meet cool air. He sounded decades older, refined, like some kind of strange renaissance time warp traveler. All my friends call Louie the “old man.”
Last year, Mrs. M taught my son’s fourth grade class. She loved the way Louie offered to erase the board and collect the milk cartons and candy wrappers littering the schoolyard. Some of the kids called Louie a suck-up. But I know better, and Mrs. M did, too. She liked law and order, a neat and tidy room, neat and tidy homework. She let him lead the class to flag assembly and asked him to help restless kids with math problems. Old men are patient. They know how to fix things. They know how to stand tall and explain fractions. They don’t cut corners. They see things as they are. Mrs. M thought my old man rocked.
Mrs. M called me during lunch break one week. My first thought was that Louie tripped and broke a body part. Old men can be forgetful, can trip over air molecules and run nose first into swinging tether balls and mangy soccer girls in pigtails. But no, Mrs. M said, no, Louie didn’t have a playground accident. This is about Show and Tell.
“I just wanted to know if this was your idea,” Mrs. M asked with hesitation. Her voice hovered in the air above me as I recalled the frantic morning rush, the slam of peanut butter sandwiches into paper bags into backpacks, the quick fumble way I signed the homework papers and scrounged the couch cushions for milk money.
“I have to be honest, Mrs. M. I have no idea what Louie brought for Show and Tell. He usually tells me ahead of time because he likes to practice his speech in front of me. What did he bring? Star Trek stuff? His stamp collection?” I scanned the room and noticed his cello still resting against the couch. Well, it wasn’t that.
Mrs. M cleared her throat. I could hear her gather her wits, try to put them in order, the same silent creeping confusion vine that often attacks those who interact with Louie over any length of time. And in the everlasting millisecond of quiet I perked my ears to listen and discern whether the parrot, dog, cat, guinea pigs and iguanas were still under my control.
“I warned the students that I had a meeting with the superintendent’s office this morning, and so Miss Linda would be taking over for Show and Tell. I told them no funny business, no animals, nothing that would give her trouble. Everyone knows about last year’s pizza party incident.”
Oh crap, did he take the iguanas? It had to be the iguanas. I heard the parrot whistle and the scurry foraging of pigs and hamsters. I wasn’t sure about this pizza party incident but I remembered something about a food fight and a secret bottle of hot pepper flakes some troublemaker brought to school. Oh man, what did my kid do?
“Yes? Just tell me. What did he bring? I have no idea.” My voice sounded six octaves higher than usual. Maybe Louie shared his mild case of athlete’s foot. Or one of the babysitter’s music disks with adult lyrics and coochie mamas on the cover.
“He brought Avon.” Mrs. M separated the words, accented “Avon” with a psychic drumroll, made Avon sound like rapping coochie mamas with athlete’s feet.
“He did? Avon? Really? Well, that isn’t bad, is it?” I laughed, pictured old man Louie handing out a brochure to the short girl with the wavy red hair who always picks her nose and eats the evidence. But Mrs. M didn’t return my laughter.
“It wasn’t just an Avon book or one of those Christmas ornaments. He brought some men’s grooming product. The Pro Extreme Ab-Firm.” I heard her pick up the tube, imagined her adjusting reading glasses to examine the label, read it out loud. This product arrived with my last Avon shipment, a demonstration tube of cream designed to make men’s tummies look sleek, ripped, exciting.
Mrs. M continued her explanation in a world-weary voice. Louie showed the class the silver tube and announced that childhood obesity was a growing problem in the
Last year, Mrs. M taught my son’s fourth grade class. She loved the way Louie offered to erase the board and collect the milk cartons and candy wrappers littering the schoolyard. Some of the kids called Louie a suck-up. But I know better, and Mrs. M did, too. She liked law and order, a neat and tidy room, neat and tidy homework. She let him lead the class to flag assembly and asked him to help restless kids with math problems. Old men are patient. They know how to fix things. They know how to stand tall and explain fractions. They don’t cut corners. They see things as they are. Mrs. M thought my old man rocked.
Mrs. M called me during lunch break one week. My first thought was that Louie tripped and broke a body part. Old men can be forgetful, can trip over air molecules and run nose first into swinging tether balls and mangy soccer girls in pigtails. But no, Mrs. M said, no, Louie didn’t have a playground accident. This is about Show and Tell.
“I just wanted to know if this was your idea,” Mrs. M asked with hesitation. Her voice hovered in the air above me as I recalled the frantic morning rush, the slam of peanut butter sandwiches into paper bags into backpacks, the quick fumble way I signed the homework papers and scrounged the couch cushions for milk money.
“I have to be honest, Mrs. M. I have no idea what Louie brought for Show and Tell. He usually tells me ahead of time because he likes to practice his speech in front of me. What did he bring? Star Trek stuff? His stamp collection?” I scanned the room and noticed his cello still resting against the couch. Well, it wasn’t that.
Mrs. M cleared her throat. I could hear her gather her wits, try to put them in order, the same silent creeping confusion vine that often attacks those who interact with Louie over any length of time. And in the everlasting millisecond of quiet I perked my ears to listen and discern whether the parrot, dog, cat, guinea pigs and iguanas were still under my control.
“I warned the students that I had a meeting with the superintendent’s office this morning, and so Miss Linda would be taking over for Show and Tell. I told them no funny business, no animals, nothing that would give her trouble. Everyone knows about last year’s pizza party incident.”
Oh crap, did he take the iguanas? It had to be the iguanas. I heard the parrot whistle and the scurry foraging of pigs and hamsters. I wasn’t sure about this pizza party incident but I remembered something about a food fight and a secret bottle of hot pepper flakes some troublemaker brought to school. Oh man, what did my kid do?
“Yes? Just tell me. What did he bring? I have no idea.” My voice sounded six octaves higher than usual. Maybe Louie shared his mild case of athlete’s foot. Or one of the babysitter’s music disks with adult lyrics and coochie mamas on the cover.
“He brought Avon.” Mrs. M separated the words, accented “Avon” with a psychic drumroll, made Avon sound like rapping coochie mamas with athlete’s feet.
“He did? Avon? Really? Well, that isn’t bad, is it?” I laughed, pictured old man Louie handing out a brochure to the short girl with the wavy red hair who always picks her nose and eats the evidence. But Mrs. M didn’t return my laughter.
“It wasn’t just an Avon book or one of those Christmas ornaments. He brought some men’s grooming product. The Pro Extreme Ab-Firm.” I heard her pick up the tube, imagined her adjusting reading glasses to examine the label, read it out loud. This product arrived with my last Avon shipment, a demonstration tube of cream designed to make men’s tummies look sleek, ripped, exciting.
Mrs. M continued her explanation in a world-weary voice. Louie showed the class the silver tube and announced that childhood obesity was a growing problem in the
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