by Vince Vawter
I know it might be against newspaper regulations or against your parents’ wishes but I can assure you it is proper in this context.
I didn’t have to think too long because I had wanted to see the inside of Mr. Spiro’s house all along. I was nervous but not from knowing I might have to say something. The nervousness came from being excited just like before the first pitch of a ball game.
The house was not going to be like my house. I was sure of that. But I didn’t know what to expect. Never in a gazillion years could I have guessed what I was going to see.
Books. Hundreds. Thousands. Wall to wall. Floor to ceiling.
But it wasn’t like a library because the books weren’t on shelves. They were in wooden crates with the crates laid on their sides and stacked on top of each other. The crates were different sizes and reminded me of giant alphabet blocks the way they were stacked on the floor. Some crates still had the bright-colored paper stickers on the side showing that the boxes had been used for oranges or bananas and some of the crates had words on them written in foreign languages.
In the living room the crates covered almost every part of the walls leaving openings only for doors and windows. A big stuffed chair sat in the middle of the room with a floor lamp next to it. On the left side of the room was a pair of glass-paned doors leading to another room that had even more crates of books. A small bed covered with a white sheet and a double-sized pillow with arms on it sat in the middle of the floor with books scattered around it. A ceiling light with an extra long cord hung down so that the lightbulb dangled just above the bed.
Mr. Spiro went somewhere in the back of the house and came out with a metal folding chair. He unfolded it with a pop and put it down facing it toward the big chair in the front room.
I don’t receive many visitors so my accommodations are crude. But young bones like yours should not require cushions.
I walked over to the metal chair but couldn’t make myself sit. I circled it and started walking around the room to see the books up close.
I finally sat down with my head still twisting on my shoulders. Mr. Spiro was in his chair but he wasn’t saying anything. Like Mam he seemed to know when I was thinking too hard to be interrupted and he just let me twist in the chair for a while.
What’s in the s-s-s-s-books?
With all the good questions I could have asked that was about the dumbest one I could have come up with.
All the world and more.
Even when I asked a bad question Mr. Spiro had a good answer for it.
But shall we get back to your prepared questions? I know they are important to you.
My sheet of paper was still in my hand but wadded up now like a popcorn sack at the end of a Memphis Chicks’ game. I tried to smooth it and get my mind back on my questions.
Where s-s-s-s-do I start learning?
It wasn’t the best question but it was as close as I could get to what I thought I wanted to ask.
Mr. Spiro was looking at me like when you’re at bat and you look around at the third base coach for a sign and he’s staring at you like he’s trying to send you the words through the air.
You’ve already made good headway but let me warn you that the word Start implies that there is a Finish. That’s something that we should discuss at some point.
I couldn’t keep my head from twisting. I had never seen so many books outside of a library. I managed to come up with a question that made more sense than the last one.
Where s-s-s-s-did you s-s-s-s-get the s-s-s-s-books?
All over the world. At every port there are good books to be had for a pittance. Some merchant marines carve broom handles to pass the time at sea. I chose to spend my thirty years on the high seas reading and studying.
I knew about regular marines but not the merchant kind. Asking the question was going to be hard because two words in a row with the same starter sound usually did me in.
What are s-s-s-s-m … What are s-s-s-s-those kind of s-s-s-s-marines?
Merchant marines are men of peace and cargo. Distributing the world’s goods. A vital service and a proper vocation for the curious mind and restless heart.
s-s-s-s-How did you s-s-s-s-get to s-s-s-s-Memphis?
I found my books fit nicely on a towboat captained by a good friend going upriver from New Orleans. When I saw the city sitting high on its bluff, I knew I had reached my new anchorage from which to explore North America. My homeport is where my books are.
I made myself focus on one crate of books at eye level in back of Mr. Spiro. Somebody named Heidegger had written all the books in the crate.
What is your compass locked in on, Messenger?
I got out of my chair and walked over to the crates and put my finger on a book. Being and Time.
Martin Heidegger. A German philosopher who is still very much with us. He helps us understand existentialism. Something you may want to look at later on in your voyage.
What is s-s-s-s-exist …? s-s-s-s-That word s-s-s-s-you said.
Existentialism simply means a person exists as a being because that person alone gives meaning to his or her own life.
I had trouble getting my brain to hold on to that so Mr. Spiro kept on going for me.
A pity that Heidegger fell in with the Nazis. Remember, my young Messenger, that intelligence doesn’t always equate to moral actions.
When most grown-ups talked about things you didn’t know anything about it was like they were trying to let you know that they were smarter than you. But when Mr. Spiro told me about something new all I felt was that I just wanted to know more.
Heidegger was a top crate for many years but he has slipped somewhat. He is still a valuable companion if you can winnow the immoral chafe.
Mr. Spiro was trying to let me in on one of his secrets and I had a hunch what he might be talking about.
You s-s-s-s-move these s-s-s-s-crates around a lot.
Right you are, Messenger. Knowledge is not static. It has an ebb and flow much like the tides.
Are all these s-s-s-s-books about s-s-s-s-philosophy stuff?
Certainly not. Too much theory makes for a secondary existence. One should practice as well as preach.
Mr. Spiro got up from his chair and walked around the room and put his hand on different crates.
English fiction. Russian fiction. The Medievals. Shakespeare. Biographies. Politics. Science, both modern and classical. Geology. I find myself fascinated by the study of landmasses. No doubt because of so much time spent bobbing up and down at sea.
I got up and walked around the room from crate to crate. The books were old and worn and most had pieces of paper sticking out the top.
s-s-s-s-Do you have s-s-s-s-p …?
Poetry was a word I always had trouble saying but I was going to blast it out of my mouth if that was what it took.
Do you have S-S-S-S-POETRY BOOKS?
I had to shout to make the words come out. Yelling was like whispering. They both made words more of a sure thing. I never yelled words in school but I sometimes did it around grown-ups if I knew they wouldn’t think I was off my rocker.
You have so quickly discovered one of my many deficiencies. I once considered poetry a form of indulgent shorthand but I have worked to overcome my bias.
I wrote a s-s-s-s-p— I wrote one.
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing coming out of my mouth. I had never told anyone that I had written a poem. Not even Mam or Rat. I had hidden the poem away in an encyclopedia volume after I had typed it.
Perhaps you will help me with my bias. Shall we hear your poem?
I knew I couldn’t ask Mr. Spiro if I could write it for him. He wouldn’t let me get away with that. I sat down in the chair thinking about the poem smashed flat on paper in the P volume of the encyclopedia at home. I could say the poem in my head but there was no use trying to say it out loud.
s-s-s-s-Can’t say the words.
Shall we try reciting in unison?
It was
worth a shot. I didn’t stutter when my class recited the Pledge of Allegiance or when I said the twenty-third psalm with Mam.
I’ll retrieve some paper. You transcribe your poem for me and we will recite together.
s-s-s-s-Do you have a s-s-s-s-typewriter?
Even better, Messenger. You are the modern communicator.
Mr. Spiro went into another room and came back with a gray case. He opened the snaps on each side and pulled out a typewriter. It was smaller than the one in my room. He put it on a table and brought the table over to where I was sitting. He gave me a clean sheet of white paper and I started typing. The typewriter keys didn’t feel like my keys at home but the words started coming out on the paper just the same even though my hands were shaking a little.
I wish I had a book …
Mr. Spiro picked up a magazine and started reading while I typed. When I had finished I rolled out the sheet of paper and handed it to him. He pushed his glasses up from the tip of his nose and studied the poem as we sat in our chairs facing each other. He asked me with his eyes if I was ready. I watched his mouth and we started saying the poem together.
I wish I had a book
That did not have an end.
I go to pick it up
And it is new again.
The words feel real
And mine to share.
They have no sound.
They have no air.
My voice is clear
And lets me speak.
My fear is gone.
I’m never weak.
My words all come
And right on time.
The words are true
The words are mine.
The poem didn’t sound like my words even though I had just typed them. Each word floated out of my mouth and joined up with Mr. Spiro’s to make one. I didn’t stutter once or have to worry about Gentle Air or sneaking up on sounds or fainting. My legs were itching. I looked down to see sweat trickling over my kneecaps and down my legs. For the first time I had said words out loud that I had written on paper.
Mr. Spiro was smiling with his big arms folded across his chest. He looked at me for a while without saying anything and then stood.
My bias against poetry has been properly challenged. A wonderful poem. I’m grateful to you for sharing, my Stuttering Poet.
If someone had called me a Stuttering Boy or a Stuttering Sixth Grader or a Stuttering Pitcher I would have probably tried to pick up something and bust them. But Stuttering in front of Poet seemed to make stuttering a good thing for the first time in my life.
The sound of words I had written and that Mr. Spiro and I had just read kept bouncing around the room like a ball on the metal roof of our baseball dugout.
I thought about asking Mr. Spiro if I was supposed to understand everything I had written in the poem. Because I didn’t. The words had just picked out where they wanted to go. But I was late on my route and I didn’t want to talk anymore because I wanted to hear the words I had just said roll around in my head. I looked for my newspaper bags.
Your cargo is on the porch. And I believe I owe you ninety-five cents and of course your customary tip if you would like to collect now rather than tonight.
I had been so excited about our good conversation that I had almost forgotten about the third piece of the dollar bill.
He handed me the coins from his pocket. From a book on a shelf near the front door he pulled out another piece of the dollar bill. Mr. Spiro’s word for the week was seller.
As I walked the rest of my route I listened over and over inside my head to the words I had said aloud with Mr. Spiro. I listened to him call me Stuttering Poet.
At Mrs. Worthington’s house I put her paper exactly where she liked it.
When I turned the corner at Melrose I saw that neither one of my parents’ cars were in the driveway. That was good because it meant Mam was back from wherever she had gone. Back where she belonged.
Chapter Nine
I let out a loud field whoop as I ran through the back door.
Mam was usually cooking in the kitchen or cleaning the bathrooms downstairs at that time in the afternoon but I didn’t hear her so I gave her another good whoop. She called down that she was upstairs straightening beds. I could barely hear her. I tore up the stairs thinking that I might recite my poem for her if I could figure out a way to show her how to say it with me but when I saw Mam’s face my poem and everything else that had been feeling good left me in a hurry.
Mam’s lower lip was busted and fat. Her nose was swollen and whopper-sided. Her right eye was almost closed and her other eye was red where the nice white should have been.
I stood outside my parents’ bedroom watching her fluff pillows and pull the sheets tight. I had been talking like it was going out of style all day but the words wouldn’t line up inside my head to ask her what had happened. She let me watch her do her chores for a while and then turned to me.
Like I told your Mammy. I just had me an accident. That’s all they is to it.
Mam picked up sheets and pillowcases from the floor and hurried to the laundry chute. I followed her still not able to come up with any words to say. Mam always moved at a good speed in her housework but she was going lickety-split through the upstairs like I had never seen her. She went into my room and started pulling the sheets off both my beds even though I had made mine up that morning. Not like Mam could but even she would have said I had done a tolerable job.
Will you be collectin’ tonight?
I nodded even though Mam’s back was to me. She spun around and stared me down. I nodded for her again.
I told you all I’m going to. Leave it be.
s-s-s-s-Are you okay?
Looks worse than it hurts. Let me finish up here and then I’ll cook us something.
s-s-s-s-Was it Ara T?
Leave it be, Little Man.
When I wanted to I could pester Mam to beat the band but it was clear I wasn’t going to get any more talking out of her. When Mam said Leave It Be that was what you did and you’d best not waste any more of her time.
I needed to sort out what might have happened to her so I walked back downstairs to get my glove and an old tennis ball and went out to the back driveway to throw against the garage doors which was always my best spot for hard throwing and thinking. My father had to have the doors painted every other year because of me wearing the paint off them. I picked out a low plank for my target.
Mam may have called what had happened to her busted-up face an Accident but there was more to it. Somebody had hit Mam with their fists. A bunch of times. Hard. Any kid knows you don’t get a busted nose and two puffy eyes from falling down.
Mam wasn’t one to fall down anyway. When she stayed overnight in my room when my parents were on a trip I would hear her get up and walk around without a light on like she could see in the dark. Mam didn’t tell lies but she had her way of keeping a secret. A secret was a secret to Mam. It was locked up tight.
Mam was all the time helping me with everything and I wasn’t worth a plug nickel coming up with ideas to help her just like I couldn’t figure out what to do for Mrs. Worthington. I was getting tired of my usual way of worrying and needed to come up with a plan to fix things.
The more I thought the harder I threw.
I would be glad to be a grown-up for two reasons. The first reason was that I was hoping to get over my stutter. I knew that some grown-ups stuttered but I also knew that some lucky kids grew out of it. At least that was what the doctor who gave me all my shots kept telling my mother. The second reason was that I would be smarter and could figure out what to do with the feelings down inside me. I wanted to help Mam more than anything and I wanted to help Mrs. Worthington but I didn’t have any answers. That was a bad feeling. Almost as bad as stuttering.
A good smell came from the kitchen and my nose and stomach started reminding me how long it had been since I had tasted Mam’s cooking.
I had gone upstairs to t
ake a bath without Mam telling me and came back down wearing a clean pair of shorts and nice shirt for collecting. My parents were eating out with friends like they usually did on Friday nights. Mam had a big plate of fried chicken on the table along with black-eyed peas and Smashed Potatoes. They were just regular mashed potatoes but I liked to get that good S in there for starters since it meant about the same thing.
Mam sat down to eat with me. She was mostly just dabbing at her food. It was best for me not to look at her. It hurt to see her banged-up face. All I could think about was taking a nice shiny new baseball that still had all the red and blue writing on it and throwing it as hard as I could right between the eyes of the person who beat up Mam.
I wished that I was going to be throwing papers instead of collecting because I felt like heaving something for sure. I had one more week to go before Rat got home and I was planning on some super-hard newspaper throws.
I asked Mam to let me help her with the dishes but she said to go on and start my collecting so I could get home early. She notched up her voice to make sure I heard her.
You needs to pay this full mind. You be home ’fore dark or you’ll have me come looking for you.
I could tell she wasn’t fooling.
I went upstairs to get some change from my desk drawer. I looked in my billfold at the three words written on three different corners of a dollar bill.
Student
Servant
Seller
I knew I would get a fourth word next week. I didn’t have any clue what word it would be but I had a notion it would start with an S. I wondered if Mr. Spiro knew that S was my favorite sound and letter in all the world. If I had been Napoleon I would have changed that stone with the writing on it so more words would have started with an S. Especially my name.