I walked back into that school, that had given me legitimacy amidst lower middle class doubt. I walked right past the front office where I was good enough never to go. The odds for me in Vegas of getting suspended or having severe disciplinary action brought upon me was pretty much even money. Luckily, I avoided those actions by staying focused on wanting to lead a normal life and moderately excel at something. Being surrounded by normalcy and the pursuit of something keeps the dangerous mind awkwardly paralyzed long enough to adjust. As I walked through and saw the looks on the faces of future Volvo owners I felt apart of something. I felt involved. I felt as though I had done something with my life. It had happened passively through the years but somehow I was always aware that it was special. The future's bonuses and perks were always evident. The idea of a private club painted those walls just as thickly now as they did then.
I passed by my old locker and saw old teachers teaching old things. They were perched on their desks looking lost and willingly helpful at the same time. I shook hands with several of those lecturers of whom I had slept through their always repeating words. I smelled smells that sparked memories of what was at the time, intensity and immediacy. I remember squandered opportunities and conquered conversations. I relished the idea of memories and feeling involved in something that was still alive. I walked in to see my favorite teacher of my days there. Brother Filberg, now looking very gaunt and run down as he was in his mid 60's, raised himself from his desk as I lightly knocked on the open door. He still had the same grace and cadence as I remembered. With his hands held together behind his back he strolled to me with a smile of reassurance that I still belonged. He extended his hand and asked how I was.
"You are looking well Mr. Holmes"
"Thank you Brother. You as well. Did you receive my letter from Korea?"
"Yes I did"
I saw his eyes start to look for a metaphor or appeasing way to let me off of my own insecurity about that letter.
He looked at me with those steel blue eyes that matched mine and uttered, "It was like James Joyce, but more stream of consciousness"
I thought back to the letter which was now vaguely remembered. I thought about how I read it three times over and thought it was coherent and poignant. It outlined my thanks for his tutelage throughout the years. It was meant to be endearing. Instead it ended up being taken as though a young man had hastily jotted down thoughts in no specific order. As though I had simply been writing a hundred letters of thoughts jumbled up and his name popped down the brain gumball machine.
"Well, you know Brother, I was never much of a writer." I said with eyes turned down, worrying about how much I have aged from the few years of excess.
"Yes, but it was exactly what I had hoped it would be"
"Well that was exactly what I wanted it to be. I wanted to say 'Thank You' for taking the time."
As those words left my mouth I remembered the letter of recommendation I had asked him to write to attend Bucknell University. I remember opening it and reading about how I was a "mediocre mind" and may not be a fit for such a "prestigious institution". As that thought entered my head, I wanted to find that letter of gratitude and rip it to shreds. Then as if being shaken by my own words, I looked at him, and lowly and shamefully said, "You were always honest with me Brother. But, maybe you should have been more appreciative as well."
He extended his hand to me for probably the last time and nodded.
"Tomorrow I would like to have a drink with you at the Bull Roast with some of the boys. You gentleman were one of my best classes and I would like to catch up and make sure everyone is well"
It seemed odd to me that he wanted to "catch up". His life was one of revernace and poverty. What could he have possibly done that would invovle anymore than a one sided story telling. He said this honestly. He said this the way a man of the cloth would say it. He had hoped to see the fruits of his vows in full swing.
"I would like that Brother. I would like that a lot."
This was said the same way a dejected date accepts the idea of simply being friends. I accepted this with weakness. I turned and walked out of the room. As I walked out of the school I saw the mop haircuts and heard the start of the class prayers as the next period began.
As the teacher's exulted "St John Baptist De Lasalle"
To the reply of "Pray for us"
Followed with what now, to me, seemed like their endless recant of, "And Live Jesus in our hearts"
And the echo of the choir of boys saying, "Forever"
I found myself mouthing those words as I left the school that had taught me just as much today as I learned there in four years.
