Part 8 (1/2)

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 n.a.z.is. 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 cla.s.sical. Geology. I find myself fascinated by the study of landma.s.ses. 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 cla.s.s 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 gla.s.ses 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.