Before they were stereotypes they were the people in my life. They were real before they were fictionalized, fantasized, anesthetized, vilified, elevated, deflated, and homogenized.
The shoe repair man that lived in the back room of his shop. A shop of so many shoes. Cast-offs, waiting pick-ups, forgotten, beyond hope, those under those other ones, ladies mixed with men and coupled with children’s….I saw something different each time and felt the effect of the collected. The appearance, leather vest, round rim glasses, silver ring of very little hair, the name, the way he moved, the way he remembered things…Hollywood casting would love his lovability and Jewish name.
The crusty mechanic. The darkest man in a lily-white town before rainbows were really valued. Chewing on what looked to be the same stogie, wearing the blue coveralls held together by decades of axel grease, concealed behind halves, fenders, that joist, a Model whatever on cinderblocks now home to a raccoon and close knit starlings, driveshafts, crankshafts, and potholes, and named Cookie. Stocky, eyes that smiled a split second before the face, arms like stubs, fingers that looked anything but what they were, agile, and that shuffling walk of one drop light on the head more than he ever wanted. His mechanical prowess was more rumored than evidenced, no one knew where he really lived, and the gas pumps didn’t and hadn’t for a long time. He smelled of fossil fuels and reeked with character. Curmudgeoned wise man with a red rag in his left pocket and a socket wrench looking for a home in his right hand.
The Irish Priest too old to function and too spry to be ignored. He drifted from absent-minded to brilliant and let the youngsters think they knew better. Then he helped them fix things. He was the power behind the throne and didn’t care as long as things were right. Everyone knew him. Everyone loved him. Everyone underestimated him. His grave is halfway between my grandparents and my parents…and I look for him just like I did when passing the Rectory that feels much lesser now.
Sister Mary Joseph John, the Bride of Christ worthy of the hand selection. Luminous. Intelligent. Hail Mary, Full of Grace Kelly. She inspired, quieted, and loved. She knew you and him and her but you were enough and always tried to be when ever she entered your thoughts. Any one in Habit got the respect you felt for her. You were one of many yet she made you feel one of one. She was one in a million yet claimed to be just one of many. You had her in Fifth Grade and know that heaven is a lot like Fifth Grade. You got all A’s except that one B and you have made it up to her in the three going on four decades since. You loved her. Not in that way. Not then. You still love her. She was as Feminine as they come. You were as studious and pious as you could be because she knew your best from your bullshit and demanded your best.
The short order cook at the Diner on the Highway. If he wasn’t there, he’d be in prison. He was Navy, or liked that Tattoo that looked like Popeye’s and peeked out just under his rolled up undershirt sleeve. You wondered if his hat came crooked. You knew you would crush and bend yours the same way if you ever entered that world. He didn’t speak but you heard who he liked and who he didn’t loud and clear. You were in the like column, most of the time. You were semi-regular…just on the edge of his give a shit meter. The flipper never left his hand and he never called it a spatula. He knew over easy real well and dismissed special orders with a look hotter than any grill any where. The few times he came out from the opening in the wall and had a cup of coffee were your moments behind the curtain. You wanted to call him Cookie but were smart enough to shut the hell up and just drink your coffee. You hoped he didn’t notice you put cream in it, wussy, and took your next cup black. Left it that way long after he put out his cigarette and disappeared into his world.
They weren’t in Walmart today. They won’t be tomorrow either. They are still real though. Keep living the dream. Another cup of Jo, please. I got a date with an Angel and the roads are slicker than snot. One more for the road.
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