The Sharecropper Prodigy (3 page)

             
Ben stopped pacing and stood still for a minute, waiting for a response. Incredibly, no response came. The men didn’t have an answer for the little darkie who knew much more than any of them ever would about economics, or almost any other subject, for that matter.

             
As I started backing away toward the door, I said bye to my Uncle Joe who was as dumb struck as anybody else who had heard Ben. We walked out of the store slowly, as if we had just robbed it or something. I kept looking back over my shoulder, expecting to see a mob with pitch forks and burning torches come pouring out of the store at any time. Like the mob that chased the monster in that Frankenstein picture show I‘d seen.

CHAPTER THREE

             
When me and Ben were finally a safe distance from the store, I looked at him like I would have if he’d just told me he’d committed murder. “Are you tryin’ to get yourself killed or something?”

             
Ben looked at me as if he had no idea what I meant. “I was just havin’ a discussion with those men. You might call it a friendly debate. What’s wrong with that?”

             
“I’ll tell you what’s wrong with that, and you
should
already know. To be so smart, you can sure do dumb things sometimes. You showed up a white man with all his friends listenin’. And not just any white man, either. You dressed down Charlie Stone. He’s the one all of the rest of them go to for answers when it comes to news or politics.”

             
“Well, Mr. Stone didn’t seem to be too upset,” Ben said. “He seemed to kinda enjoy the debate.”

             
“What else was he gonna do? He knew he didn’t know enough to put up much of an argument with you. Anyway, it’s not Charlie Stone you have to worry about. He’s not a violent man. It’s Bob Samples and those Bullard brothers you have to watch out for. The Bullard’s are members of the Klan, and I’m not so sure Bob Samples ain’t either. I know he despises black folks. Just watch yourself for a few days and don‘t venture too far from home.”

             
Although there was no doubt Ben was much smarter than me, or anybody else I knew, he still didn’t have much life experience. He believed everybody, with the exception of his papa, could be reasoned with. There was one advantage I had on him. Two actually. One was that I was white, and that was an enormous advantage in 1939 Alabama. The other was that I was two years older than him and had seen what the Klan and other rednecks were capable of. Not only to black folks, but anybody else who crossed the invisible line that they believed threatened their way of life or the proper way things ought to be done. What they referred to as southern Christian values. But I don’t recall ever reading in the Bible about Jesus Christ burning crosses in people’s yards or beating black folks or sorry white trash within an inch of their lives. 

*****

              Manuel Cruz had been living in Jones County for five years. As the Depression got worse, the government started illegally deporting Mexicans as the result of riots from white workers and labor unions claiming the Mexicans were taking jobs away from American citizens. The farmers exploited the cheap Mexican labor because the Hispanics would work for considerably lower wages than the white people would. After enough pressure from unions, the deportation began. Manuel found it difficult, as well as dangerous, to continue following the trails of the migrant workers and living in the hobo jungles.

             
Manuel had attended the University of Guadalajara and had been among the top in his class until financial difficulties had forced him to withdraw. Shortly after that, the Depression forced him to take any work he could find. Manuel had worked all over the Southwest and had traveled for three consecutive years to work the tomato harvests on Chandler Mountain, near Collinwood, Alabama.

             
Manuel found the farmers, and people in general, more tolerant of Mexicans there. Probably because there were far more negroes for them to direct their bigotry towards. He had met his wife Maria while working one of the tomato farms and had come to like the area with its scenic mountains, lush valleys and friendly people. When he was forced out of California because of the deportation laws and the violence that ensued, he began hoboing trains heading east. When he finally managed to get to Chattanooga, he hopped the first train bound south for Birmingham. He grabbed the few meager belongings he had wrapped up in an old carpetbag and jumped off when the train slowed down in Collinwood. He took up residence in an old barn he rented from one of the farmers he had worked for on his previous trips and began working every odd job he could find, no matter how back-breaking or dirty the jobs were.

             
After two years of very hard work and frugal living that would have killed lesser men, he saved enough to open up a little café serving Mexican food. Nobody in the county thought there was a snowball’s chance in hell it would ever succeed. To begin with, very few people ever had a meal outside the home. The Depression was in full swing and nobody had any extra cash for such frivolities. Another thing was that very few people had ever eaten the spicy foods Manuel prepared. But Manuel was savvy in marketing himself and his delicious dishes. On days when Collinwood was bustling with people, Manuel would move a small grill outside and throw some onions, peppers and different meats on the flames. The pungent aroma would fill the air and soon people who were downwind of the alluring smell would find their mouths watering and their bellies growling. They couldn’t resist the temptation.

             
Word spread rapidly, and it wasn’t long before Manuel had a thriving business. People who had managed to remain in fairly good financial health, despite the hard economic times, would sometimes patronize Manuel’s little café three of four times a week. Before long, wealthier folks from as far away as Gadsden and even Birmingham would make the long drive to dine there. Some came from as far as fifty miles away on the weekends. There wasn’t another restaurant serving Mexican food anywhere else around.

             
When Manuel saw that he might actually be able to succeed, he sent for Maria. They rented a little house and became permanent citizens of Collinwood. They were well received by most, but the hard core rednecks, of course, would never accept anybody who looked or talked different than they did. To them, they were just niggers with a little bit lighter skin. Besides that, they were consumed with envy because Manuel had become successful and they were living hand-to-mouth. That’s what really caused them to hate him. Few realized how hard Manuel had worked and how he had lived off dried beans, tortillas, and peanuts for two years while saving the money it took to get him started.

             
Not long after Manuel opened his café, Ben was in town one day and decided to take a chance and drop in. He was more curious than anything and wanted to learn all he could about the only foreigner he knew within walking distance. He had a little money in his pocket and thought he might try something if he could afford it and Manuel would serve him. None of the white restaurants allowed black folks. The
White Only
signs made that crystal clear.

             
Ben walked in and was glad to see that nobody else was inside. The little bell above the door had tinkled and Manuel soon emerged from the small kitchen in the back. The first thing Ben noticed was the big smile on Manuel’s face that seemed to light up the whole room. He exuded energy like a lightning bolt charging the atmosphere. He glided effortlessly over to where Ben was standing with his hand extended.

             
“Hello, amigo, uh….my friend, how are you today,?” Manuel asked, as if he really wanted to know.

             
To Ben’s knowledge, he’d never shaken hands with anybody before. He slowly and tentatively took Manuel’s hand and shook it gently. Manuel had a firm grip and Ben noticed that his hands were more calloused than his own hands were, and they stayed wrapped around a hoe handle everyday.

             
“Hello, sir. I’m doin’ fine. How are you?”

             
“Good, very good, my friend. It’s good day, huh?” Manuel still had not completely mastered the English language at that point.

             
“Yes, sir. It looks like it might rain later, though,” Ben answered.

             
“That would be good. We need the rain to make the crops and flowers grow.”

             
“Yes, sir. I guess we do.”

             
Ben asked what he could get for a dime. Manuel motioned for him to follow him back into the kitchen. He watched intently as Manuel took a thin tortilla and filled it with chicken, cooked onions, and peppers, and what looked like mashed up pinto beans. Then he put some kind of sauce on top and rolled it up. He handed it to Ben and stood there, the big smile still on his face, waiting for Ben to take a bite. Manuel made a gesture, putting his hand to his mouth, prompting Ben. Ben reluctantly capitulated and took a small bite. He’d never tasted anything so delicious. He quickly took another bigger bite. Whatever it was he was eating was spicy, but not terribly so. Ben finished it quickly and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Manuel then gave him a cup of water to wash it down with.

             
“That was delicious,” Ben said. “What do you call it?”

             
“It’s called burrito.”

             
“Well, how much do I owe you for it?”

             
“Ah, no charge for the first one my young friend. I’m happy you like.”

             
Manuel asked Ben to have a seat. What resulted was a conversation that lasted until supper time when a few more customers started to come in. Manuel was astounded at how intelligent this ten year old negro boy was. He had been in Collinwood long enough to know that black people didn’t have much of an opportunity for an education. Ben explained to him about Miss Rachel and how she was always bringing him books to read as well as newspapers. From that day forward, Manuel and Ben became close friends, despite their age difference. Manuel could carry on a more intelligent conversation with Ben than any adult he knew in Collinwood and both of them were interested in the same subjects. They were also both branded with the same stigma of second class citizens.

             
A couple of years later, Ben, Manuel and Rachel decided to form a little three person junta. Ben got the idea from his favorite historical figure, Benjamin Franklin. Franklin was also the man Rube had named Ben for. Benjamin Franklin Evans. To Ben’s knowledge, all Rube knew about Benjamin Franklin was that he once flew a kite in a lightning storm and somehow that is how electric light eventually came to be, or so Rube believed. Rube had also seen a few, very few, hundred dollar bills and knew Franklin’s face was on them. Ben had never been able to convince his papa that Franklin never served as president, no matter how hard he tried.

             
Ben had read Franklin’s autobiography three times and loved the part about he and some of his young friends in Philadelphia starting a secret club he called the junta, that would trade out different books and read them. They would then meet once a week and discuss and debate their views on what they’d read. The junta that Ben and his friends had created always met on Thursday nights, if everyone could get away. If any of the three couldn’t be present, the meeting was cancelled. This was the most enjoyable activity in Ben’s life and the closest thing to attending classes with people anywhere close to his intelligence level he had.

*****

              Ben had been counting the days and hours leading up to the present weeks junta meeting. He wanted to discuss
Up From Slavery
and how reading of the tenacity of Booker T. Washington had made him even more determined to find a way to get a college education, no matter what obstacles he had to overcome. Manuel had been reading Adam Smith’s
Wealth of Nations,
which Ben had read about a year ago and could spend hours talking about. Rachel was reading
Summa Contra Gentiles,
the best work ever written on Christian Apologetics, by Saint Thomas Aquinas. Ben had also read it, though it took almost two months. Discussing it and the book Manuel was reading could take several meetings. In fact,
Summa Contra Gentiles
could be discussed for a lifetime. Ben wanted to try and postpone those and discuss his book, since it was relatively short and could be covered in one or two meetings.

             
They had chosen this weeks meeting place to be held in the little office of Rachel’s father, George Winston’s cotton gin. Rachel had snuck her daddy’s key to the office out of the drawer of the roll-top desk in his study, and the three were all seated, enjoying the discussion of Mr. Washington’s uphill battles, when Ben thought he heard a noise like an automobile door slamming shut. Rachel quickly got up and turned out the lights, hoping they hadn’t been found by her daddy. They sat there silently for a minute, hearing nothing but the usual night sounds coming from the nearby woods. Suddenly, the door burst open and the lights came on. George Winston was holding a shotgun, along with two of his hired hands, who were also armed. When he saw the three huddled up in the far corner of the small office, he immediately told Rachel to get up and go wait outside.