An asteroid hitting the Earth would result in devastation, I’ve read. Such a crash would obliterate the asteroid and could possibly send surviving humans back to the Stone Age. But . . . but if we could deflect that asteroid, if we could get to it soon enough, early enough to give it a nudge, why all the trouble could be avoided.
Reading an article in a magazine and thinking about asteroids smacking into the Earth reminded me of a young man I’d hauled years ago on the short bus. Bart wasn’t on the short bus because he needed help with his schoolwork. Bart was there because of his attitude. Disrespectful toward everything and everyone, I’d seen him in action. Bart was a “behavior problem” and had to attend a special school.
It wasn’t working.
The attitude was always with him, a shadowy companion that hung like a pall over him and me as we rode home in silence in the afternoons. Every afternoon as he got on the little bus, my only passenger, I’d ask him how was his day? Did he learn anything new today? And every day it was the same, a grunt or some negative comment and silence.
One day things got better. The negative comment turned into whole sentences of negativity!
“The teachers don’t care, they just go through the motions because they have to,” he said.
Good! Sentences, even negative, invite conversation. Sentences beat the heck out of a grunt.
On that 40-minute ride every afternoon we’d talk, or not. I let him lead the conversation. Turns out he had a crappy, desperate home life, no male role model and no positive reinforcement for anything he’d done well.
He talked to me and eventually confided in me, maybe because he knew I didn’t really have to talk to him.
“What are women like?” he asked. Yikes! I rambled a bit and told him no matter what the current styles are, all women appreciate good personal hygiene and kindness. I told him that if a woman asks if you’d like a breath mint, she’s not really asking a question. We laughed together, and so it went.
Day after day, that 40- minute ride seemed to get shorter and shorter as we’d talk about humanity, cars, jobs, things he’d learned at school and what the deeper meaning of things might be. Anything under the sun that an 18-year old young man might ask a father.
One day, months into our daily visits, Bart asked me what it meant to be a man and have a family, a large question for a 40-minute bus ride.
I don’t remember all I’d said to him years ago, but I remember saying that mom gets a lot of credit, and she deserves it. And I told him that in today’s world, dads don’t get much credit which makes what they do all the more honorable.
“You see, Bart,” I’d told him, “a man, a dad, is steady. It’s easy to be a hero if you’re in the spotlight shooting a basket from midcourt or playing in a rock band. But how do you do when no one is watching? To be steady and dependable and one day even a little bit wise, this is having a backbone, this is some of what it means to be a man and a dad.”
He was silent, chewing on that one.
I let him off and said: “See you in the morning. Seven-thirty. Remember to eat something before school.”
Toward the end of that year I knew Bart would graduate, and I paused to think of the end of our good conversations. All kids are filled with good conversations, but it’s rare that the situation is one-on-one.
With summer approaching, Bart told me he needed a job. He needed work to be able to afford a car, to escape a tough situation at home and get into life. He’d done what we’d talked about. He’d applied at a large Falcon market after modifying his tough-guy appearance, but they weren’t hiring.
I gave a last bit of advice: Do what I did when I was your age. Stop by the market every week on the same day at around the same time with the appearance of someone ready to go to work. The place must have a hundred employees. They’ll have an opening soon enough, and they’ll hire you. Just keep stopping in.
That school year ended, and more than a year had passed. One day I was at loose ends and was grazing on free samples in the market.
A magazine caught my eye and so while munching on purloined cookies, I read about asteroids and destruction.
From behind me came a voice: “Mr. Preble!”
Ack: I’m busted! A store employee had caught me with one too many sample cookies, and he knew my name!
I turned around sheepishly and saw a familiar face that took a moment to place. “Bart!” I said, “Well look at you!” There stood a clean-cut young man looking sharp and capable.
“I did just what you’d said, Mr. Preble: I came in every week and they hired me. And guess what? I’ve been promoted.”
I shook his hand and put my other hand on his shoulder and told him in surprise and happiness that I was proud of him.
“If it wasn’t for you, Mr. Preble, I wouldn’t be here,” he said.
The words had weight. “Here” didn’t mean at the market, “here” meant here in life.
“Well, give yourself some credit,” I told him. “And another thing, Bart. You’re doing the things that men do now. I am proud of you. And you know what? ‘Mr. Preble’ is my father. Call me Tom.”
Tom Preble, lvranch@att.net
