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Authors: Lois Lowry
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with the Popsicle cart. He's been taking advantage. Tomorrow we get him good.' Her eyes lit up like Christmas."
So did mine, listening to him. He went on. "There's another oneâI don't see her right
nowâshe has long hair down her back? Sometimes she has it tied with a string?"
I nodded. I'd seen the long-haired woman wandering around. "Is she mad, too?"
"Nope. She's suffering from a sadness so big inside her it's like a hog with the bloat. Full-blown deee-pression, man."
"What do you say to someone that sad?"
"I said, 'Madam, it won't change the anguished state of the universe any, but I'd like to invite you to a party at four tomorrow afternoon. A little music, a little cheer, a little action, a little celebration.'"
"And that worked?"
"Well, I'm not sure about that one. You can't win 'em all. She started to cry and walked away. But she may show, still. You can't tell."
"And you did that with all the bag ladies? You figured out what makes each one tick?"
He grinned and shuffled his feet back and forth in the grass. "Sounds good, don't it? Trouble is, it don't always work. That's why social workers throw up their hands, sometimes, and become computer programmers. You wanta know how I really did it?" He looked a little embarrassed.
"Yeah."
He chuckled. "Realism, man. That's the
real
power of persuasion. I offered a buck to each one who shows."
I started to laugh, but then I felt terrible. Most days Hawk went home with no more than a few dollars in his saxophone case. "Hawk," I said, "you shouldn't have. I'll pay, well, half if I can. I've got a little money saved up."
But he shook his head firmly and turned me down. "My treat. It cost me no more than a night on the town: a few beers, maybe a movie thrown in. And I haven't had so much fun in twenty years, man."
He unfolded his legs, stood up, and stretched. "Look," he said with a wide grin.
And there they were. It was four o'clock. Tom Terrific came running from the path, where he'd been playing with a puppy. "They came!" he cried in delight.
They had come: a bizarre crowd of mumbling, shuffling women wearing ragged coats and baggy sweaters, sandals and rain boots and knee socks and Supp-hose, flowered hats and hair ribbons and wigs. One of them was carrying a scroungy cat in a plastic shopping bag; its head poked out, and it surveyed the scene with crafty yellow eyes, but I could hear it purring.
Hawk came over to where Tom and I stood watching.
"Us three," he said, "had better stay here, I think."
"Don't we get to march?" asked Tom Terrific. He'd been practicing marching as we walked to the Public Garden from his house. HUP two three four; HUP two three four.
Hawk knelt so that he was level with Tom's four-year-old height. "We're the organizers, man," he explained. "But it's the bag ladies' war. We're going to stand right here to supervise. Your first job will be to hand out signs. Did you make enough?"
Enough? Tom Terrific and I had worked all the previous afternoon. I had taken them home in my backpack, and today we had taped them all to sticks. We could have outfitted the U.S. Army with signs that said BRING BACK ROOT BEER POP-SICLES . I pointed to the stack.
But Tom Terrific's lower lip was beginning to poke out ominously. His feet were moving in place: HUP two three four. Tom Terrific wanted to go to battle.
"Hang on," said the Hawk. "I forgot your badge." Quickly he took a marking pen and tore
a scrap of paper from one of the last pages in my sketch pad.
HEAD HONCHO , he wrote, and he taped the badge to Tom's chest. Hawk told him what it said, and Tom's lower lip retreated. He smiled proudly and stuck his chest out like a marine's.
"Now," said Hawk, "I'll get them lined up. You hand out the signs. Then you give the marching orders, Head Honcho."
And Tom did. He did it terrifically. When every bag lady was armed with a sign and in a lineâa straggly, uneven line, but a line nonethelessâhe climbed on a bench and called in a
So did mine, listening to him. He went on. "There's another oneâI don't see her right
nowâshe has long hair down her back? Sometimes she has it tied with a string?"
I nodded. I'd seen the long-haired woman wandering around. "Is she mad, too?"
"Nope. She's suffering from a sadness so big inside her it's like a hog with the bloat. Full-blown deee-pression, man."
"What do you say to someone that sad?"
"I said, 'Madam, it won't change the anguished state of the universe any, but I'd like to invite you to a party at four tomorrow afternoon. A little music, a little cheer, a little action, a little celebration.'"
"And that worked?"
"Well, I'm not sure about that one. You can't win 'em all. She started to cry and walked away. But she may show, still. You can't tell."
"And you did that with all the bag ladies? You figured out what makes each one tick?"
He grinned and shuffled his feet back and forth in the grass. "Sounds good, don't it? Trouble is, it don't always work. That's why social workers throw up their hands, sometimes, and become computer programmers. You wanta know how I really did it?" He looked a little embarrassed.
"Yeah."
He chuckled. "Realism, man. That's the
real
power of persuasion. I offered a buck to each one who shows."
I started to laugh, but then I felt terrible. Most days Hawk went home with no more than a few dollars in his saxophone case. "Hawk," I said, "you shouldn't have. I'll pay, well, half if I can. I've got a little money saved up."
But he shook his head firmly and turned me down. "My treat. It cost me no more than a night on the town: a few beers, maybe a movie thrown in. And I haven't had so much fun in twenty years, man."
He unfolded his legs, stood up, and stretched. "Look," he said with a wide grin.
And there they were. It was four o'clock. Tom Terrific came running from the path, where he'd been playing with a puppy. "They came!" he cried in delight.
They had come: a bizarre crowd of mumbling, shuffling women wearing ragged coats and baggy sweaters, sandals and rain boots and knee socks and Supp-hose, flowered hats and hair ribbons and wigs. One of them was carrying a scroungy cat in a plastic shopping bag; its head poked out, and it surveyed the scene with crafty yellow eyes, but I could hear it purring.
Hawk came over to where Tom and I stood watching.
"Us three," he said, "had better stay here, I think."
"Don't we get to march?" asked Tom Terrific. He'd been practicing marching as we walked to the Public Garden from his house. HUP two three four; HUP two three four.
Hawk knelt so that he was level with Tom's four-year-old height. "We're the organizers, man," he explained. "But it's the bag ladies' war. We're going to stand right here to supervise. Your first job will be to hand out signs. Did you make enough?"
Enough? Tom Terrific and I had worked all the previous afternoon. I had taken them home in my backpack, and today we had taped them all to sticks. We could have outfitted the U.S. Army with signs that said BRING BACK ROOT BEER POP-SICLES . I pointed to the stack.
But Tom Terrific's lower lip was beginning to poke out ominously. His feet were moving in place: HUP two three four. Tom Terrific wanted to go to battle.
"Hang on," said the Hawk. "I forgot your badge." Quickly he took a marking pen and tore
a scrap of paper from one of the last pages in my sketch pad.
HEAD HONCHO , he wrote, and he taped the badge to Tom's chest. Hawk told him what it said, and Tom's lower lip retreated. He smiled proudly and stuck his chest out like a marine's.
"Now," said Hawk, "I'll get them lined up. You hand out the signs. Then you give the marching orders, Head Honcho."
And Tom did. He did it terrifically. When every bag lady was armed with a sign and in a lineâa straggly, uneven line, but a line nonethelessâhe climbed on a bench and called in a
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