him with an old ax handle this time. He’s got a few pump knots on the back of his old nappy head,” Ben said laughing.
“Good. I wish you had beat him within an inch of his sorry old life. I know he’s your daddy, but he ain’t fit to be a daddy to you or nobody else. He’s gonna wind up hurtin’ one of y’all bad one of these days, and then who’s gonna help him pick his damned cotton?”
*****
Me and Ben stayed on the creek for five or six hours, not really caring whether we caught anything or not. We were mostly just trying to catch up on all the news since we hadn’t seen each other much all summer. I would make Ben talk about things he had been reading and try to teach me how to do math in my head the way he did. I could learn a lot more spending a few hours with Ben than I could in a month at school. Sometimes I wondered if he ever grew tired of my constant barrage of questions, but he seemed to enjoy them and took pleasure in telling me what he knew. There was very little quid-pro-quo, however. Most of the knowledge was transferred from Ben to me and I wasn’t able to reciprocate the favor. The only exception, was that I could tell him some news of current events I’d heard on the radio or update him on baseball scores. Even if he could have afforded it, I doubt that old Rube would have ever owned a radio. He much preferred to spend what little money and free time he had in pursuit of moonshine whiskey and women. Rachel Winston was always bringing Ben newspapers, but he usually stayed about a week behind on current events, due to the fact that she sometimes had to wait and bring a weeks worth at a time. But once Ben had them, he would read them from cover to cover, including the obituaries.
*****
When we had stayed on the creek bank long enough to leave without arousing any suspicion of my having played hooky from school, we decided to walk over to my uncle Joe Burt’s store and get us a bottle of Dr. Pepper and some hoop cheese and crackers. Me and Ben both ran traps up and down Mush Creek and always had a little pocket money from the hides we sold to Mr. Jenkins, our mail carrier.
There were always people hanging around the store, but for some reason it was especially crowded today. Old Jim Fuller and Mack Brown were in there usual spot, facing each other in cane back chairs with a checkerboard that was sitting on top of an old pickle barrel between them. They looked like Napoleon and Wellington facing off at the battle of Waterloo, each one rubbing their chin whiskers or foreheads in preparation of their next life or death move. There was another bunch of men gathered around the pot-belly stove, arguing volubly about something. The stove had of course sat dormant since the first of April, but they were still huddled around it like it was twenty degrees outside and the stove had a roaring fire.
“Old Roosevelt’s gonna have to do something for us farmers,” Bob Samples was saying, “he got that WPA thang a-goin’ to help folks that couldn’t find no job, but he ain’t done a dad-blamed thang to help us. I reckon we’re gonna have to all go to work for the WPA or else git on some kind of government relief. The TVA ain’t a-hirin’ no more from what I heard.”
I could tell by the look on Ben’s face that the wheels were turning inside his head and he was wanting desperately to say something. I was silently praying he didn’t. Some of these men had already lost their farms and others were one bad crop away from losing theirs. It wouldn’t even take a bad crop. Just one that was any less bountiful than last years. The last thing they wanted was to hear from an opinionated darkie. Especially one that was only thirteen years old. God had always been real good to me and had answered a lot of prayers, but apparently I was not in His favor that day, because Ben opened his mouth.
“I believe President Roosevelt is the problem and not the solution,” Ben said, as though he were addressing a classroom full of children. “You talk about things like the WPA and government relief, Mr. Samples. Where do you suppose the money comes from to fund those programs?”
Bob Samples just stood there with his mouth wide open. The other men all turned toward Ben and looked at him as if he was some alien creature from another world.
“Well,… hell boy. It comes from the government, where else? They print it at the uh…… at the, what’s that placed called Charlie?”
“The U.S. mint,” Charlie Stone answered. Charlie was the go-to man when it came to politics and the government. “What would a little toe-headed nigra know about it, anyhow?”
I was surreptitiously poking Ben, trying to get him to stop while he was still ahead, but I reckon the Good Lord had it in for me today. I was wondering what terrible sin I had committed that I hadn’t sought forgiveness for.
“But Mr. Stone, the government doesn’t produce anything of any intrinsic value. The money they print has to be backed up by something. They….”
“They’ve got gold in them vaults, boy,” old Charlie’s face was beginning to turn red, “that’s where the backin comes from. Don’t try to tell me….”
“Roosevelt took us off the gold standard, Mr. Stone. The government has to borrow the money and then has to pay it back with interest. Just like you do when you borrow money from the bank to buy your seed and fertilizer. The only difference is, you don’t have a printing press in your barn to make money like they do. If you default on your loan, the bank will take whatever collateral you have pledged. The government don’t have that problem. They just print more worthless currency, which deflates the dollar and causes things to cost more, and then try to squeeze all the tax money they can out of those who have it. And that number is getting smaller every day.”
“Well, them fat-cats up North and them big bankers needs to pay more taxes, anyhow,” Charlie said. “Their the ones that caused this Depression, a-gambling in that stock market. Now it’s time fer them to pay the fiddler since their party is over. Roosevelt is the only president we ever had who cares anything about the little man, and he‘s a-tryin’ to git them rich folks to pay up so’s us farmers and the little man can have a shot fer a change.”
The whole crowd started shouting their agreement with what Charlie Stone had said. Ben, however, was shaking his head and waiting for them to quiet down so he could speak again. I hadn’t realized until that moment that Ben had suicidal tendencies.
Ben spoke loud enough to be heard over the crowd, “Mr. Stone, have you ever been given a job that paid wages from a poor man?”
Charlie Stone looked at Ben like he wanted to run through him. “No, but what’s that got to do with anything, boy?”
“Taxing those who are the job creators even more is one of the reasons this depression goes on and on. They don’t want to invest their money in any type of businesses that might create jobs, for fear of onerous taxes the government might impose on their earnings. And you talk about men gambling on the stock market. Where else is the money to fund all these corporations that employ so many people gonna come from if there ain’t speculators willing to risk their money? Without them we’d still be livin’ like we did a hundred years ago. You wouldn’t have automobiles, or good farm machinery, or radios to let you know what’s happenin’ in the world.”
Ben took a long swig of his Dr. Pepper. Surprisingly, the men stayed quiet, waiting to see what he would say next. If I had laid down a wager, I’d have lost it. I couldn’t believe Ben had been allowed to talk this long without serious retribution.
Ben put his hands behind his back and started pacing like a charismatic preacher delivering a fire and brimstone sermon, “I believe, gentlemen, it all started when President Hoover signed the Smoot-Hawley Tariff Act into law. It raised taxes on things we imported from other countries b
y more than double. Well, those countries wasn’t just gonna sit back and let us get away with it. No sir, they wasn’t. So what they did was retaliate with some tariffs of their own. Taxes on cotton and other farm exports more than doubled. Automobiles made here in this country were taxed by Spain and Italy by four times the amount they had been. Then old Hoover decided he would go even further and start tryin’ to rein in the stock market. He thought it was over priced, you see. Didn’t believe those men that had created all that wealth was as smart as him and the rest of the federal government. So what did he do? He forced the banks to tighten up on their loans to anybody who was usin’ the money to buy stocks. He raised the interest rate on speculative bank loans. Now I don’t believe speculatin’ on stocks with borrowed money is a good idea, but if the banks wanted to risk it, what business is that of the government? When President Woodrow Wilson created the Federal Reserve, the government got the power to dictate what banks do. You see, when a government interferes with free trade, well, it ain’t ever a good thing and nothing good can come from it. But once we have a government that will give some people things they ain’t earned, it’s hard to vote them out. Nobody’s gonna vote themselves out of a paycheck they get through the WPA or off whatever kind of government aid they may be getting. Hoover’s policies may have been what started the depression, but Roosevelt’s easy money policies have just made it worse. ’Til the government gets their nose out of things and allows the free market to work, I don’t see things getting any better. And once they sink their claws in something, it’s nearly impossible to pry them loose. The great men who founded this country meant for the federal government to have very limited powers. If they could see how bloated it’s gotten now, why I reckon they’d all roll over in their graves. The sow ain’t got enough tits for all the suckling pigs it’s created gentlemen.”
Ben stopped pacing and stood still for a minute, waiting for a response. Incredibly, no response came. The men didn’t have an answer for the little darkie who knew much more than any of them ever would about economics, or almost any other subject, for that matter.
As I started backing away toward the door, I said bye to my Uncle Joe who was as dumb struck as anybody else who had heard Ben. We walked out of the store slowly, as if we had just robbed it or something. I kept looking back over my shoulder, expecting to see a mob with pitch forks and burning torches come pouring out of the store at any time. Like the mob that chased the monster in that Frankenstein picture show I‘d seen.
CHAPTER THREE
When me and Ben were finally a safe distance from the store, I looked at him like I would have if he’d just told me he’d committed murder. “Are you tryin’ to get yourself killed or something?”
Ben looked at me as if he had no idea what I meant. “I was just havin’ a discussion with those men. You might call it a friendly debate. What’s wrong with that?”
“I’ll tell you what’s wrong with that, and you should already know. To be so smart, you can sure do dumb things sometimes. You showed up a white man with all his friends listenin’. And not just any white man, either. You dressed down Charlie Stone. He’s the one all of the rest of them go to for answers when it comes to news or politics.”
“Well, Mr. Stone didn’t seem to be too upset,” Ben said. “He seemed to kinda enjoy the debate.”
“What else was he gonna do? He knew he didn’t know enough to put up much of an argument with you. Anyway, it’s not Charlie Stone you have to worry about. He’s not a violent man. It’s Bob Samples and those Bullard brothers you have to watch out for. The Bullard’s are members of the Klan, and I’m not so sure Bob Samples ain’t either. I know he despises black folks. Just watch yourself for a few days and don‘t venture too far from home.”
Although there was no doubt Ben was much smarter than me, or anybody else I knew, he still didn’t have much life experience. He believed everybody, with the exception of his papa, could be reasoned with. There was one advantage I had on him. Two actually. One was that I was white, and that was an enormous advantage in 1939 Alabama. The other was that I was two years older than him and had seen what the Klan and other rednecks were capable of. Not only to black folks, but anybody else who crossed the invisible line that they believed threatened their way of life or the proper way things ought to be done. What they referred to as southern Christian values. But I don’t recall ever reading in the Bible about Jesus Christ burning crosses in people’s yards or beating black folks or sorry white trash within an inch of their lives.
*****
Manuel Cruz had been living in Jones County for five years. As the Depression got worse, the government started illegally deporting Mexicans as the result of riots from white workers and labor unions claiming the Mexicans were taking jobs away from American citizens. The farmers exploited the cheap Mexican labor because the Hispanics would work for considerably lower wages than the white people would. After enough pressure from unions, the deportation began. Manuel found it difficult, as well as dangerous, to continue following the trails of the migrant workers and living in the hobo jungles.
Manuel had attended the University of Guadalajara and had been among the top in his class until financial difficulties had forced him to withdraw. Shortly after that, the Depression forced him to take any work he could find. Manuel had worked all over the Southwest and had traveled for three consecutive years to work the tomato harvests on Chandler Mountain, near Collinwood, Alabama.
Manuel found the farmers, and people in general, more tolerant of Mexicans there. Probably because there were far more negroes for them to direct their bigotry towards. He had met his wife Maria while working one of the tomato farms and had come to like the area with its scenic mountains, lush valleys and friendly people. When he was forced out of California because of the deportation laws and the violence that ensued, he began hoboing trains heading east. When he finally managed to get to Chattanooga, he hopped the first train bound south for Birmingham. He grabbed the few meager belongings he had wrapped up in an old carpetbag and jumped off when the train slowed down in Collinwood. He took up residence in an old barn he rented from one of the farmers he had worked for on his previous trips and began working every odd job he could find, no matter how back-breaking or dirty the jobs were.
After two years of very hard work and frugal living that would have killed lesser men, he saved enough to open up a little café serving Mexican food. Nobody in the county thought there was a snowball’s chance in hell it would ever succeed. To begin with, very few people ever had a meal outside the home. The Depression was in full swing and nobody had any extra cash for such frivolities. Another thing was that very few people had ever eaten the spicy foods Manuel prepared. But Manuel was savvy in marketing himself and his delicious dishes. On days when Collinwood was bustling with people, Manuel would move a small grill outside and throw some onions, peppers and different meats on the flames. The pungent aroma would fill the air and soon people who were downwind of the alluring smell would find their mouths watering and their bellies growling. They couldn’t resist the temptation.
Word spread rapidly, and it wasn’t long before Manuel had a thriving business. People who had managed to remain in fairly good financial health, despite the hard economic times, would sometimes patronize Manuel’s little café three of four times a week. Before long, wealthier folks from as far away as Gadsden and even Birmingham would make the long drive to dine there. Some came from as far as fifty miles away on the weekends. There wasn’t another restaurant serving Mexican food anywhere else around.
When Manuel saw that he might actually be able to succeed, he sent for Maria. They rented a little house and became permanent citizens of Collinwood. They were well received by most, but the hard core rednecks, of course, would never accept anybody who looked or talked different than they did. To them, they were just niggers with a little bit lighter skin. Besides that, they were consumed with envy because Manuel had become successful and they were living hand-to-mouth. That’
s what really caused them to hate him. Few realized how hard Manuel had worked and how he had lived off dried beans, tortillas, and peanuts for two years while saving the money it took to get him started.
Not long after Manuel opened his café, Ben was in town one day and decided to take a chance and drop in. He was more curious than anything and wanted to learn all he could about the only foreigner he knew within walking distance. He had a little money in his pocket and thought he might try something if he could afford it and Manuel would serve him. None of the white restaurants allowed black folks. The White Only signs made that crystal clear.
Ben walked in and was glad to see that nobody else was inside. The little bell above the door had tinkled and Manuel soon emerged from the small kitchen in the back. The first thing Ben noticed was the big smile on Manuel’s face that seemed to light up the whole room. He exuded energy like a lightning bolt charging the atmosphere. He glided effortlessly over to where Ben was standing with his hand extended.
“Hello, amigo, uh….my friend, how are you today,?” Manuel asked, as if he really wanted to know.
To Ben’s knowledge, he’d never shaken hands with anybody before. He slowly and tentatively took Manuel’s hand and shook it gently. Manuel had a firm grip and Ben noticed that his hands were more calloused than his own hands were, and they stayed wrapped around a hoe handle everyday.
“Hello, sir. I’m doin’ fine. How are you?”
“Good, very good, my friend. It’s good day, huh?” Manuel still had not completely mastered the English language at that point.
“Yes, sir. It looks like it might rain later, though,” Ben answered.
“That would be good. We need the rain to make the crops and flowers grow.”
“Yes, sir. I guess we do.”
Ben asked what he could get for a dime. Manuel motioned for him to follow him back into the kitchen. He watched intently as Manuel took a thin tortilla and filled it with chicken, cooked onions, and peppers, and what looked like mashed up pinto beans. Then he put some kind of sauce on top and rolled it up. He handed it to Ben and stood there, the big smile still on his face, waiting for Ben to take a bite. Manuel made a gesture, putting his hand to his mouth, prompting Ben. Ben reluctantly capitulated and took a small bite. He’d never tasted anything so delicious. He quickly took another bigger bite. Whatever it was he was eating was spicy, but not terribly so. Ben finished it quickly and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Manuel then gave him a cup of water to wash it down with.
The Sharecropper Prodigy Page 2