Chick Evens was walking home one evening, the fall of 1959, he was 12 ½ years old at the time, a strong looking lad, reddish hair, determined if anything to make a few bucks. His trade until he worked for the World Theater, at fourteen-years old was shoe shining, and he went to perhaps twenty-bars a night doing just that.
This one evening he had made already made $4.35-cents; he charged .15 to
.25 cents per shoeshine, depending on the bar, its clientele. He’d go into the
establishment, and like a psychologist, make a list in his mind, on what
approach to make, or better put, to at least figure out if he could outsell his
opponents for there were other shoeshine boys on the beat, so he kept himself
neatly dressed, smiled, and never argued about price, if he said 25-cents, and
the man said, it was too much, he’d say: pay me what you think I’m worth. On
another note, if he another shoeshine boy on the same Street he was working, he
automatically charged .15 cents, and more often than not got .25-cents, the
going rate. Some kids even charged
35-cents.
Not looking about and just counting and
recounting his money, on Rice Street, St. Paul, Minnesota, across the street
from White Castle Hamburgers, he smiled, he had made: $4.35, a decent sum for
the three hours he put into the evening. Dust had crept in, as his bluish-green
eyes looked at the coins once more, knowing he had to be home before 10:30, he
heard a voice, lifted his head, it was a demand,
“Hay
boy!”
shouted a white lad of about sixteen, “hand it over the money…” stern was his unrelenting
voice.
Then he sized up the lad, he was a head taller than him. And there he
stood with a hand full of change.
“I said boy, hand it over the money, or I’ll beat your head against the
brick wall.”
Chick Evens hesitated, almost in disbelief, baffled to say a word, then
as he adjusted to the surroundings taking in a deep breath, as if he had but a
second to deliberate and make up his mind to fight or hand it over, he couldn’t
run, he was cornered, said “No-pp!” and the boy stepped two feet closer, grabbing
his shoulders and pinning him against the brick wall; now things got a little
gloomier.
“I
said, boy…hand it over or…!” another voice came from behind this tall white
robber, it was a heavy voice this time—a strident voice, it had kind of accent
to it, and when Chick Evens looked around the thin kid’s lower part of his
right shoulder, he saw even a taller person than the white lad, a big tall
black man: it all became a bit dubious (was he going to
rob the tall white boy after he rob Evens, so Evens got thinking?) Inasmuch as that
was one thought, it was not his only; but often times when such things happen
like this, one swears—hours pass by, when in essence it is but a few seconds if
not minutes, yes, the time for Chick Evens to give up the money was close at
hand. But something magic, something peculiar happened.
“Leave
the boy alone…” said the rustic voice of the black man, perhaps a
tinge over six foot tall, and in his thirties; —as the pandemonium thickened
the ghostly scene of the evening—mentally for Evens—got eldritch-dark.
“You just can’t hear, can you, I said let go of the boy NOW!” and as the huge
black man was about to grab the white lad, the white chap turned about, his
eyes opened up as wide as White Castle Hamburgers.
With one hand the black man pushed the tall white lad away from Evens, like
a twig: making everything a tinge more dramatic.
“You
want to make something of this,” he asked the white robber, adding, “If so, let’s get
to it… if not then get going before I flatten you on the sidewalk.”
The white lad was gone, faster than a jackrabbit being chased by a wolfhound. The black man then turned to Evens (whom was more concerned about getting home than being robbed, or punched in the face)
The white lad was gone, faster than a jackrabbit being chased by a wolfhound. The black man then turned to Evens (whom was more concerned about getting home than being robbed, or punched in the face)
“You
best be getting on home, you’re lucky tonight.”
Evens thanked the man wholesomely, yet in disbelief a Blackman had come
to his rescue. It was the first Blackman
he had encountered, and it left a good impression, that has lasted fifty-six
years.
Written: July, 2006/Reedited 9-2016
