Twenty years a fakir

by S. James Weldon

We conversed together for some minutes, he giving me the usual, good, fatherly advice, with a “God bless you, my son,” etc. At last he turned to go, and as he did so slipped a twenty-dollar bill into my hand, while I could see the tears starting in his eyes at what seemed to him almost an eternal parting. I watched the going of the good old man as far as I could see him, and those were the most unpleasant moments of my whole life. I believe, had I possessed the nerve, I would have taken the first wagon I could find going that way and returned home.

I was in for it, however, and having decided in my mind that I had to stick it out, this feeling soon wore off in the light of the strange sights and stranger fancies inspired in a pedestrian tour through the heart of Chicago.

My first desire was to become somewhat acquainted with the city. I was not yet worrying about “a job,” for I had plenty of money in my pocket. Including the twenty dollars given me by father, my store of wealth reached the almost fabulous amount of one hundred dollars, and I had a strong suspicion that before that could give out I would become a millionaire.

Being from the country, everything looked grand to me. I bought every fake that was in sight, and took in everything that came along. For days the revelry was high. Side-shows and museums charmed me. I listened to the patter of the street venders, allowing myself to be “worked” by every one of them. I patronized liberally the street musicians, and even dropped a little coin with the fortune tellers. For a time I lived in this kind of a fool’s paradise. Then I retired to my room and took an account of stock.

I found I had bought numerous kinds of soap, many bottles of cologne, and fewer of medicine that would cure every ailment ever heard of on earth. I had tin whistles galore, and all the useless knick-knacks under the sun.

I also had three dollars and eighty cents in cash. When this balance was struck I understood that it was time for serious work to begin. I threw away the whole batch of impracticable accumulations and began to hunt round for something to do.

After “looking around” all day, and meeting with many rebuffs, I succeeded in getting a job in a hotel as a sort of all-round rustler.

Being a strong country lad the heavy work all fell to my share; and I want to tell you right now that before the second day was over I fully realized what it was to be away from home, and thrown out into the world upon my own resources. I was made to handle heavy baggage, carry water and coal, and do a thousand other things for which my main capacity was strength and awkwardness.

I was guyed by every one and given nicknames of every sort. Some would call me “Sport;” others, “Snipes,” “Jiggers,” “His Nibs,” while all ordered me around as if I were really and truly a nobody, instead of the son of a well-to-do farmer not over twenty miles away.

I slept in a large inside room upstairs with the rest of the male help, which was all packed in together, colored, white and all. The other boys took it good naturedly, and I was forced to. My salary was the enormous sum of two dollars and fifty cents a week, which was increased a little by the “tips” I occasionally received. Unfortunately for me, the boys around the hotel taught me how to shoot dice, play poker and seven-up, and even flip-at-the-crack. At none of these games was I a success, and at the end of the month it was a certainty that I would be “busted.”