Reuniting with a former student who's seen better days.
Tom Tom
Journal entry #176.
June 7, 2002
My day today. Something different. Pan-handled by a derelict on Main Street, right here in my quiet hometown. But something more. Because he looks familiar, I ask him his name. He pulls a slow reply from somewhere deep in his chest. It pours out in ripples and waves, "My name? Uhh, yah, it's, uhh, Tom - Tom Tom".
I can't believe it, I actually remember this 30-something drunk guy, and what's more, I'm glad to see him! "Hey, Tom, I remember you from Mountain Elementary School in Springfield when you were a little kid! I used to be a teacher there. Wasn’t your brother's name Randy?" I'm honestly glad to see him! Little Tom Tom, who was so cute and smart when he was six that he could light up the darkest day with his gappy grin, and here he is before me, gaps and all.
He snaps out of his fog, saying clearly, eyes burning with emotion, "Randy is dead. I miss my brother. You know what happened to him, don't you? My cousin ran him over with a vaaan." The word van is loud and drawn out with a release of sadness that sears my face from ear to ear. The pain in Tom’s voice is raw, a little brother desperately missing his big older brother ten years after the car accident.
I say, "I know, Tom, I remember when that happened. I was so sad when I heard about it. I remember Randy so well. He was such a sweet, smart kid, and that little round face of his, and such a good person, such a good kid, so good in math. Did you know I had him in kindergarten and again in second grade?" Then, seeing his eyes fill, I add, "Hey, don't worry, Tom. You will see him again someday. I truly believe that." He looks pleased to hear these words, but doubtful too, like he wants to believe me but can't quite get ahold of it.
He then asks me my name, and I tell him, and he says, "Oooh, Mrs. Kohl, and he throws his aromatic arms all the way around me and hugs me close to his faded flannel shirt, as nicely as I have been hugged in a long long time. I'm thinking, "Oh, geez, not lice, please - and God only knows what else..." But then, none of that seems to matter as much as the good hug, the really good hug, and the sharing of real grief missing a sweet kid with a round face and eyes like chocolate chips.
He pulls away slowly, one brown hand on each of my shoulders, and says incredulously like he just thought of it and looking me directly in the eyes, speaking slowly, each word spoken as an individual sentence, "You - remember – my- big – brother - Randy ..."
I've never forgotten, Randy, and I want Tom to know it, to really know it. "Tom, I could never forget Randy! He was very special to me. I clearly remember his favorite day in second grade - a hike we took deep into the woods at Spirit Falls Park where we found a frog pond, and he showed all the other kids how to climb the steep bank out to the main trail. And I haven’t forgotten when he got hit by that car. What was he, about nine then? He spent weeks and weeks in the hospital in that head contraption. I visited him, hoping to cheer him up."
"Oh, it was horrible. Horrible. Horrible for him," Tom answers shaking his head from side to side, as he sways, trying to stand, waves of words spilling from him. "It almost killed him. Horrible. My brother. My big brother. Dead, dead." He has mixed two stories into one, two horrible car related accidents: one that crippled his big brother as a child, and another that killed him at the age of 22. A second hug engulfs me, Tom patting my back and holding me tight with affection and our shared grief tangible in the noisy breeze from cars passing by.
I look over his shoulder through his long shocks of greasy black hair, seeing people driving by staring at me, a conservative-looking gray haired lady, a bit pudgy in her Liz Claiborne khaki pants, hugging a drunken man in the middle of downtown, and I think, "You have no idea what's going on here, folks. Not even close - not in a million years."
Then he speaks with deep thought, his alcoholic haze somewhat lifted for the moment, "You know, you're a real nice lady. I wanna tell you something. You look at me and see a drunk street guy, all rotten with alcohol, but I’ll tell you what: I was smart, really smart, and I still have all that knowledge right here." He points to his head, tapping his cranium with one finger, eyes squinty with self-assurance. "I could have finished school and gone to college. I wish I did that." He sways and steps backward, catching his balance.
"I know, Tom. I remember you very well, you know. You were one of the smartest kids in school ... and you were Randy's cooool little brother, weren't you?" He smiles, a sad smile, but a smile that tells me he feels my words.
He asks me for a quarter, saying he's hungry. I open my wallet, dig around for some bills, and hand a fistful to Tom saying, "So. Here's some money. Buy a taco or a sandwich or something. Eat!" I'm shaking my pointer finger at him like a teacher talking to a little boy. "You'll feel better, get some protein into those big ol’ muscles of yours!” Then I ask, because I really want to know, “Hey, Tom, how's it going for you? You doing okay?"
He looks down at his grimy jeans, hefts his pants up a bit and tightens the rope he uses for a belt, and says, "I dunno, I guess so, I just don't know how to get myself situated. I need to get situated."
I say, "Well, no one knows just how to do that for you, Tom. It's tough, I know. Really tough. Do you have family who could help you out, a sister, a dad, someone?"
"No, just had Randy, he's dead. My big brother is dead."
I point two blocks down the street at a beige three-story building with ten or fifteen guys standing around the brightly colored flower beds outside the front steps. "You could head over to the Mission, and do what they tell you. Maybe you won't get everything situated all at once, but it might get you started. Getting situated - like you said, Tom. Might make your big brother Randy smile that big ol' smile that crinkles up his eyes. You remember that smile, Tom?"
"Yah, I remember that." Tom starts to cry softly, shoulders heaving a little with quiet sobs, and he says, "I don't know if I can situate myself, but know what? You give me respect and talk to me. That's good. That's real good. And you remember Randy, his ol' moon face, my big brother, you really do, don't you?"
"Tom," I say truthfully, "I remember Randy more than I remember just about anyone, and now I will be remembering you, Tom from Mountain School, standing here in front of me on Main Street. Take care, now. Get that sandwich. I hope you get yourself situated, even just a little bit, Tom."
He gives me some rapper looking hand signal, and I say, "I don't know what that means..."
And he says, "It's street talk, nice lady, for 'yah, it's all right, good stuff'.
So I give him the street sign right back and say with a big teasing smile, "Don't drink up that five bucks, Tom. You know Randy's watching!"
He gets the humor and smiles that gappy smile, breaking my heart into two perfect halves with its pure beauty, and says with feeling, "Yah, I miss my big brother. He died. I miss him sooooo much."
Tom turns and heads off down the street. I don't know if he's headed to the bar, the park bench, the sandwich counter, or the Mission. His destination doesn't really matter so much all in all. But when he looks back at me and gives me the street sign again, his smile spreads a light in my heart that mends those two halves into one big warm hug inside my chest.
Democratic Dilemmas and Divine Inspiration examines the significance or relevance of the idea that the U.S. Constitution was, as many believe, divinely inspired. How much did that belief matter to founders of the nation and how much does it matter no
Democratic Dilemmas and Divine Inspiration examines the significance or relevance of the idea that the U.S. Constitution was, as many believe, divinely inspired. How much did that belief matter to founders of the nation and how much does it matter no
