“LITTLE DRUMMER BOY” by Coralie Casey

It isn’t uncommon, in my country, to find a little boy or girl—or adult—or old man or old woman—standing at the street corners of the city, the weight of the sun or rain on thread bare shoulders, a windshield wiper clutched tightly in one grubby hand. They will wait for your carto reluctantly pull up, restrained as you are by the red light, and then they pounce. All of them are either gypsies or penniless foreigners, living with the illusion that they’ll find their fortune in a country teetering on bankruptcy.

Some of them come as if you’re the much-despised commander of an opposing army; they wield their wiper like a battle ax, their faces creased with weariness and stubbornness, deaf to your reprimands and refusals, wiping your windows and leaving streaks from their dirty reused wipers, as if their lives depended on the coin you will or will not give. Others come muttering gibberish through your open window, or tap violently on the closed door, or crouch next to you to check their hair for lice in your side car mirror. Some even come with a big broad smile that’s hard to resist, and bright merry eyes in a tire daging face (even harder to resist). Needy, desperate, weary, worn, lazy, beaten, hopeless, hopeful, conniving, hurting, yearning, they come.

A few days ago I was driving back from work and noticed, two lances over, a smiling little tyke waving his wiper like a baton—10/10 he’dqualify for the cheerleading squad—and waving his other hand at the drivers as if we were all old friends of his. He couldn’t have been more than ten. Not an unusual sight here.

One middle-aged driver shook his head and barked at him when he dared to raise his wiper at the glass. The little boy sobered and slowly withdrew, and I saw the man’s face soften. He rummaged in his carand then passed him his half-drunk white cup of juice through the window. The little boy gave him a massive gap-tooth grin and began skipping back to the sidewalk, the image of joy. Our cars pulled away, leaving behind a delighted little boy slurping on a strange man’s half-consumed drink in the noonday sun, and my stomach flipped with a full bundle of emotions that were overridden with a warmth at the still-living universal trait of spontaneous human compassion.

 
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