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| Augusta Savage was a Harlem Renaissance sculptor, depicting the struggles of the inner city gamin, or black poor boy. |
Gamin
Joe Redmond
Inspired by Augusta Savage
His brow hot and gleaming in the
sunlight, the boy hoisted himself up the tall chain-link fence. Behind him, the
faint twangs of the slick black buggies could be heard echoing across the wide,
draughted field. The links ratted in waves as he ascended the metal barrier.
The four-string banjo strapped to his back protested his violent movements. He
had a song, a song about the sweatshop from which he came. The song rattled
itself through his developing cranium, notes persisting as they collided with
the edges of his skull. He had to play. He just had to.
As he reached the top of the
fence, the energy to leap built from his toes through his thighs. Like a
bullfrog hopping to catch his prey, the boy flew through the air to the
yellowed grass below. Impact. Looking up from beneath his cap, his eyes
sprawled forth upon the open space before him. A slight breeze tussled the hair
that was the tall, dry grass stretching across. Wide steel train tracks branded
across the land, intersecting and diverging. A quaint tin shack was laid out
before him: home, possibly. Anything was better than where he came from.
The cool afternoon sun was
beginning the breach the smooth horizon, its beams warming the boy’s slick
coffee neck. He smoothed out his wrinkled shirt. It was his nicest one, too.
What a difference that had made. His tender hands re-formed the neat fold of
his unbuttoned collar. Collecting his composure, he straightened his back, and
fixed the strap of his banjo across his shoulder.
His banjo. In a sudden move of
panic, he moved to inspect his delicate instrument. The neck was cracked in his
hands; each of the four strings dangled limply from each end. It hadn’t
survived the impact of his violent jump.
The distant timbre of a train’s
horn sounded through his ears. The boy lifted his damp eyes from his forsaken
banjo. Away, he thought. He had to get away. He had to get home.
Silently, the boy set down his
banjo, his pride. He was always on the run. No matter how hard he tried to
impress and passers-by in the streets, they never appreciated his music. It
always sounded out of tune, they told him. But not to him. He heard it as
clearly as a waft of air after a long rain storm.
He needed food, shelter. No one
ever helped him. Mom and dad couldn’t. Maybe the train would. Maybe the train
would provide him shelter. Just maybe. Maybe he was delirious, but the train
seemed to slow down with his heart beat as it approached. Lethargically, the
train passed. His mind was brought back to the talkie he had seen once with his
grandmother just three days before. The reel sputtered and the frame flicked
across the screen as the people talking through the frame slowed down their
movements, their very liveliness. The screen, after that, went black and his
grandmother took him home.
Home.
He was on the train. The rickety
wooden floor of the box car welcomed him with subtle tremors increasing in
frequency. The sweat on his collar began to cool in the shade. The song still
rattled in his thoughts, but he was without his music. He tried to forget it. An
old, darkened man sat in the shadows. His scruffy voice projected from over his
grey beard:
“Keep runnin’, boy. Keep
runnin’. The path this train is on is a long one. It winds through plains and mountains,
forests and cities. Your home is somewhere on this track. Now, don’t you forget
when to get off. You shant miss it.”
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