September 10, 2000

Big Willy

By: Nancy Bouchard

He stood six feet nine inches tall and weighed in at 310 pounds. Rumor had it that he had killed a man with his bare hands--just squeezed the life right out of him. It was the kind of reputation that gained respect in the rough city where grew up. At fifteen, Willy was already a legend.

Willy and I had played together since we both wore  diapers, although we were the unlikeliest of friends. He was a massive black giant and I was a pudgy little redhead. We both worked at the local factor--I in the office, Willy on the dock. Even the hardest of men who worked along side Willy feared him.

He saw me home safety from work and I kept his secret that each night instead of cruising the streets, beating people up, he went home and lovingly lifted his elderly grandmother out of the chair she was confined to and placed her in bed. He would read to her until she fall asleep, and in the morning, he would comb her thin, gray hair, dress her in one of the beautiful nightgowns he bought with the money he made at the can company, and place her back in the chair.

Willy had lost both his parents to drugs, and it was just the two of them now, He took care of her, and she gave him a reason to stay clean .Of course, them wasn't an ounce of truth to the rumors, but Willy never said otherwise. He just let everyone believe what they believed, and although everyone wrote him off as just another street hood,  no one hassled him either.

I remember one day, during Westem civilization class, the teacher read aloud an excerpt from Machiavelli's The Prince: "Since love and fear cannot exist together, if we must choose between them, it is far safer to be feared than loved." I looked at Willy and winked, "That's you,"  I mouthed. He just smiled.  

The next day I stayed at work a bit longer than usual and Willy went on without me. Just around to crner from the can company, fire tucks lined the street and a thick blanket of smoke covered the sky. A small child lay rapped in a very familiar red-and-black checkered flanel shirt, held by a tearful woman. She was talking to a fireman and a reporter from the evening news.

"This great big guy heard the baby crying, and came right in and got us,'"she said through joyful tears. "He wrapped his shirt around the baby and when the siren cam, he ran off down the street".

"D!d you got his name?' the reporter asked? "Yes, sort of," the woman replied." "He said it was Machiavelli."

That evening, the paper ran the story, offering a reward to anyone with information about the identity of  the Good Samaritan. No one came forward.

Listen to what Jesus tells us in Matthew 6:1-4 Take heed that you do not do your charitable deeds before men, to be seen by them. Otherwise you have no reward from your Father in heaven. 2 Therefore, when you do a charitable deed, do not sound a  trumphet  before you as the hypocrites do in the synagogues and in the streets that they may have glory from men. Assuredly, I say to you, they have their reward. 3 But when you do a charitable deed, do not let your left hand know what your tight hand is doing, 4 that your charitable deed may be in secret, and your Father who sees in secret will himself reward you openly."