He was standing there, in the middle of the yard, alone. At first I envisioned him the pitcher, standing by the mound with a field full of players behind him, and facing him, in the middle of a game. but no, he was standing all alone, dressed in an old winter coat, surrounded by dying leaves of autumn, resting at his feet.
I watched him from my classroom window as he paced about in the yard. He seemed to be waiting. And, being only eleven years old, I was amazed at myself for this revelation. I knew just what was happening on this chilly wednesday afternoon, at a quarter to three.
The bell rang, startling no one, as we all had sat there for what seemed an eternity, restlessly awaiting it. The sound was harsh and abrupt and cold, as if a forewarning to us this November day. The jail was open and the inmates were free, until tomorrow morning at eight, when the prison would re-engulf us all again.
Most of my classmates ran for the exits, swarming into the yard like ants to a piece of chocolate. But I just sat there by the window gazing out at the sights below. I tried to follow this solitary man, lost now in the mass of adolescents. Finally, after a few moments I caught sight of him again. He was walking through the crowd searching for but one face.and as far as I could see he hadn’t found it yet. i wondered to myself, who was he looking for, this lonely man dressed in that funny worn coat?
I stood up and got my own coat. As I rearranged my books and sorted out my homework my teacher told me to hurry up as she was ready to lock up. Lock up, I thought? what a sin to be locked up here all night. All day was enough!
I quickly walked back to the window. The schoolyard was emptying out now. Most of the kids were on their way back home to a glass of milk or a bottle of soda and some cookies. but the man was still there, standing by the pitcher’s mound and looking about the yard. He still hadn’t found who he was after.
I said good afternoon to my teacher and hurried down the stairs. Got to go, I thought, before they lock me in here. As I reached the schoolyard doors, I stopped for a moment. Tonight was wednesday. Mom would make pot roast on wednesday, and she knew I hated pot roast. She made it every wednesday, like clockwork.and I would never eat any, but she made it just the same.
As i pushed open the heavy steel door, his presence startled me! The old winter coat made him look menacing up close. I jumped back a bit as he smiled at me. “What took you so long son? I must have seen every kid but you in the yard.” I told him I got tied up a bit. “Oh well, here you are, what the heck!” His hug was so tight, I could hardly breathe. I could feel the fabric in that old coat as he kept me in his embrace. “What’s the matter, too old to kiss your old man? Come on son, give your pop a kiss.”
We walked on, arm in arm, through the schoolyard. And, as usual, I never did get to taste Mom’s pot roast on this chilly Wednesday in November.
pa Farruggio
circa 1980s