met Cordell when he hurled rocks through my stained glass window. Thinking someone was shooting into the room, I ran outside and there he was: a skinny, four-foot-tall gangsta wannabe. His baggy pants hung so low that his belt was clearly embarrassed. He wore the color of the Eastside Gang, a menacing presence in this part of Savannah. Once confronted, he swore he didn’t break the window and turned away, revealing a back pocket bulging with more rocks... I know it takes a village, but I wanted to kill him.
A few months later he came by to ask if he could mow the lawn. He gave me a quote of $30 to cut an area smaller than a midget’s blanket. I decided to give him a chance, and we haggled until I held firm at $20.
His lawnmower must have been hungry. It chewed up an extension cord and shredded a rug in the yard. He hid the evidence and then acted like he was owed $30.

The ten-year-old mini-thug asked when he could return. Inexplicably, I told him to check back in two weeks. This is how our relationship continued — he made my yard look like hell and I paid him dearly for it.

During this time Cordell spray painted gang symbols on the street; stole my bike; and damaged my car. All of it stopped when I threatened to end our business dealings. He wasn’t about to sever the tie that financed his pre-teen luxuries.
Two years passed. We talked sometimes when he finished the yard. We worked together. We became friends. Yet he still tried to scam me. There we’d be, sitting on the porch, on the verge of a Hallmark Moment, and he’d attempt to sell me a used lottery game card. Or he’d ask for a cash advance. “Miss Lo-retta, I can have $5?”

When I told him I was leaving Savannah, he asked how many days were left. He rolled his eyes upward while counting on his fingers: he was doing a little financial planning.

He showed up on moving day and was underfoot the whole time. His brothers Maurice and Vaughn were there, too. I had not asked for help, so I wondered why they were there, pitching in so earnestly. Then I figured it out — of course — the little operator realized this was his last chance to score some big cash. I’ll show him. This is the one time he’s not getting ANYTHING out of me.

It was late when we finally loaded the van. I was hours behind, and the house had to be mopped. There he was, pestering me again. “Miss Lo-retta, I can mop the house? I can mop the whole house for ya.”
My last nerve was shot. “Cordell — I am not giving you ANY money.”

His reply stopped me dead. “I know Miss Lo-retta.”

It took everything I had not to burst into tears. I wanted to run to him, hug him, tell him I loved him, I’d miss him. Tell him to please not become a statistic. To stay in school. To stay out of the gang.

But I didn’t. He already knew those things, those very things we had never spoken of.