
A Thank you To Byron
I had been very lucky up until that moment. Nothing truly bad had ever happened to me. I have never been beaten, raped or murdered. All of that was about to change.
“Just open the door.” My attacker squeezed the back of my neck and pressed his body against mine, wedging me against the door. I knew who he was: the man who had been bothering me all night at Capone’s, the bar around the corner from my apartment.
A scream caught in my throat and he ripped the keys out of my hand and began jamming them into the lock. I knew I had just a few seconds to get out of the situation and finally my screams echoed up King Street and down Burns Lane. He grabbed my pony tail twisting my neck, but I managed to scrambled away, leaving him with a handful of my hair. By the time I could turn around, my attacker was no longer behind me, but being dragged down King Street and onto Burns Lane by a large, black man. That man’s name was Byron Knight. I ran inside and locked myself in my studio apartment, hysterically sobbing while Bryon beat my perpetrator with his fists behind a garbage dumpster.
Byron was a fixture on King Street in the late 1990’s to 2000’s. Well known for panhandling to scrape up enough money for a single cigarette or a hot dog from King Street Station, few know about the good deeds he did. Byron saved me that night, from certain doom. I cannot say where I would be today if Byron had not intervened. My next encounter with Byron, I sheepishly gave him a corndog and a pack of Newports in appreciation. He accepted gratefully, without further discussion. It became a ritual thereafter. I would buy him a corndog whenever I saw him. We would chat and then part ways. I would study. He would, as rumor would have it, go smoke crack. It didn’t bother me. One summer day, I found Bryon sitting in front of my apartment, with a huge smile and a box of chicken wings. “Hey girl, break bread with me.” I politely declined. “No way lady, you take care of me all the time. Let me give a little back.”
Rejecting his kindness was not an option. His honor was on the line. I knew those wings were from a trash can. I sat beside him on the stoop, reached in for a wing and ate it. I even had seconds. “This makes me legit, right?” Bryon asked.
I moved off of King Street, to the suburbs of Rutledge Avenue and saw Byron a lot less. One bright morning, while walking to class, Bryon rode by on a bike. He saw me and turned around with that famous smile. “Hey girl! Let me give you a ride.”
“Neh, Byron, I’m good.”
“Get on the bike!” he ordered. I immediately acquiesced and hopped on the back, wrapping my arms around his waist. I’m not gonna lie. He was dirty, dirty from living on the streets. He took me to my destination and a thanked him for the ride, suddenly smelling myself smelling like him. “No problem! Hey can I borrow your cell phone. I wanna call my girlfriend.”
I was shocked. “You have a girl friend?”
“Shoot, you must be crazy. I got girlfriends.” He laughed. I lent him my phone and he arranged his date with a lucky lady. He rode away on his bike. That was the last time I saw Byron. I hear someone bought him a bus ticket to go to California. I carry him with me still, in my heart: a homeless man, who shared his meal, gave me a ride and saved my life. Byron had very little, but what he did, he was eager to share with others. He is an example of the true beauty of Charleston.
















