Steven Spielberg Pay Attention Here

by k.t. Frankovich

What you are about to read is a true story which occurred in the year 1985. My sole intent in keeping this written in the third person, is to represent 'the voice' of all mothers and children who are struggling to survive on the streets in the United States of America.

She wasn't much to look at with her small, shrivelled body slumped over to one side of the wheelchair. The shiny metal wheels reflected the brutal summer heat of the scorching Miami Beach sun. Like a lifeless mannequin, she kept her head locked into place, as if it could no longer be turned. The sea-green eyes stared blankly ahead. Perhaps, in an effort to avoid eye contact with those who looked away quickly.

The hot air was suffocating. She made no attempt to turn the wheelchair towards the air-conditioned Eckard Drug Store behind her. Instead, she sat there with steady trickles of sweat pouring off her mosquito bitten face. The dampness of her blouse indicated she had been there quite a while.

Traffic on Collins Avenue was always heavy at noon time and this particular day was no exception to the rule. One car after another, turned into the crowded parking lot, only to begin the tedious job of scouting for an empty space. Often the faces of passing motorists gawked openly at the sight of the homeless cripple, sitting mutely in her chair. Poverty was not a common sight to see along the posh beach resort. It was obvious some took offense, glaring at her in disgust. Never once stopping to consider, this land of the rich-and-famous just might be her homeland.

There was no question about it, her face was streaked with grime. Her hands had that obvious gutter look, unkept, and in bad need of a manicure. The faded, wrinkled blouse and stained Bermuda- shorts were another dead give-away. Even the bulky wheelchair had that stark, bare, cheap appearance. Nothing spectacular about it, except, for one curious oddity. Perhaps, the very reason no one dared to chase the loitering vagrant away from the store front entrance. For painted across the back of the wheelchair, in huge, bold, white letters it read, Property of St. Joseph's. Something, which caused many heads to turn more than one time.

It was all so startlingly contrasted against the constant parade of perfectly manicured hands, adorned in precious diamond rings, marching into the store.

The silver haired gentleman who stepped out of his Mercedes Benz coupe, didn't notice her watching him. He stuck the long Cuban cigar in his mouth, took a short puff, and glanced down at his Rolex watch. Quickly, he reached down and pushed the button to lock the door. It slammed shut with one swift shove.

He had that unmistakable Mr. Miami Beach look with his yellow tailored shirt tucked neatly into his white tailored pants. Even the expensive white leather loafers were the typical type worn by local residents. Luscious soft leather, masterfully crafted, by the best of Italian shoemakers. A fine blend of quality which offset the richness of his bronzed skin tan.

He hurried across the parking lot with the cigar crunched between his teeth, never bothering to look in her direction.

With her hand clutched to the arm of the wheelchair, she managed to pull herself up to a straighter position. It was pathetically obvious this was no easy feat for her to accomplish.

As he stepped onto the sidewalk, heading directly towards the parked wheelchair, he looked up and spotted her sitting there. His immediate reaction was to slow down his pace. Just as he was about to step out of the path of the wheelchair, she suddenly cleared her voice.

"Please," she said, in a voice so weak it was barely audible, "can I borrow a quarter from you, to make a phone call? I promise, I will pay you back."

He stopped abruptly. "Are you talking to me?"

"Yes," she answered.

He paused a moment before stepping closer to the chair. Towering over her frail body, he looked down with an expression of disgust. "Hmm..." he muttered, slowly taking the cigar out of his mouth. "You're going to pay me back, are you?"

"Yes," she said meekly. "I give you my word."

The very thought of it made him chuckle out loud. "Tell you what," he answered. "Why don't you take this instead. Here ...."

The instant the words escaped his mouth, he spit into her face. She flinched the moment his spit hit her skin and squinted her eyes shut. He stood there quietly taunting her, watching, as the spit began to creep down the side of her cheek. Slowly, she raised her hand and wiped it off. The muscles in her jaw tightened slightly as she slowly drew in a breath. Her eyes opened back up and looked directly at his smirking face.

"Trash doesn't belong on the beach," he hissed between his teeth. He triumphantly stuck the cigar back in his mouth, lingering momentarily, as if expecting some kind of reaction from her. But, the sea-green eyes were empty and revealed nothing at all.

"It's scum like you who are ruining this country!" he growled with thorough contempt. "Bastards! The whole lot of you!" Enraged by the very sight of her, he turned on his heels, and stormed towards the door. Upon reaching it, he grabbed the handle with a vengeance and swung it open, quickly disappearing into the store.

For a few moments, she sat there very still. Finally, she put her hands on the rims of the wheels and gripped them as hard as she could. Barely able to push, she struggled until the wheelchair began to move. Down the sidewalk she rolled, each wheel slowly churning in long labored squeaks. She never looked behind her and never really bothered to look ahead. Her empty stare stayed fixed on the path of the sidewalk cement.

At the corner of the building she turned and made her way down the alley towards the back of the store. It was a familiar route she had travelled before. Without the slightest bit of hesitation, she rounded the back of the building, and disappeared out of sight.

The area behind the store was empty, just as it usually was. She steered the wheelchair over by the side of the building and stopped it in the shade. There she sat for quite a while, staring at nothing in particular.

There was a sense of security in being isolated away from her own kind. No more embarrassed fleeting glances, or hardened insulting stares, insinuating she was presumed to be either drunk or drugged. The tragic irony of it all being, nothing could have been further from the truth.

Finally, she reached down and locked the wheels. Unable to stand on her useless legs, she held onto the arm rest, and slid her body to the ground. It was an agonizingly slow process. Her throbbing head pounded so fiercely, she could not hold it up any longer. So she laid it against the hard black pavement and began to vomit uncontrollably. Each new heave reeled her contorted body into excruciating spasms.

On the beach, at that very same time, just across Collins Avenue, a boy sat in the shade of a palm tree, nervously waiting for his mother. Quite a few beach worshippers had already passed by. Most were so caught up in the excitement of fun-in-the-sun, they failed to take a good look at the young boy. If they had, they would have seen the steady flood of tears pouring down his face. Or, the terrified look in his eyes, as he sat there rocking back and forth, hugging his knees for some kind of comfort.

His face was smeared with grime. Splattered unmercifully in mosquito bites. Even his bare arms were riddled with the ugly welts. His badly faded Miami Dolphins tee-shirt was smudged with stains. The little toe on both his feet, obnoxiously jutted through his worn-out sneakers. While, his unruly blonde hair was in bad need of a comb and brush, not to mention a bottle of shampoo.

"Oh God, why!?" he sobbed in a hushed voice, over and over again. "Why us? What did we ever do to deserve this?"

His suffering stuck out like a huge festering boil, begging for attention. But, no one took the time to stop and ask him why. So he suffered alone in silence, as he had done so many days before.

He was only thirteen years old.

Finally, he brushed the tears away and sucked in a deep breath. He squinted at the glaring sun and pushed the hair away from his eyes. Without any warning, he sneezed. He looked away and rubbed his eyes, sniffling once again.

His thoughts were saturated in too much pain for him to cope with, so he turned them off. He just sat there staring out over the calm endless sea. Not really aware of what he was looking at and not really caring. That old familiar numbness, which had become so much part of him, had mercifully shut down his emotions. He had submerged in the sanity of nothingness.

Perhaps, it was a blessing he never saw his old buddies from his former football team, laughing and playing down the beach, not far from where he sat. How could a homeless kid handle the shame of being confronted by the team which once called him Captain? Old buddies, who once looked up to him as the most popular dude around, honor roll student, the leader of his band. They were from the days of when he lived in a world that loved him. Days, which were long gone now.

Perhaps, shell shock can be merciful for any age.

Quite a while passed before he gradually became aware of how thirsty he was. He stood up and brushed himself off. His eyes eagerly scanned the parking lot across Collins Avenue, searching for signs of his mother. But, there were none.

The wheelchair was no where in sight.

His heart suddenly began to pound. Where could she have gone? Something must have happened! He raced to Collins Avenue and frantically darted into the traffic. His feet moving so quickly, they barely touched the ground.

Horns honked! Angry motorists screamed obscenities as he recklessly darted out directly in front of them. A clenched fist suddenly popped out of an open window and shot him a bird!

"Asshole!!" the word repeatedly echoed in his ears.

The chaos on Collins Avenue was short lived. The boy, driven by sheer human terror, bolted onto the sidewalk and raced across the parking lot. His feet automatically headed towards the alley he knew so well.

The moment he rounded the corner of Eckard's building, he spotted the empty wheelchair. His mother lay right beside it, face down, in her own vomit.

He knelt down beside her and gently turned her face towards his. The sea-green eyes he loved so dearly were closed beneath the lids. "I love you, Mom," he whispered, as he gently brushed away the vomit with his hand. "I love you...." The warm tears spilled over his eyelids and began to race down his face. Like tiny little raindrops, they fell from his face onto hers.

With all the strength he could muster up, he gently lifted her eighty-three pound body and moved her away from the mess. As carefully as he could, he placed his unconscious mother down upon her back. He took off his tee-shirt and carefully wiped her filthy face, making sure as he did it, the vomit was cleaned off her hair.

It was there in the alley way behind the Eckard's store, the boy lay down next to his mother, with his head upon her chest. A homeless child and mother, beside the wheelchair which read, Property of St. Joseph's.

© k.t. Frankovich, 1998