arrived. "Can you guys do the signs?"
I grinned and nodded. So did Tom Terrific. "I have lots of browns," he said happily, holding out his Crayola box. "Not even peeled yet."
Both Hawk and the bag lady acknowledged his statement with solemn nods. It surprised me. It surprised me that the two of themâa black man maybe thirty, maybe forty, years old and an ancient vagrant with her worldly goods jammed into a giant pocketbookâwith their different backgrounds, different lives, both knew what Tom meant when he said "not even peeled yet." I knew, of course. But I'm fourteen. I should have outgrown it by now, but I haven't: the feeling that things are A-okay if your crayons still lie in orderly rows, pointed at the ends, arranged by colors, a little rainbow secret in a box, and none of the tips worn flat yet, none of their paper coverings peeled.
Parents don't ever understand that. They
think that when your crayons are broken and peeled and stubby, you can just dump them into a coffee can and they'll still be the same crayons.
I wondered suddenly, for the first time, if Hawk or the bag lady had ever been parents. But it didn't seem the kind of question I could ask.
"You two Rembrandts get to work," said Hawk, getting to his feet, "and we two organizers will go out and give the marching orders to the troops. Tomorrow afternoon be okay? Four o'clock?"
"Sounds good to me," I told him, spreading my sketch pad open on the grass. I had a feeling that we were about to enter battle and that we should be whispering, "Synchronize your watches, men."
Tom Terrific hadn't been paying much attention to the conversation. He'd been removing his browns carefully from the box and lining them up in a row beside the sketch pad. But I noticed that now and then he lifted his eyes and glanced longingly over at the Swan Boats. One was gliding by quite near us, crowded with people: children holding balloons, a fat man aiming his camera (from which he'd forgotten to remove the lens cap; in two weeks he'd be wondering why his film had come back blank) at the ducks and water
birds swimming beside the boat, mothers jiggling babies on their laps, teenage couples holding hands, and an elderly woman sitting primly, wearing an orchid corsage pinned to her blue silk dress.
I saw that for a moment the bag lady, too, looked wistfully at the Swan Boat. Then she and Hawk walked away, her shuffling steps speeded up a bit for his sake; his long, loping steps slowed a little for hers.
Tom Terrific sighed as the Swan Boat glided away under the bridge. Then he picked up a brown crayon, frowned at the blank page, and began to draw a huge Popsicle.
To this day I don't know
exactly
how Hawk and the bag lady managed to convince eighteen female derelicts of all ages, colors, and intelligence to gather at four o'clock the following day. "Powers of persuasion, man," he grinned when I asked him, drawing out the word "persuasion" like a sustained note on a saxophone.
"Come on, Hawk," I said suspiciously. "Tell me for real. Don't put me on."
He chuckled and sank down in the grass beside me, arranging his legs carefully, the way a spider might.
"You got to observe people," he said. "I mean
study
them, man. Scrutinize. You got to figure out what makes them tick."
"How can you figure out what makes bag ladies tick? They all tick differently."
"Riiiggghht. So you approach them all differently. See that one over there? The one with the straw hat and the gloves?"
I looked and nodded.
"I been coming here a long time. I been watching that chick with the straw hat a long time. She's
mad.
"
"You mean crazy?"
"Nope. I mean
mad,
man. She's mad at the whole world. She's got a billion angries inside her head, hiding in that straw hat. You ought to see that mama kick rocks when she really feels the need to let loose."
"No kidding?"
"No kidding. So you approach her where her angries are. I told her, 'Lady, tomorrow we going to organize and we going to do in the sucker
I grinned and nodded. So did Tom Terrific. "I have lots of browns," he said happily, holding out his Crayola box. "Not even peeled yet."
Both Hawk and the bag lady acknowledged his statement with solemn nods. It surprised me. It surprised me that the two of themâa black man maybe thirty, maybe forty, years old and an ancient vagrant with her worldly goods jammed into a giant pocketbookâwith their different backgrounds, different lives, both knew what Tom meant when he said "not even peeled yet." I knew, of course. But I'm fourteen. I should have outgrown it by now, but I haven't: the feeling that things are A-okay if your crayons still lie in orderly rows, pointed at the ends, arranged by colors, a little rainbow secret in a box, and none of the tips worn flat yet, none of their paper coverings peeled.
Parents don't ever understand that. They
think that when your crayons are broken and peeled and stubby, you can just dump them into a coffee can and they'll still be the same crayons.
I wondered suddenly, for the first time, if Hawk or the bag lady had ever been parents. But it didn't seem the kind of question I could ask.
"You two Rembrandts get to work," said Hawk, getting to his feet, "and we two organizers will go out and give the marching orders to the troops. Tomorrow afternoon be okay? Four o'clock?"
"Sounds good to me," I told him, spreading my sketch pad open on the grass. I had a feeling that we were about to enter battle and that we should be whispering, "Synchronize your watches, men."
Tom Terrific hadn't been paying much attention to the conversation. He'd been removing his browns carefully from the box and lining them up in a row beside the sketch pad. But I noticed that now and then he lifted his eyes and glanced longingly over at the Swan Boats. One was gliding by quite near us, crowded with people: children holding balloons, a fat man aiming his camera (from which he'd forgotten to remove the lens cap; in two weeks he'd be wondering why his film had come back blank) at the ducks and water
birds swimming beside the boat, mothers jiggling babies on their laps, teenage couples holding hands, and an elderly woman sitting primly, wearing an orchid corsage pinned to her blue silk dress.
I saw that for a moment the bag lady, too, looked wistfully at the Swan Boat. Then she and Hawk walked away, her shuffling steps speeded up a bit for his sake; his long, loping steps slowed a little for hers.
Tom Terrific sighed as the Swan Boat glided away under the bridge. Then he picked up a brown crayon, frowned at the blank page, and began to draw a huge Popsicle.
To this day I don't know
exactly
how Hawk and the bag lady managed to convince eighteen female derelicts of all ages, colors, and intelligence to gather at four o'clock the following day. "Powers of persuasion, man," he grinned when I asked him, drawing out the word "persuasion" like a sustained note on a saxophone.
"Come on, Hawk," I said suspiciously. "Tell me for real. Don't put me on."
He chuckled and sank down in the grass beside me, arranging his legs carefully, the way a spider might.
"You got to observe people," he said. "I mean
study
them, man. Scrutinize. You got to figure out what makes them tick."
"How can you figure out what makes bag ladies tick? They all tick differently."
"Riiiggghht. So you approach them all differently. See that one over there? The one with the straw hat and the gloves?"
I looked and nodded.
"I been coming here a long time. I been watching that chick with the straw hat a long time. She's
mad.
"
"You mean crazy?"
"Nope. I mean
mad,
man. She's mad at the whole world. She's got a billion angries inside her head, hiding in that straw hat. You ought to see that mama kick rocks when she really feels the need to let loose."
"No kidding?"
"No kidding. So you approach her where her angries are. I told her, 'Lady, tomorrow we going to organize and we going to do in the sucker
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