A Boy in the Sandbox
4 Jul 2001
The letter wasn't a joke. Jim's boss had fired him. He'd mentioned it earlier that day, but Jim hadn't thought he was serious. Apparently he was wrong. Now he had no job; worse, he had no money, for his bank account had dried up the week before when he'd had to get the transmission replaced on his old Ford '88 pickup. When he had opened the letter and felt the sickening knot grow in his stomach, he stormed out of the house and drove to the office.
"I'm sorry, Jim, but we just don't need you anymore." The words still rang in his ears. Rejected. He wasn't needed. The boss said there was no chance of coming back; the company was downsizing and would keep operations small for the foreseeable future. The search then began for a new job, a relentless scouring of grocery store bulletin boards and classifieds, dozens of phone calls, and no success.
One afternoon in late June, after an exhausting day of jobhunting, he threw up his hands in despair and walked out the door. The city park was a block away; he made for it with the slow gait of a man burdened beyond his capacity. The sun still had an hour's worth of light left as Jim sat down on the bench. He dropped his head and stared at the cement.
He remained there for minutes before he realized there was someone in front of him. He looked up; it was a small boy, not more than five or six years old, in a rumpled red shirt and denim overalls.
"Hello. My name's Bobby. What's yours?" A grin covered the boy's face as he extended a hand.
Jim took it, shook gently, and said, "Jim. I'm sorry, Bobby, but I'm busy right now."
Bobby frowned. "You don't look busy to me. Want to come play in the sandbox? I even brought my cowboys and Indians."
The boy's diction was surprisingly clear. Jim sighed and followed the boy to the end of the park, where a small sandbox was bordered by four thick railroad ties. Jim sat on one of the boards as Bobby jumped into the sandbox and uncovered a mound of brown plastic cowboys. "Mommy gave me these for my birthday." He dug up another mound, this one hiding white Indians. "The Indians are trying to hurt the cowboys." He scooped out a trench on one side and lay all the cowboys in it. On the other side, he stood the Indians facing the trench. Then, with a battle cry, the Indians attacked. Bobby took an Indian in one hand and a cowboy in the other. The cowboy dodged whistling arrows and shot when the chance opened. The Indian fell dead. To the right a cowboy was mortally wounded by three arrows stuck in his chest; or so Bobby told Jim, for the arrows were invisible, and only Bobby could see them. Five minutes later, only one cowboy remained. The group of Indians encroached upon the survivor. At the moment when all hope was lost, as the Indians stood at the head of the trench and looked down upon the cowboy, Bobby said, "The good guy always wins." Just then the Indians started falling left and right, collapsing to the ground.
Jim looked at Bobby. The boy acted as if nothing incredible had happened. "Bobby," Jim said slowly, "who shot those Indians?"
"Nobody did." Bobby turned around and pushed sand into a large hill. "They got sick. With cancer."
"Oh." Jim smiled.
Bobby turned his head and looked at Jim. "Are you sad?"
Jim sighed. "Yes, I am. I lost my job last week."
"Have you looked for it? Whenever I lose something Mommy tells me to check my pockets first. I once lost a marble and there it was, right in my pocket."
Jim laughed. "I wish it was that easy. No, it's lost for good. I've tried to find a new one, but nobody's hiring nowadays. I don't know if I'll be able to feed my family next week. It's scary."
Bobby frowned. "Why doesn't anyone hire you? I would."
"I don't know, Bobby. I wish I did."
"Why don't you be happy? Then maybe you'll find a job. Mommy always says that if I'm sad, I should pretend I'm happy and everything will turn out okay. It works, usually."
"Bobbbby!" A head poked out of the door of the house over the fence; it was a woman, stringy hair pulled back in a ponytail. She called again.
Bobby stood up. "That's my mommy. It's dinnertime. Do you want to help me pick these up?" He motioned toward the plastic toys.
Jim said he did and knelt down in the sand, scooping up the cowboys and putting them in the green bag Bobby held open. The Indians were next, and then a final search to make sure there weren't any stragglers left. Bobby extended his hand. "Thanks. Will I see you tomorrow?"
"I don't know. Depends on if I find a job or not, I guess."
"I come out at 3:00 every day. I'd really like it if you could come. Please?"
"Well, okay. See you tomorrow."
Bobby walked around the fence and into his house. The door shut. Jim stood and turned to face the sunset. He hadn't intended to stay that long; he had to get back home. The walk back somehow seemed lighter, though, as if part of the burden had been lifted.
Every day for the next few weeks Jim came out to the park and watched Bobby play in the sandbox. The search for a job was still fruitless. Jim was beginning to despair of ever stripping the "Unemployed" label off his forehead. Some of his wife's relatives had loaned them enough money to get by for another month, but after that they would be penniless. The reality of not being able to provide for his family was sickening. Each time he thought of seeing his children starve, each time he watched them go to school in threadbare clothes that grew holes each week, each time he saw the pain in his wife's eyes, he shuddered. He was failing. Before long the end would come and the great, merciless jaws of fate would snap them up whole.
"Do you believe in God?" Bobby was staring at him one afternoon a week later, as the sun was setting in a blaze of violet and orange. "He'll take care of you. He takes care of me and Mommy."
Jim smiled. "I don't know. He hasn't helped me find a job yet."
"Have you asked him to? Mommy always says that if I want something, I have to ask God for it first. And I have to really mean what I say. Will you ask him?"
Jim smiled again. "I guess so."
That night, before he crept into bed, Jim knelt on the floor and uttered a few words in prayer. He complained about not being able to find a job and why wasn't God doing anything about it? Then he remembered Bobby's voice. "I have to really mean what I say." He realized he was going about it all wrong. This time he clasped his hands together and earnestly asked God to help him find a job, without laying the blame on him or anyone else. The prayer felt refreshing, much better than the first.
The next day Jim received a call from a company he had talked to earlier, and they had an opening for him starting that morning if he wanted it. He almost ripped the phone out of the socket as he shouted for joy, and so an hour later he found himself back in the workplace.
A week later, he went to the park to thank Bobby for his advice. He sat there all afternoon, but no Bobby showed up. When the sun set and it was time to return, he decided to stop by Bobby's house and ring the bell.
Bobby's mother answered. "What can I do for you?"
"Is Bobby home?"
His mother looked quizzically at Jim. A flash of recognition swept across her face. "Oh, you're the man he was always talking about. I'm sorry, but Bobby isn't here anymore."
"Isn't here? Did he move away?"
She seemed to have trouble with that, as if she was holding back a flood of emotion. "Yes, I guess you could say that. Bobby died last week. Of cancer." She burst into tears, then stopped suddenly and wiped her eyes. "He said that night as he was saying his prayers that he would watch over you when he got to heaven and help you find a job. I'm sorry, I have to go now." She retreated and closed the door.
Jim stood there for a moment, not knowing what to think. He turned and slowly trudged home. As he walked, he looked into the sunset and whispered, "Thank you, Bobby."
