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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Drama / Human Interest
- Subject: Childhood / Youth
- Published: 06/20/2016
Little Tommy Pearl
Born 1951, M, from Wilmington NC, United StatesThis is the story of Little Tommy Pearl. “Little" being a misnomer, as “little Tommy” stood almost six and a half feet tall in his prime. He was always the smallest kid in school, up until the summer of his tenth grade year- so, little Tommy was stuck with a description that no longer fit, and if you knew him at all, that was so fitting. For little Tommy Pearl, was never what people expected, rarely was real life even close to capturing who little Tommy Pearl was.
I guess, for such a short life, it was a full life, and like a rich full meal, it should be taken in small bites to savor the full flavor of it. Each story should be served as a separate course, with wonder and awe, serving the role of fruit to cleanse the pallet between stories. Shall we begin?
Tommy is five years old. He is tiny. I don’t mean small. I don’t mean short. I mean tiny. Even though he was five years old, if he stood in a preschool surrounded by three year old kids, they would all tower over Tommy. Now do you understand when I say “tiny”? He is standing next to his wagon, a red flyer. Which, by the way, was bent and twisted beyond the ability to do its job. Just a few minutes ago, it had been a perfectly fine little red flyer wagon, filled with quart and half gallon glass bottles. Little Tommy had figured on bringing home at least 70 cents, if not a dollar or more from all the deposits.
That was until he came across the Meyers Boys. Now to say the Meyers Boys were mean, would be like saying a snake can bite, or a lion can roar, or women change their minds, or men don’t think, all true, but so obvious that most folks don’t realize the intent behind the banal surface of the sayings. The Meyers Boys were mean.
Oh, they weren’t brothers, not in the familial sense, but only because their brothers were other members of the gang. The Meyers boys were a small subgroup of neighborhood toughs. Petty crime to them, wasn’t wrong, it was simply a way to pad your resume, so that Vito Vince…yes, that Vito Vince, the one who owns the Import Export Business on 42nd street. He was a reputed Don, but not a reported one. People that pried into Vito Vince’s business, unless invited, seemed to have trouble keeping their legs, or thumbs, from breaking. Vito kept an eye on the Meyers Boys, because he recruited a lot of talent from them, as they got older, more experienced, and grew muscles.
Little Tommy stood defiant, next to his twisted and broken red flyer. He tried valiantly, but vainly, to stop Dickie Dent in the Head, from breaking yet another one of his glass bottles. Dickie laughed, as yet another one of the bottles broke on the cracked cement, and yet another slap across Little Tommy’s freckled face sounded like a crack from a gun. These were, after all, boys who had marched over the bridge of puberty to become man like in build, while still child like in their thinking. Fifteen year old, and sixteen year old boy/men with the bodies of Italian Statues, and the minds of eight year old bullies, that was the description of most of the Meyer’s Boys.
Oh, I know you don’t believe me, but here is a little anecdote that might give you some glimpse into these man-child punks. Dickie Dent in the Head, was 16 years old, six foot tall, 175 lbs, muscled and handsome. He had fathered two children already, the first child was born to his 8th grade History teacher. She was so afraid of him, that she quit school, gave the baby up for adoption, and moved to another country. The other child was born to his cousin, Sparta. Nobody said anything, not even Sparta.
Dickie had already been to counseling for his Anger Management, court ordered, when he beat a pizza deliver guy with a bat, for refusing to come in the yard as long as the pit bulls were out. The sad thing is this, Dickie was about average for a member of the gang. Yet, little Tommy Pearl, was standing up to him, and the other boys, furious, defiant, and fearless. Well, that is not quite true, little Tommy was scared, but that never stopped him from doing what he thought was right. In little Tommy’s mind, breaking a kid’s wagon, and smashing all his bottles, was wrong; so fear took a back seat.
Each time one of the man-boys slapped little Tommy to the ground, to the sound of the crack of a hardened palm, and the clink of shattering glass, Dickie and the rest of the boys would laugh. Sometimes, it took little Tommy a few moments to collect his wits, and clear his vision, before he got back up. But he always got back up. He got up so many times, that even Dickie was hoping he would just stay down. He didn’t. Finally, there were no more bottles to break, it was no fun hitting the little five year old anymore. In fact, more than a few of the guys were telling Dickie to stop, even they had some idea how wrong it was to keep it up. Even Dickie, to tell the truth, was a bit embarrassed.
Dicke picked up the wagon, one more time, and bent it almost in two. Laughing, he threw the twisted remains of what was once, a perfectly good red flyer wagon on the lawn behind little Tommy. “Drag that home, you little freak.” Laughing, the Meyers Boys went off in search of someplace to brag about how they broke a little kid’s wagon, his bottles, and his heart. Little Tommy Pearl, watched them go, tiny fists balled in frustration.
What he did next, is why everyone who ever knew Little Tommy Pearl, spoke about him with a quiet awe, a sense of wonder.
Little Tommy Pearl couldn’t straighten his wagon out, only two of the four wheels touched the ground, the front left, and on a twisted angle, the right rear wheel. He tried to straighten out the bed of the wagon by jumping on it, but he was way to light, and way to little to do much more than bend it a bit. He put the wagon upright, on its two good wheels, and picked up every single piece of glass shard, placing them carefully in the bent bed of the wagon. Finally, with the wagon full of broken glass, he pulled it carefully behind him, as it wobbled on its two good wheels.
If you saw him then, you would have seen Little Tommy Pearl, at his most determined. Red hair wet with sweat, and some blood, freckles covered with both tears and blood, and a look in his eyes that would have scared the Devil himself. He was marching towards Vito Vince’s Import/Export Business with the same determined step a proven warrior would walk into battle. Someone was going to fix his wagon, pay him for his bottles, and take care of Dickie. He marched on.
Vito sat behind his giant desk, which mostly hid his almost as gigantic girth. Vito was probably forty years old, but a made man since he was 12. He wore silk pajamas, and silk slippers, even at work. His office was carpeted with thick Turkish rugs, and was off limits except to a very select number of business associates, and his captains. That is why Vito was so taken aback when the door opened and he saw all five of his bodyguards, and his secretary standing there. Vito raised his quite substantial eyebrows, in question, without having to say a word.
“Boss, you have to see this kid. He is like two feet tall, all bloodied up, and he says you owe him money.”
“What kid? What money?”
“it’s better he should tell you.”
“Okay, bring him in. “
The bodyguards, all of them thick dangerous men, were smiling with their eyes, as they brought the little kid in to see Vito. One of the thugs came behind the little guy, and set down the wagon carefully, still filled with broken glass. Then they all stepped back.
Vito stared down at the little kid standing in front of him. In his brain he couldn’t imagine why a three year old kid with a broken wagon would want money from him. The kid looked like he had been roughed up a bit, but took it like a man. Vito liked the little guy, and that was even before the kid spoke. He was just as surprised to find out the kid was five years old - not three like he thought.
“Mr. Vince (and to Vito’s surprise , he pronounced it "Vhin-che" the Italian way) my name is Tommy Pearl, and your Meyers Boys broke my wagon and my bottles. They work for you, and so you owe me about a dollar for the deposits, and somebody has to fix my wagon. “
“What makes you think they work for me?”
“ Everyone knows they work for you.”
“Why come to me?”
“Because my Dad says to always go to the top man if you want action. You are the top man.”
Vito smiled, and all the giant dangerous men exchanged looks.
“What does your dad say about Italians like me?”
“My dad says Italians are just Irish guys who dress better and sing in groups.”
At this Vito and all his men broke into outright laughter.
“Smart man, your father. What else does he say about us Italians?”
“He said that if you go to the top guy, their honor won’t let them break their word.”
At this, all of the giant dangerous guys, and Vito- gave a quiet nod of agreement.
“So what word do you want from me?”
“I want you to pay me for my bottles, I want you to fix my wagon, and I want a chance to hit Dickie where you guys can protect me.”
Vito leaned over the desk”
“You want me to have some guys hold him, while you beat him up?”
“No, I want to fight him. One on one, I just don’t want him to be able to bring his boys against me later. “
Vito and all the dangerous large men, laughed again. Not at little Tommy, but at the scene they pictured in their minds. Vito smiled from ear to ear.
“Okay, one of you guys go find this Dickie guy and bring him hear. Now.”
Off went one of the very large, very dangerous guys, and he was back in just a few minutes with a very scared looking Dickie Dent in the head. When Dickie saw the broken wagon, the busted glass, and little Tommy Pearl, he had no idea what the heck was going on. So he didn’t say a word.
Vito pointed at Dickie.
‘Is this the guy?”
Tommy surprised them all. He reached up and grabbed a heavy crystal paper weight off of Vito’s desk. He smacked Dickie in the knee with it, with all the furry his tiny five year old body could muscle. It was enough, for Dickie bent to grab his knee, and when he brought his head down, little Tommy brought the paper weight, still clutched in his tiny hands, up to Dickies jaw. There was a solid thunk, and the Crystal and Dickie both fell to the floor. Dickie started to get up, but one of the very thick, very dangerous men, gave him a look and a bit of a shove, so he stayed down, kneeling on one knee, and rubbing his jaw.
Tommy went over and picked up the crystal paper weight, walked in front of Dickie, looked him right in the eye and said:
“There’s more where that came from, punk. “
That was it. The whole room, even Dickie himself laughed out loud. The very thick, very dangerous men, were holding back tears, Vito was laughing so hard that his face turned red, and he kept slapping the desk with one hand.
“If I hadn’t of seen it, I wouldn’t have believed it. You (and he pointed a thick finger at little Tommy Pearl) come here. I am going to pay you for your bottles. Vito peeled off ten bucks, and held it out to little Tommy Pearl. Tommy looked at it, and said:
“Mr. Vince, I only had enough bottles for a dollar, maybe a little more. I can’t take that money, I didn’t earn it. “
Vito smiled: “I understand kid. “ Vito gravelly peeled off one dollar, and reached in a bowl on is desk and counted out fifteen cents in nickels. “Here. Is that right.” Tommy took the money. “Thank you, sir. That’s about right.”
“Now, what about your wagon? You want a new one?”
“No, sir. My dad says all of your guys are strong and good mechanics, maybe one of them can fix it?” And little Tommy Pearl looked at Vito with hope in his eyes: “I’ve had that wagon since I was a little kid.” At that, all of the very thick, very strong, very dangerous men, smiled enormous smiles. Smiles so big you might even forget how dangerous they are.
Vito came around the desk, picked up the wagon, and dumped all the glass into a wastebasket. Then he bent and twisted the wagon until it was fairly straight. Then with his meaty fist, pounded the metal in the bed back to a flat surface. He put the wagon down, and had to give it a few more well placed punches, and the red flyer was pretty doggone even again. All four wheels pointed straight, and other then a few dents, it looked and worked pretty good. Tommy was pleased.
“Thank you, Mr. Vince. Can I go now? You have been a big help, but I want to buy my Mom some candy, and my sister a pop, and I want to get some things for myself too. “
“Sure, kid. You go. Don’t worry about Dickie, or the Meyer’s boys, they won’t bother you anymore.” Vito stared at the still prone Dickie who simply nodded.
“They better not. I might have something better than a paper weight next time. “
Little Tommy Pearl left Vito’s office to peels of laughter that lasted long after he was gone. At Little Tommy Pearl’s funeral, just 20 years later, the biggest wreath on the Altar, came from Vito Vince, and it came in a little red flyer wagon.
The End. By Kevin Hughes
Little Tommy Pearl(Kevin Hughes)
This is the story of Little Tommy Pearl. “Little" being a misnomer, as “little Tommy” stood almost six and a half feet tall in his prime. He was always the smallest kid in school, up until the summer of his tenth grade year- so, little Tommy was stuck with a description that no longer fit, and if you knew him at all, that was so fitting. For little Tommy Pearl, was never what people expected, rarely was real life even close to capturing who little Tommy Pearl was.
I guess, for such a short life, it was a full life, and like a rich full meal, it should be taken in small bites to savor the full flavor of it. Each story should be served as a separate course, with wonder and awe, serving the role of fruit to cleanse the pallet between stories. Shall we begin?
Tommy is five years old. He is tiny. I don’t mean small. I don’t mean short. I mean tiny. Even though he was five years old, if he stood in a preschool surrounded by three year old kids, they would all tower over Tommy. Now do you understand when I say “tiny”? He is standing next to his wagon, a red flyer. Which, by the way, was bent and twisted beyond the ability to do its job. Just a few minutes ago, it had been a perfectly fine little red flyer wagon, filled with quart and half gallon glass bottles. Little Tommy had figured on bringing home at least 70 cents, if not a dollar or more from all the deposits.
That was until he came across the Meyers Boys. Now to say the Meyers Boys were mean, would be like saying a snake can bite, or a lion can roar, or women change their minds, or men don’t think, all true, but so obvious that most folks don’t realize the intent behind the banal surface of the sayings. The Meyers Boys were mean.
Oh, they weren’t brothers, not in the familial sense, but only because their brothers were other members of the gang. The Meyers boys were a small subgroup of neighborhood toughs. Petty crime to them, wasn’t wrong, it was simply a way to pad your resume, so that Vito Vince…yes, that Vito Vince, the one who owns the Import Export Business on 42nd street. He was a reputed Don, but not a reported one. People that pried into Vito Vince’s business, unless invited, seemed to have trouble keeping their legs, or thumbs, from breaking. Vito kept an eye on the Meyers Boys, because he recruited a lot of talent from them, as they got older, more experienced, and grew muscles.
Little Tommy stood defiant, next to his twisted and broken red flyer. He tried valiantly, but vainly, to stop Dickie Dent in the Head, from breaking yet another one of his glass bottles. Dickie laughed, as yet another one of the bottles broke on the cracked cement, and yet another slap across Little Tommy’s freckled face sounded like a crack from a gun. These were, after all, boys who had marched over the bridge of puberty to become man like in build, while still child like in their thinking. Fifteen year old, and sixteen year old boy/men with the bodies of Italian Statues, and the minds of eight year old bullies, that was the description of most of the Meyer’s Boys.
Oh, I know you don’t believe me, but here is a little anecdote that might give you some glimpse into these man-child punks. Dickie Dent in the Head, was 16 years old, six foot tall, 175 lbs, muscled and handsome. He had fathered two children already, the first child was born to his 8th grade History teacher. She was so afraid of him, that she quit school, gave the baby up for adoption, and moved to another country. The other child was born to his cousin, Sparta. Nobody said anything, not even Sparta.
Dickie had already been to counseling for his Anger Management, court ordered, when he beat a pizza deliver guy with a bat, for refusing to come in the yard as long as the pit bulls were out. The sad thing is this, Dickie was about average for a member of the gang. Yet, little Tommy Pearl, was standing up to him, and the other boys, furious, defiant, and fearless. Well, that is not quite true, little Tommy was scared, but that never stopped him from doing what he thought was right. In little Tommy’s mind, breaking a kid’s wagon, and smashing all his bottles, was wrong; so fear took a back seat.
Each time one of the man-boys slapped little Tommy to the ground, to the sound of the crack of a hardened palm, and the clink of shattering glass, Dickie and the rest of the boys would laugh. Sometimes, it took little Tommy a few moments to collect his wits, and clear his vision, before he got back up. But he always got back up. He got up so many times, that even Dickie was hoping he would just stay down. He didn’t. Finally, there were no more bottles to break, it was no fun hitting the little five year old anymore. In fact, more than a few of the guys were telling Dickie to stop, even they had some idea how wrong it was to keep it up. Even Dickie, to tell the truth, was a bit embarrassed.
Dicke picked up the wagon, one more time, and bent it almost in two. Laughing, he threw the twisted remains of what was once, a perfectly good red flyer wagon on the lawn behind little Tommy. “Drag that home, you little freak.” Laughing, the Meyers Boys went off in search of someplace to brag about how they broke a little kid’s wagon, his bottles, and his heart. Little Tommy Pearl, watched them go, tiny fists balled in frustration.
What he did next, is why everyone who ever knew Little Tommy Pearl, spoke about him with a quiet awe, a sense of wonder.
Little Tommy Pearl couldn’t straighten his wagon out, only two of the four wheels touched the ground, the front left, and on a twisted angle, the right rear wheel. He tried to straighten out the bed of the wagon by jumping on it, but he was way to light, and way to little to do much more than bend it a bit. He put the wagon upright, on its two good wheels, and picked up every single piece of glass shard, placing them carefully in the bent bed of the wagon. Finally, with the wagon full of broken glass, he pulled it carefully behind him, as it wobbled on its two good wheels.
If you saw him then, you would have seen Little Tommy Pearl, at his most determined. Red hair wet with sweat, and some blood, freckles covered with both tears and blood, and a look in his eyes that would have scared the Devil himself. He was marching towards Vito Vince’s Import/Export Business with the same determined step a proven warrior would walk into battle. Someone was going to fix his wagon, pay him for his bottles, and take care of Dickie. He marched on.
Vito sat behind his giant desk, which mostly hid his almost as gigantic girth. Vito was probably forty years old, but a made man since he was 12. He wore silk pajamas, and silk slippers, even at work. His office was carpeted with thick Turkish rugs, and was off limits except to a very select number of business associates, and his captains. That is why Vito was so taken aback when the door opened and he saw all five of his bodyguards, and his secretary standing there. Vito raised his quite substantial eyebrows, in question, without having to say a word.
“Boss, you have to see this kid. He is like two feet tall, all bloodied up, and he says you owe him money.”
“What kid? What money?”
“it’s better he should tell you.”
“Okay, bring him in. “
The bodyguards, all of them thick dangerous men, were smiling with their eyes, as they brought the little kid in to see Vito. One of the thugs came behind the little guy, and set down the wagon carefully, still filled with broken glass. Then they all stepped back.
Vito stared down at the little kid standing in front of him. In his brain he couldn’t imagine why a three year old kid with a broken wagon would want money from him. The kid looked like he had been roughed up a bit, but took it like a man. Vito liked the little guy, and that was even before the kid spoke. He was just as surprised to find out the kid was five years old - not three like he thought.
“Mr. Vince (and to Vito’s surprise , he pronounced it "Vhin-che" the Italian way) my name is Tommy Pearl, and your Meyers Boys broke my wagon and my bottles. They work for you, and so you owe me about a dollar for the deposits, and somebody has to fix my wagon. “
“What makes you think they work for me?”
“ Everyone knows they work for you.”
“Why come to me?”
“Because my Dad says to always go to the top man if you want action. You are the top man.”
Vito smiled, and all the giant dangerous men exchanged looks.
“What does your dad say about Italians like me?”
“My dad says Italians are just Irish guys who dress better and sing in groups.”
At this Vito and all his men broke into outright laughter.
“Smart man, your father. What else does he say about us Italians?”
“He said that if you go to the top guy, their honor won’t let them break their word.”
At this, all of the giant dangerous guys, and Vito- gave a quiet nod of agreement.
“So what word do you want from me?”
“I want you to pay me for my bottles, I want you to fix my wagon, and I want a chance to hit Dickie where you guys can protect me.”
Vito leaned over the desk”
“You want me to have some guys hold him, while you beat him up?”
“No, I want to fight him. One on one, I just don’t want him to be able to bring his boys against me later. “
Vito and all the dangerous large men, laughed again. Not at little Tommy, but at the scene they pictured in their minds. Vito smiled from ear to ear.
“Okay, one of you guys go find this Dickie guy and bring him hear. Now.”
Off went one of the very large, very dangerous guys, and he was back in just a few minutes with a very scared looking Dickie Dent in the head. When Dickie saw the broken wagon, the busted glass, and little Tommy Pearl, he had no idea what the heck was going on. So he didn’t say a word.
Vito pointed at Dickie.
‘Is this the guy?”
Tommy surprised them all. He reached up and grabbed a heavy crystal paper weight off of Vito’s desk. He smacked Dickie in the knee with it, with all the furry his tiny five year old body could muscle. It was enough, for Dickie bent to grab his knee, and when he brought his head down, little Tommy brought the paper weight, still clutched in his tiny hands, up to Dickies jaw. There was a solid thunk, and the Crystal and Dickie both fell to the floor. Dickie started to get up, but one of the very thick, very dangerous men, gave him a look and a bit of a shove, so he stayed down, kneeling on one knee, and rubbing his jaw.
Tommy went over and picked up the crystal paper weight, walked in front of Dickie, looked him right in the eye and said:
“There’s more where that came from, punk. “
That was it. The whole room, even Dickie himself laughed out loud. The very thick, very dangerous men, were holding back tears, Vito was laughing so hard that his face turned red, and he kept slapping the desk with one hand.
“If I hadn’t of seen it, I wouldn’t have believed it. You (and he pointed a thick finger at little Tommy Pearl) come here. I am going to pay you for your bottles. Vito peeled off ten bucks, and held it out to little Tommy Pearl. Tommy looked at it, and said:
“Mr. Vince, I only had enough bottles for a dollar, maybe a little more. I can’t take that money, I didn’t earn it. “
Vito smiled: “I understand kid. “ Vito gravelly peeled off one dollar, and reached in a bowl on is desk and counted out fifteen cents in nickels. “Here. Is that right.” Tommy took the money. “Thank you, sir. That’s about right.”
“Now, what about your wagon? You want a new one?”
“No, sir. My dad says all of your guys are strong and good mechanics, maybe one of them can fix it?” And little Tommy Pearl looked at Vito with hope in his eyes: “I’ve had that wagon since I was a little kid.” At that, all of the very thick, very strong, very dangerous men, smiled enormous smiles. Smiles so big you might even forget how dangerous they are.
Vito came around the desk, picked up the wagon, and dumped all the glass into a wastebasket. Then he bent and twisted the wagon until it was fairly straight. Then with his meaty fist, pounded the metal in the bed back to a flat surface. He put the wagon down, and had to give it a few more well placed punches, and the red flyer was pretty doggone even again. All four wheels pointed straight, and other then a few dents, it looked and worked pretty good. Tommy was pleased.
“Thank you, Mr. Vince. Can I go now? You have been a big help, but I want to buy my Mom some candy, and my sister a pop, and I want to get some things for myself too. “
“Sure, kid. You go. Don’t worry about Dickie, or the Meyer’s boys, they won’t bother you anymore.” Vito stared at the still prone Dickie who simply nodded.
“They better not. I might have something better than a paper weight next time. “
Little Tommy Pearl left Vito’s office to peels of laughter that lasted long after he was gone. At Little Tommy Pearl’s funeral, just 20 years later, the biggest wreath on the Altar, came from Vito Vince, and it came in a little red flyer wagon.
The End. By Kevin Hughes
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