Chapter 1 THE BOX MAN
Clara, the lonely but seemingly content one, whose greatest pain was from the longing inside for some unknown. Hurt because she could not find the solution for her need, she went to meet the Box Man.
You would hardly notice him or think that he had anything worth giving because of his dirty, well worn sneakers and old but mostly clean looking clothes—definitely out of style. Standing there alone with the usual sad, drawn, “I’m in heed of love” look that she had seen on people waiting downtown. He seemed to be helping others who came along from time to time, giving them something that he pulled out from under his shirt. She had heard about him from the local Who Bodies (the ones in the know about all that was considered worth knowing). “I wonder,” Clara thought, “I he could possibly have something to give me?”
Upon approaching him, she was startled to feel and see how intently he looked into the eyes as if to figure out what was there inside a person. Although he looked partly shabby and worn from a distance, the love and understanding that showed in his eyes was all that she noticed up close.
“Would you like a gift?” he asked.
“Yes,” Clara said in shock that he had noticed her.
“What would you like?” he requested gently.
“See, I, well, I don’t know what’s bothering me. I need, but I don’t know what, so I can’t find it and maybe wouldn’t if I knew. I’m just not filled up inside; there’s a hole, an empty spot. I’m unfinished—just not all together—missing a part of me. I want to go to Heaven, I think, where I heard that all our needs will be met,” Clara blurted out, surprising herself with this unusual openness. Then she saw it. He grasped the knob attached to the top of a metal bin where usually a flesh stomach would b and pulled it open. The bottom of the bin must have been stuck to him, because it never moved. There was no way to see inside because his shirt covered the top. He reached in and gave Clara a small gift-wrapped box. She stared at it in disbelief, then looked up to thank him, but saw just the usual people doing the usual downtown things.
“Mama, the Box Man, he gave me this gift!” Clara quietly shouted when she got home.
“Put it under the tree with the other gifts,” Mama said gently.
No corrections for taking it from him, wondered Clara. How could it be O.K.? They never talked about him at home before. The Who Bodies downtown did. The stories she overheard them tell about wondrous gifts others had received made Clara think that it was too good to ever imagine happening to her, a considered strange, nobody.
Clara’s was the smallest gift under the tree. When she opened it, there was nothing she saw. Everyone else in her family was playing, laughing, enjoying their big gifts, while Clara sat stunned, staring into the air.
Clara said, “I quit!” Sitting crying on the floor, she hurt so much that the presence of someone standing near wasn’t noticed until he touched her shoulder. Just like cousin Warfield to tap gently with one finger so as not to be too much of a bother.
“I saw your hurt,” he said with his head down, occasionally glancing sideways over to Clara. “I picked you a flower and I’ve got part of this sandwich. It’s clean, I was just saving it for whenever. She left me. I’m alone. You were so nice to me before. I never, well, ugh, it’s different.”
Clara was scared to hope, maybe not scared as much as just tired of trying. So many years she had lived with the depression, loneliness, fears, guilt, deep anger, hurts over memories—inner torment. Now without hope of help from the Box Man, she left the house to join cousin Warfield, the only comfort she believed was left, on the other side of the street. Warfield, his mother's firstborn, on whom had been fought a bloody battle, kept a sad look in his eyes. His mother was forced to go to her only wedding to marry a man who wanted her, but whom she didn't love, instead of Warfield's father with whom there was a mutual love. She never said "I do," but her father said, "Take her anyway, she's ruined." Warfield's stepfather beat him into use as his personal and family slave. He got used to being hit, feeling unloved and allowed to eat so little that he was malnourished, but what hurt most was what his mother said the day his stepfather picked up an axe, vowing to cut off his leg for running away from home again.
Warfield streaked to his mother, telling her what was happening, hoping for protection and comfort. He heard her say, "Get! You never was nothin' but trouble. Go to mama's!"He stopped outside the gate crying with a pleading tome screaming "Mama, Mama!" She was the only person in his world who he thought cared about him or ever would.
"Get! I said just get!" his mother yelled coldly.
It was no wonder that Warfield, as an adult, was fearful, nervous, lonely, and so tired of his life, even if he was handsome, with an untouched groomed look, and intelligent with the highest degree in microbiology. Clara had heard that he desperately clung to his wife, who he thought wouldn't want to love him enough to stay with him. Frequently Clara had seen him downtown walking with her and overheard him pleading to find out what would be pleasing to her, only to see her walk on ignoring him as if he was of no importance. They say he bled inside from the pain of it all. The Who Bodies nicknamed him "Ulcers."
God made a little baby. He gave him such beauty. He gave him all His love
and they kept His love and crushed him.
God made a little baby. He gave him a life to live. He gave him so much love
and they kept His love and gave him their own hate.
"Thank you for giving me something. It really means a lot to me," Clara said cheerfully to Warfield
"I never am sure if what I have to give will be wanted. How do you ever figure out what to do to be accepted?" sighed Warfield.
"Some, seems like most, just know naturally. Let's go ask the Who Bodies," said Clara.
No comments:
Post a Comment