The geezer’s long, flat ears were pinioned to his bald head that was gesticulating to the elderly woman he was sitting with. This band is too loud, he seemed to be saying.
But something was familiar about him. Jutting chin, intense, nervous eyes, thin and determined lips. When he turned, his profile triggered a memory.
Many years before, I had thrown a punch at this man, the first one I’d thrown in some time, the last punch I have ever thrown. It missed by a foot.
He just stared at me, both of us in our postal uniforms in front of the office. He had accused me of returning from my route too early, making it tough for the older guys to match my road time.
I said he was a hypocrite, pointing out how often he’d come back early, especially when it rained. Eventually, we came to an uneasy truce.
He had retired long ago and now here he was slowly rising from his seat, guiding his companion to a back row, still gesticulating, 80-plus, bowed, limping slightly, still with that intense belligerence. He always had the answers.
I never introduced myself. I wonder now if he would have remembered.
Five years ago, this girl sat across from me in a poetry group. She was striking at age 14, dressed completely in black, gothic makeup, ready to begin high school in the fall, all giddy energy and heat.
The only non-adult, she dazzled us with her command of the language, assurance, passion. Periodically, she’d break into giggles, goof off, lose her focus.
One night after the session, my friend and I were walking down Grove Street when she ran up behind us and clapped her hands on our shoulders like we were all buddies.
She wrote like a woman, bounced like a teen. She was always hungry; I bought her oversized chocolate chip cookies.
She walked up to me one night, excitedly confessing she’d not been home for hours.
She spent time living in her car, or with her parents, who weren’t quite right – parents who showed up one night, father glaring at me, mother nervously smoking.
Friendless parents attaching themselves to this precocious girl – their life raft. Eventually, they jealously ordered her not to participate in the group.
She’d already lost most of her teeth through non-existent dental care.
I ran into her once years later sitting with her girlfriend. I asked if she was hungry, tried to give her money, but she refused, embarrassed.
Last year, I made the mistake of going on her MySpace page. She had dropped out of college, left home, was living with friends, working two boring jobs. Her father was institutionalized, mother barely able to function.
The girl, now 18, described her forays into drugs, booze, casual sex. I don’t know if she still wrote poetry. I had to stop reading. My old buddy existed now only in Cyberspace. I probably wouldn’t even recognize her.
I turned instead for solace of old friends in my high school yearbook. Looking through the pictures from 42 years ago. All that wavy hair. Photos of people I once thought were so sophisticated, now looking like the kids they were, playing grown up. Ties and jackets, puffed up girls’ hair, pie eating contests.
I came to the photo of one girl in particular. She had followed me everywhere in eighth grade, made it clear she was madly in love. To me, she was just a nuisance. I ignored her, even when she waited outside my house hour after hour.
Now, I stare at her photo: clear, perfect skin, straight nose, eyes steady. Beautiful.
Move forward with your life, they say. Yet, there are so many spider webs of memory enveloping each of us. The older one becomes, the more plentiful and intricate those webs become. – Joe Del Priore
Joe Del Priore is a frequent contributor