Not Your Perfect Heist

I don’t know if perfect heist is the best way to frame what I finally accomplished last Thursday.

My name is Beans and that’s what I prefer to be called; don’t put a mister or doctor or reverend or any other term of endearment in front of it. Just Beans.

Quick history since I know you are wondering. People who read are always nosy as all get up. So, here’s the scoop. Since I was little my daddy used to tell me and everybody who met me that I would never amount to no more than a hill of beans. Then he’d make me wear white starched shirts with stiff collars and told me a man has to dress for success.

I’d say, “but Daddy you tell everybody I won’t amount to no more than a hill of beans. Why do I got to dress up?”

He’d say “It’s up to you what that hill of beans is worth, Son. Don’t never let anybody tell you what you worth. You be the beans that everybody wants to be around because you got it going on. Your great great granddaddy was a third cousin to a brother named George Washington Carver way back in the day. Carver didn’t have squat…no mama, no daddy, nothing or nobody to brag about. He just quietly went about doing what he was put here to do. He worried every plant, seed or leaf he could get a hold of until he figured out what they were here for and before long folks was calling him the plant doctor. Pretty soon he had folks using peanuts for over 300 different things and using soybeans to manufacture paint.”

My daddy told me a version of that story so many times that I wouldn’t wear sweats or cutoffs or such anywhere but around the house. That story also perked my interest about paint and it didn’t take long for me to see what I could cook up with some paint and a homemade canvas. We had a storage shed behind our little house in Hillsborough, California USA and I turned that little place into my own little art studio. I didn’t know much of anything going in but I made it my business to dib and dabble until my creations even made me take a second look.

The day I graduated from middle school, my Daddy said, “Beans, you got to bring home some bacon too. Get you a job.”

I don’t know if you know anything about this town of Hillsborough in northern California but it wasn’t like it was a place where a brown skinned 14- year old like me could just walk into a store and say You hiring. Shoot, the whole time I was at Crocker Middle School I didn’t see anybody anywhere that looked anything like me ever.

Before you go to the internet I’ll tell you myself. Hillsborough is one of the richest towns in America and the reason we had a little house there was because my daddy inherited it from the folks he worked for. Mama worked for the Willford family while she was going to Cal Berkeley and Daddy said they cried like babies when she left to take a teaching job at Menlo College. She might still be here if she had stayed at the Willford’s but that’s another story. Don’t even ask.

Daddy and Mr. Willford loved restoring classic cars and when Daddy would pick up Mama from work he just kept coming to the Willford’s house earlier and earlier so he could talk shop with Mr. Wilford. Mr. Willford must have had ten or more cars at the house and Daddy said even more in storage. When Mama left the Willford’s they hired Daddy to help around the property but mostly with the cars. The Willfords were way up in age and my Daddy drove them around and took care of them until they left here. They never had kids and they left the property down the hill and a couple cars to Daddy. Daddy said the Willfords died up to their necks in debt but he was grateful for the unexpected blessing.

In my mind I had my whole summer planned out after graduation. I was going to sleep late, grab a bite and head to the shed to turn out masterpieces. Getting a job was not anywhere on my mind. I know one thing though. I knew better than to protest. Nope. I hopped on my bicycle dressed in my white starched shirt that Monday after graduation and headed downtown. I figured Safeway or 31 flavors might just give me a chance to shine and neither of them gave me the time of day. They both said ‘Ccome back when you’re 16.’

I thought to myself, they don’t know my Daddy. I cannot go home without a job. I biked up that hill to Crocker sweating like a smokehouse to see if they had something for me. Ms. Kavorski, the guidance counselor, made me wait for an hour but then let me come in her office so I could watch her look on her computer for job openings. I was hoping they would let me tutor some 6^th graders or something but she just shook her head and said “Sorry but you have to be 16 to work in the school district”.

Then she put on her counseling hat and asked me what I wanted to do for the rest of my life. I said, “Well I’ve been painting for two years and I have a shed full of masterpieces. The last two should be in that San Francisco Airport Museum but they probably have an age limit too.”

Then I said, “Ms. Kavorski could you please tell me what is so special about 16?

She looked at me and said “Do you have a lawn mower, dear?”

I thought to myself, If I am really a descendant of George Washington Carver then I ought to be able get my paintings into the airport museum and earn enough to shut Daddy’s mouth for a couple of summers.

Out loud I said, “Ms. Kavorski, this is Hillsborough. Folks here hire professional landscapers to push the mowers. I can’t compete with them.”

She said, “Mr. Davon, I appreciate your gift of gab and your desire to be productive but I have a plane to catch so you’re going to need to scoot so I can get out of here.”

I was too through and said, “Please, please remember to call me Beans, Okay. My name is Beans and thank you for your time. I’m headed down town to the Coffee Shop and I am going to tell them all the reasons they should hire a kid named Beans to do all their grinding.”

I did get that job and worked a bunch of summers and even some school breaks for years and years. Daddy was thrilled to have his son earning his keep. I also kept painting and knew that it was just a matter time before my art masterpieces were displayed in museums not just here but all over the planet.

Yup, that was my dream and every time I looked up and saw a plane I’d say oh yeah my time is coming.

Fast forward to last Thursday night. After I dropped Daddy off at the airport I couldn’t just pull off. The policeman kept waving me on but I just sat there thinking there is no better time than the present to make a dream come true. I popped open the trunk, grabbed my latest masterpiece entitled “Mule Dung Rides Again” and my tool box and sprinted into the airport like I was late for a flight.  I didn’t care about Daddy’s 1966 Mustang or the policeman. I just headed on foot in the direction of the airport museum on a mission.

I was all the way out of breath when I got to what looked life an office or information station for the museum. I didn’t have any questions and I didn’t need any information. I just looked about for the best spot for my masterpiece, grabbed the right tools from my kit, broke a little glass that stood between me and my dream and very carefully removed the present display and made room for my “Mule Dung Rides Again”. I very meticulously set my work on the easel previously occupied by a work whose time was up and my work looked magnificent. It was at that moment that I understood beyond measure what my Daddy meant when he said a man should dress for success. I looked at my masterpiece and just stood there with my right hand pointing to my painting. Art by Beans right here, right now.

 I didn’t even see the broken glass nor did I hear the footsteps of security or police or anybody. In my mind I had arrived and those footsteps running toward me were adoring fans coming to see Beans’ greatest work ever.

It was a moment in time and I didn’t mind the handcuffs nor the brutal way they hauled me away. In my mind I now stood in the shoes of Picasso or Carver or any of the greats. What would come would simply come.

An epic moment I’ll call it and as I said earlier probably not a moment one would call a perfect heist, but certainly a moment worth sharing, don’t you think?