Little Andy  − 22 July, 2007

         He stood on the threshold into the living room holding a handful of snacks he'd plucked from the refridgerator and shifting his weight eagerly from one foot to the other. He exuded excitment like sweat, and I remember noting how large the food was in his tiny hands.  

         "Are you sure you don't want a cheese stick?"  

         I smile and nod my head, and I can't help but laugh. "I'm sure." 

         "Okay, but I want a cheese stick." 

       The little boy struggles with the package for a good while before giving it to his aunt along with a defeated expression. The woman, whose bulk sank deeply into a tattered couch struggling beneath her weight, snatched the snack from the boy's hand with a growl. "Goddamn it, Poopy." 

         The boy hung his head and waited quietly, and I clenched my jaw to mask the anger that threatened to commandeer my expression. She jabbed the cheese stick absentmindedly in his direction and he grabbed it, the sullenness wiped clean away from him, and he darted into the kitchen where I could hear him chanting, "Cheese stick, cheese stick." 

         When the bloated woman, who was the child's aunt, finally finished speaking she pried herself from atop thankful couch cushions and plodded up the stairs to her room. I went into the kitchen and found little "Poopy" at the table, an assortment of Play-Doh paraphernalia scattered in front of him. I pulled out a chair and slid into it. 

         "What are you doing, little man?" I asked. 

           He held up two globs of color and said, "Playing Play-Doh. Do you want to play with me?" 

         "Sure. Hook me up." 

            He pushed a collection of plastic pieces in my direction and and declared them my "Attacks". We would Play-Doh battle, he said, and this involved each of us making a shape and smashing it into the other's. For the next twenty minutes this went on while I talked to the boy and asked him questions. 

            "So, do you have a name? Like a real human name?" 

            "My name is Andy. Little Andy."  

            "Little Andy. I really like that. Would you mind if that's what I called you?" 

            "No, I don't mind." 

            I could tell he was unaccustomed to anyone taking such an interest, but before long I'd won him over and he was smiles and excited sentences afterword. As I watched him smash and rebuild the same pieces of colored goo over and over again, and listened to him speak gleefully of whatever bubbled to the surface of his mind, Little Andy won me over as well. 

            "I think I'm done with the Play-Doh, Little Andy," I said after a while. 

            His face sank and he looked toward the living room. "Do you want to watch cartoons with me?" 

            Of course it was impossible for me to resist this boy, who could so easly pull on heartstrings that I didn't even know I had. Instead of settling in the living room right away, I went out onto the front porch to finish the rest of my cigarette. From inside a man who a presumed to be Andy's father yelled at him about picking up his shit. Shortly after the front door inched open. Little Andy stepped out on the porch.  

            "Thanks a lot, Josh. Thanks a lot. My dad yelled at me because we didn't put up the Play-Doh, and you said you'd watch cartoons with me, but you're out here on the porch. You're not my best friend anymore. You're just like Steven. Steven was nice to me too, but then he left and didn't talk to me anymore." 

            I was stunned and overwhelmed by the need to explain myself to this kid. "I came out here to finish my cigarette becuase I know you don't like smoke. I was going to come in when I was done." 

            He looked doubtful, and started back into the house without saying anything. Instead he shot me a look that melted me from the inside out.  

            "Wait, Andy. Would you like me to help you pick up your toys?" 

            "Yes, please," he said, and the relief in his voice seemed too adult for his five years. 

            I helped him put away his toys, and after he packed them off to his room I found a place on the couch and turned on the television. Andy came back with a bucket of blocks and a smile and said that we could play with them while we watched. Just as he emptied the bucket onto the couch his aunt came back downstairs, though her grinding voice preceeded her. "Put that fuckin junk back up, Poopy, goddamn it. You're not going to junk up my fucking house today." 

            A wave of disgust surged through me. That this angel must be subjected this from everyone around him turned my stomach over. I was taken aback, but Little Andy only frowned. He sighed as he deposited each block back into its box. He must have detected the disgust in my face, which further hightlighted the boy's advanced perceptiveness.  

            "Don't mind Pam, okay? She's not bad all the time." 

            I clenched my jaw again, but this time out of fear that I might cry.