The Big American I saw the big American, elegant in clothes designed for traveling and wearing a peculiarly un-English hat, emerge from Birmingham’s busy station in New Street, look around, take a firmer hold on his beautiful leather grip, and then walk briskly up towards the cathedral and the bus station. At the foot of the hill called Temple Street, he stopped. I stopped too, for I, like the American, had seen the urchin. He was a lad of perhaps thirteen, with the thin, undernourished look of a city sparrow, and hair which badly needed cutting. His thin body was stooping like a flower stem over the enormous suitcase, abjectly tied with dirty string, which he was endeavoring to lug up the hill. He saw the big American watching him and flushed beneath the dirt on his young, eager face, then he bent himself more earnestly to his task as though to fiercely discount any thought that it might be too much for him. The big American spoke in a way which suggested that he often carried broken old suitcases tied with dirty string through the more fashionable parts of town, making quite a hobby of it, in fact. He said: “I’m rather good at carrying these things, son. I’m gonna help you. Seems like it’s a two-man job.” He was superbly offhand. There was some sort of protest waiting to be born on the lips of the boy, but it was stillborn. He grinned hugely, as the immaculately gloved hand relieved his of a part of the string, and the battered old suitcase was swung between them. They walked up Temple Street together. The boy, shy at first, began to respond to the novelty of the situation. “You’re one of those Yanks, aren’t you sir?” he said. “Guess I am.” “Yes, I thought so.” The big American smiled. He caught the implication. Once they stopped to change hands, then the tan shoes stamped “New York” were in step again beside the boots with broken backs, whose only stamp was that of aching poverty. Amused glances followed them as they bore their strange burden toward the cathedral. The policeman on point duty gravely saluted them as they passed, but they never saw him. It seemed as if suddenly theirs was a man-sized conversation and, together with the large suitcase, needed all their attention. The boy’s face was animated, and he laughed. The big American’s eyes laughed too, although he maintained a becoming gravity, and they came to the top of the hill. I saw the boy draw a torn shirt sleeve across his perspiring face. “This is where I get my bus, mister. Thank you for coming with me.” “That’s all right, son. You know I appreciate it a whole lot, your helping me up the hill with this suitcase. It is sure a weight!” A pair of perplexed English eyes searched those of the big American for some trace of good-natured teasing but found none. “I didn’t help you, sir! You helped me.” “Listen son, didn’t you walk up that hill beside me?” “Yes - of course…” “And didn’t you hold one-half of the string?” “Why…yes…” “Well, then – what am I telling you? And when anyone is kind enough to help me up a hill like this one with a grip of this size, I guess I like to show my appreciation some way!” The boy really did try to impress this unusual American with his innate English logic. It was quite simple really. The suitcase was his, the obligation his alone. The big American was enjoying himself immensely. He insisted upon the appreciation – it clinked into the boy’s pocket – and the boy became speechless. He went away, and a moment before he turned the corner, he looked back to wave to the big American. His young face was flushed with an uncertain delight; and if his eyes were perplexed, his smile was warm and friendly. The big American saw me and smiled. “I guess there goes another Englishman who is trying to understand these Yanks… It was fun – and I guess he needed it.” And some time later, here in the once – orphaned British Mission, we toasted that “big American:” “our beloved president, Hugh B. Brown. May God bless him and restore him to our shores.” ~Edith Russell
Posted on: Mon, 29 Jul 2013 00:11:15 +0000
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