We liked to watch Ray through the window
as he swept the floor of the classroom in the diminishing light.
He
drove a ’69 VW Van, although Skip’s older brother
Kip said it was known as a Bus in its day.
Some
figured he slept in it. Others said he smoked pot behind tiny orange
shades. He might
have been a hippie at one time, the tye dye banner on his antennae
was, as they say, a dead giveaway. But you wouldn’t know it
now – short graying hair, bit of a beard, trim green work pants
and tucked in shirt, with a shiny retractable keychain on his belt.
Ray
swept the floor with a certain grace, up one row and down the other,
between and under the desks. We peered into the room, our
eyes level with the bottom sill, stunned by the garbage left behind
after English: Snickers wrappers, Evian bottles, a toothpick, Kleenex,
wadded up masterpieces, three pennies, a blue hair scrunchy.
Ray, on
the short side, looked tall and lithe as we watched from below. He swept the
trash into a metal dustpan and emptied it into
a plastic can on wheels. He turned in our direction. We ducked. When
we ventured a sneak peek his hands and chin rested upon the handle
of his broom with a half smile, his eyes faraway.
He moved to the chalkboard
and gazed at a Wordsworth poem, half finished in chalk, because nowadays who
reads Wordsworth. Ray picked
up the chalk. We held our collective breath. His hands moved in slow
smooth figure eights through the air. He bowed slightly and replaced
the chalk before the unfinished poem.
Gathering his tools, he pulled
out a key from a jumble on his belt and closed the door behind him.
We looked
at each other.
Behind us, the Bus started up with that tight, muffled
VW sound. We whirled around. He gave a little wave and drove away.
We still don’t
know how he did that.
© 2008 Guy Biederman
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