I Didn’t Ever Know Your Name, But You Were So Cool.

I was an Adjunct Instructor in the Interiors Department for Parsons Continuing Ed, and you were in the Painting Department. I was there each week for twenty-two years on the treadmill to nowhere, but it paid the bills and it was who I was.

I was the skinny young guy in the elevator in the pea coat with the camera, and you were the older Italian man with the beaten-up coat, the frayed wool sweaters, and the Desert Boots.

You had the meershaum pipe that got darker brown with each term, with those pretty young girls and their straight blond hair and their Connecticut noses trailing after you. And never once did I see you strut. You didn’t have to. So cool.

Then one day I got the message from the Dean to be at her office, and got there early, and from her waiting area I saw her talking with you.

On and on she was trying to convince you of something but you kept going on about how you loved teaching and how you lived for the moments when they started to believe, and came alive. And there I was, eavesdropping.
All of a sudden, I got it. She was letting you go, but you weren’t hearing it.

Then, there it was. I saw it come over your face. Your shoulders fell. You became old and your light went out. I felt so bad for you.

“You’re feeling bad for him?” I said to myself. “Why do you think you’re out here? You think you’re out here waiting for a bus? You’re next!”

And then you were up and heading for the other door, and I turned to her and our eyes met, and I knew. I said, “Let me make this easy on us. You’re letting me go, right?” And she was. She said some nice things to me but explained that my time had passed. A quick handshake and I was gone.

I got out in the hallway and searched for you, and I ran down the stairs. I got down to the lobby but you weren’t there. So I ran out to the street and looked up and down but didn’t see you and I ran up to Fifth Avenue and looked back and forth, and back and forth. I swear I did.

But you were gone.