It Is Beautiful Outside

Good Morning All! Accomplish something today.
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The next morning Davy was already at the hospital when Danny arrived. “Good morning, I got Willie Watson’s room number and he’ll be coming out of x-ray any time.”
“What’s wrong with hiim?”
“Somebody beat the hell out of him. That’s really all I know. You know how these hospitals are, they’re terrified of law suits. You want to go on up?”
The two walked into the room just as the orderly was leaving. Inside was an elderly black gentleman laying in the bed. His face was wrapped in bandages and he had a cast on his arm.
“Mr. Watson, I’m Pastor David Tate from Meredith Baptist Church. One of your neighbors suggested we drop by and see you.”
“Who?”
“Ahh, I can’t say we got the gentleman’s name, but he lives in your Complex and–“
”A lot of people live in that complex. But since you’re here anyway, come on in if you’ve a mind to. You will understand if I don’t get up.”
“Yes sir, that’s perfectly alright.”
Davy and Danny came in and sat beside the bed.
The old man turned his head toward the two. “If you here to do prayifying, go ahead and do it. I done all my praying and I still ain’t gonna’ ever be the same, but if you a mind to, go ahead.”
“Actually, Mr. Watson, we wanted to ask you something. The gentleman we were speaking with said that a lot of your neighbors’s electricity had been cut off because they hadn’t paid their bills. But, he wouldn’t say anything else.”
They could hear the old man laugh. “Ain’t sayin’ nothin’ ‘cause they scared.”
“Scared of what, Mr. Watson?”
“Damn gang-bangers.”
“Gang-bangers? And you’re not scared of them?”
“Hell no, damn punks. ‘Course I’d be a sight better off if I had been scared. I wouldn’t be stove up in this place, damn tubes running in and out of me. Can’t even go to the bathroom without help.”
 “Gang-bangers do this to you?”

“Damn right they did. ‘Course they warned me. Told me to keep my mouth shut. I didn’t, and here I am. Ain’t right, man seventy years old get beat up by them punks. Just ain’t right.”
“They beat you up because. . .”
“They beat me up ‘cause I told the police. Next thing I know there’s three of them punks waitin’ for me when I got off the bus. Beat the hell outta’ me.”
“What did you tell the police, Mr. Watson?”
“I told them the truth. Most of the folks in the projects get Social Security an’ fast as them checks come in, them gang-bangers taking them checks from the mailbox.”
“They’re stealing your Social Security checks?”
“Oh no suh, they give us some money back. They only take half, ain’t that right kindly of them?”
“I don’t understand, Mr. Watson.”
“No an’ I don’t guess you do. If I tell you, they probably gonna’ come back and finish me off, but it don’t matter. This ain’t no way to live anyhow.”
“We won’t tell a soul you talked to us, Mr. Watson.”
“Don’t make no neverminds if you do, this ain’t no way to live.”
The old man paused a few seconds saying nothing. When he began, his voice was weak, but they could understand.
“Them gang-bangers smart. They come to us and tell us that takin’ our check would break some kind of law.”
“Federal law,” thought Davy out loud.
“Maybe so, but they tell us that cashin’ our checks is perfectly legal jus’ like at the grocery store and ain’t nobody can say anything or gonna’ do anything ‘cause all they doin’ is cashin’ our checks.”
“Why don’t you just keep your checks?”
“A whole lot easier said than done. The third of every month five minutes after the mailman puts our check in the mailbox there’s a gang-banger comin’ right behind him takin’ it out.”
“Can’t you just meet the mailman and let him hand it to you?”
“Oh yea, you can do that an’ as soon as he sees the check’s not in the mailbox he breaks open the door an’ takes the check anyhow.”
“Can’t you get your money direct deposited, right into the bank?”
“Preacher, how many of them people you think got bank accounts? We live in the projects, not Park Avenue. How we gonna’ get back and forth to a bank and even if we do, banks charge for accounts. Ten bucks a month may not seem like much to you, but to us it’s a hell of a lot to us.”
“Maybe so, but it sounds a whole lot better than giving them half your money.”
Once more they heard the old man laugh. “Preacher, you funny and you live in a whole ‘nother world. Ain’t no games we can play. It don’t matter what we do, if we hide the checks, they jus’ break in and steal our money from us. It’s better we jus’ play their game.”
“You said they keep half. When do you get the half they let you keep?”
“They kind of organized. If your check comes on the third, they come that night, give you your half and a reminder to keep your damn mouth shut. It’s the same every month. They so smart, even if you get your check on a Wednesday instead of the third of the month. The night your check comes, they come a callin’. Ain’t no way to beat ‘em. If you try. . . look at what happened to me.”
“Thank you for telling us, Mr. Watson and I promise you we won’t tell anybody.”
“Like I said, it don’t matter. I’d be just as well of dead anyway.”
When they left Watson’s room, they went to the coffee shop.
“What do you want to do?” asked Davy.
“What do you mean what do I want to do?”
“We found a problem, I think we need to handle it.”
“Hold on, Rambo. What do we know about gangs?”
“Absolutely nothing.”
“Right, and this isn’t little Jimmy Spencer on the playground, these are bad guys with knives and guns and stuff.”
“Are we going to do something?”
“Of course we are. That was a stupid question.”
“Do you have any idea what?”
“For now, that was even a stupider question than your first one. I don’t have the foggiest idea.”