Email Poem

Your IP Address: 216.73.216.24
Your Email Address:
To Email Address:
Subject
Personal Note:
Poem Title:
Poem
"I hope you enjoy this true story.  While I'm unable to emulate Hitchcock, the tale reminds me of that great director." ~ The First Grader

In 1965, on a corner lot, four or five children, with learning disabilities or behavioral issues, waited for the van that would take them to their special school.  An undersized first grader emerged from the house on that corner to witness Calvin, a large second grade boy, perhaps with a missing or loose screw, swing his metal lunch box like a baseball bat, aimed directly at another boy, six inches shorter, who was also waiting for the bus, innocently looking the other way.  The lunch pail landed with a crack on the side of the little boy's head.  He cried.  The first grader did nothing but walk to his mainstream public school.

The meek first grader, on rare occasions, could be pushed to fight.  Not much longer after the lunch pail incident, he fought with Lester, a boy from his class, coming out on top.  

Calvin, Lester, and the twins, Dale and Donald, all lived a few blocks away, near the riverbed.  They weren’t the kind of children who were likely to win citizenship awards.  So, when the first grader answered the door the next day to see Calvin, he was surprised in a way that made his hair stand on end.  For one thing, he had never interacted with Calvin, who he didn't even know was aware of his existence.  

Through the locked screen door, Calvin said, "can you come outside.  I would like to talk with you.  The first grader could see and hear Warren, Dale and Donald, giggling, and only partially obscured by the pine tree across the street.  He suspected that Lester was seeking revenge, and Darrell and Dennis, his so-called friends, were interested in seeing a Christian being thrown to a lion.  He said, "I will talk, but I will not open the door."  

Calvin, who the first grader didn't perceive to be the sharpest tool in the shed, said, "I need to talk to you outside".  After some unproductive discussion, the first grader shut the door.  Unfortunately, that did not prevent Calvin from catching the bus in front of his house each morning, or the first grader from needing to walk to school.  So, for months, the first grader looked over his shoulder a lot, ready to sprint if he heard footsteps. 

Over thirty years later, and thirty miles away, in West Los Angeles, a harried man was juggling too many balls and working long hours in a white-collar job.  His marriage was going south, and he now had his own first grader.  He arrived home from work after his wife and boy had gone to bed.  His wife left a note, which read, "your friend Calvin K called, his number is 397-3511, Room 31”.  He called that number, finding it was Deano’s Hotel, a sleazy place by the freeway off ramp.  The name matched no one in his life, but the frightening kid with whom he had that single, brief interaction as a child.

The man was flabbergasted.  One, Calvin was not his friend; two, he was the last person in the world he would want to encounter; but especially; three, how did he get his phone number, much less remember who he was.   It was a difficult wait till the next morning when his wife woke up and he could quiz her.  “Did you tell him anything?” he asked.
“Oh yes”, she said, “that we were married and have a kid named Daniel”.  

He wanted to know “what else?”, but she couldn’t remember the conversation.  He told her what he remembered about him.

She said, “Oh, he sounded really weird, like he was on drugs.  Room 31 could be his room number in a mental institution”.

The bewildered man's father was still living in the corner house he grew up in, so called him.   “Did someone come by asking you for my number?”, he asked.

 “Yes”, he said, “a childhood friend of yours”.  

The harried man drew a brief character sketch of Calvin for his dad, explaining that he was not his friend.  “I thought something was wrong with him” his dad said.  

A few days later, the harried man stood in his front yard.  His first-grade son stood nearby.  A strange man about his age with light blonde hair, like Calvin’s, and tan skin, like someone who lived outdoors, walked down his street.   As the stranger passed his house, their eyes locked on each other’s for a time span of several of his strides.  The harried man couldn’t recognize his face as Calvin’s, but he was the right age, and had the right hair color, and the look on his face signaled the same danger it signaled to him many years ago.  It was a strange expression, lacking recognition or awareness, more animal than human.  As he stared at him, he was no longer the scared first grader, but the protective and angry father of a first grader.  He locked his eyes on Calvin's, puffed out his chest, standing his ground, and tried to convey the idea telepathically that if he set one foot around his house, he would regret it.  Calvin continued walking down the street, made a call on a cell phone, and stopped behind a car.  A minute later, a beat-up car pulled up to pick him up.  The harried man never again saw or heard from him.

He couldn't explain this mystery from 1999 but pieced together his own story.  Calvin was released from a long prison sentence, probably for violent crime, and, as his suntan attested, had no place to live, or place to go, and so returned to his childhood neighborhood, and, stopping at the corner where the bus once picked him up, noticed the harried man’s dad.  Using his street smarts, or, prison smarts, Calvin got his name from his dad, which he surely wouldn’t have remembered, probably not being able to distinguish him from any of his brothers.  Having his name, he was able to convince both his dad and his wife that he was his friend, thus getting his number, and then his address.  The harried man never knew his purposes, but doubted they were benevolent.
CAPTCHA Preview
Type the characters you see in the picture
Required