The
Story of Shorty
by Kylie Hammons
Shorty usually staked a claim on the street in front of an Italian restaurant
and market. As we neared, he would emerge from the shadows shuffling towards us
with chocolate in hand calling out, "amigos, amigos!" We were easy money for
Shorty. We always emptied our pockets for him and rarely asked for chocolate in
return. Our change barely seemed sufficient compared to the joy that Shorty
brought us with each encounter.
When we first encountered Alex, he was among a group of children selling
postcards and chocolate bars to tourists on the streets of Cusco, Peru. One
could not avoid being offered any number of items ranging from hand-knitted
mittens and scarves to cigarettes and calling cards. We had been warned of the
tenacity of these people and soon learned that "no" rarely sufficed as an
answer.
Alex was the youngest and smallest of the group. His straight dark hair fell
over the tops of his ears, but was neatly cut in front. His cheeks were slightly
burned from exposure to an unforgiving sun and his brown eyes sparkled with
youthful curiosity. Alex wore loose sweat pants and a hooded sweatshirt that
seemed to swallow his small body. We immediately pinned him "Shorty" as he was
only half the size of his peers.
Greg and I exchanged smiles as we looked down upon this young, adoring child. He
peered at us from waist level with his arm fully extended, chocolate in hand.
Though we were growing accustomed to ignoring the offers of the countless
vendors on the street, the brilliant sparkle in this young boy's eye was simply
irresistible. All we could do was laugh as the adorable boy held the chocolate
bar snugly against my friend's belly. With Shorty laughing and smiling amid
cries of "Choc-o-late," Greg attempted to thwart his efforts by placing his head
atop Shorty's head. It only made the moment more memorable as we watched the
child half his size driving Greg backwards with a bar of chocolate and Greg's
hand atop his head.
On one occasion, Alex joined our group of American and European travelers as we
left the pub. Greg and I welcomed him with resounding cheers, lifting the young
boy high into the air and spinning him wildly as he erupted in playful screams.
I watched the confused look on the faces of our company as Greg swung the
squealing boy onto his shoulders and raced across the plaza. With his friends
trailing jealously behind us, Shorty abandoned the evening's work of selling
chocolate for shoulder rides, belly tickling and fervent horseplay.
Though we wanted to think of Shorty as an innocent, happy child, we were
reminded several times of the rough and tumble lifestyle that our young friend
lived. I remember watching two of these street kids, barely ten years old,
slugging it out on the street like boozers brawling at a bar and feeling fearful
for my little friend. Was he capable of such wicked behavior and brutality? A
child his age should be concerned with baseball cards and cartoons, not slug
fests and swindling. Who would allow a child to be subjected to such dangers?
I worried that Shorty was raising himself on the streets like the packs of
children I saw in the late hours of the night in Buenos Aires, Argentina. I had
witnessed the delinquent behavior of these unsupervised hooligans, forced to
fend for themselves though a life of survival on the streets. I had seen the
shroud of hopelessness that hung over those disadvantaged children and I tried
to dispel images of a teenage Alex intertwined in crime and drugs.
We struggled to accept our inability to change life for Alex. We spoke dreamily
of taking him back to the States with us in order to offer him more
opportunities than were presented by life on Cusco's streets. It was never more
apparent how powerless we were over the situation than those few occasions that
we encountered a different Alex selling chocolate bars.
With his hair a mess, his cheeks red and swollen, tattered clothes and his
innocent smile replaced by a desperate scowl, this Alex was less reluctant to
accept our good will. Our young friend appeared to be suffering from lack of
sleep. His friendly, attractive characteristics were gone, replaced by spite and
scorn.
Sometimes we went days without spotting Shorty and it was at those times that we
grew the most uneasy. I tried to avoid pondering the reasons for his absence
from the street front outside the Italian restaurant and market. Luckily, Shorty
always appeared eventually, reluctant to divulge much information about his
whereabouts.
Over a three-week period, Cusco served as our base for trips to the Manu jungle,
Bolivia and the Inca ruins of Machu Picchu. When our final day arrived we found
ourselves saying goodbye to a host of friends. None would be more difficult to
leave than Alex. After weeks of joking that we would adopt him or leave him with
a handsome gift, the time actually came to say goodbye.
Alex was no where to be found when we arrived at the Italian restaurant. We gave
up our search reluctantly and I felt a tinge of sadness as we crossed the Plaza
de Arms in Cusco for the last time and without having said goodbye to our young
friend. So you can imagine my delight when my ears picked up the cries of
"amigos, amigos!"
Our young friend scurried toward us with a glowing smile, gleaming eyes and his
usual box of chocolate. When asked if he was hungry, Shorty nodded with
enthusiastic approval. "Pizza, pizza," he answered, motioning towards the
Italian restaurant with its red drapes and signs advertising Italian delicacies.
Without any debate, the three of us entered the restaurant, the smell of garlic
and wine tickling our senses and Shorty grinning excitedly as he carried his box
of chocolates to the table.
We learned a lot about Shorty during that last night together. Though he
insisted his name was Michael Jackson, he still responded to Alex. He told us he
was seven years old and had six siblings, all of whom work on the streets, the
oldest at 26 selling walking sticks to tourists. We were pleased to learn that
Alex attends school every morning in the mountains outside of Cusco where he
lives. Then Alex brings his box of chocolate on a
75 cent cab ride down to the Plaza de Arms where he spends most night on the
streets of Cusco until 1am before catching a taxi home alone.
At seven years old, Alex was fully responsible for himself during those late
hours spent selling chocolate on cold, dangerous streets. I never saw him with
food or drink in hand. He constantly ran the risk of being robbed of the change
that he carried in his little palms. Also, he had to avoid the policia who more
than once we saw him scurrying away from towards dimly lit alleys where he could
easily disappear. As if the dangers were not great enough, Alex could be sure
that after so many cold hours spent on the streets desperately attempting to
sell unwanted chocolate bars, his parents would take from him every penny he
earned.
As we watched Alex attempt to manage the oversized utensils, I felt a growing
satisfaction in my heart. I took the fork from him and sliced his pizza into
bite-size pieces admiring the feeling of great tenderness within. We had come to
think of Shorty as a younger brother, a companion and a friend. His youthfulness
reached out to us and we felt the desire to bring about change in Alex's life.
As we sat in the corner of that Italian restaurant watching a dirty and happy
7-year old Peruvian boy eagerly munching his pizza, drawing confused looks from
staff and patrons alike, I realized that this moment alone was a gift to all of
us. Alex glowed like a shining star as he commanded the attention of his
restaurant. He was in the inside circle now sitting among the people who he had
seen through the restaurant window so many times. No sum of chocolate or spare
change could rival the throne on which he was sitting.
I had been in South America for over five months at that point. I had danced to
the early morning hours in cosmopolitan Buenos Aires. I had shopped at
traditional Peruvian markets with villagers from the high Andes mountains. I sea
kayaked for a month through isolated fjords in Chilean Patagonia. I walked in
ancient Incan footprints to the ruins of Machu Picchu. But never did I feel more
satisfied as when I watched our young friend departing the Italian restaurant,
his friends looking on jealously from lonely street corners, with his head held
high and his small hands juggling his container of leftover pizza and a nearly
empty box of chocolates.
Kyle Hammons, USA
Copyright
Kyle Hammons. All rights reserved. Story reproduced with kind permission.
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