Mr. Weiss

by Gary W. Cantor

     It�fs funny how different people have such different kinds of childhood memories.  Some people I know have almost no clear memories of their childhood.  On the other hand, I have one friend who says that, in his mind he can form images of bits and pieces of hundreds of different days from his youth.  However, he says that none of those images are very clear, and they usually span no more than a few seconds of any given day.  My childhood memories are quite different from his.  I can remember a lot about my childhood, but can only see images that relate to a few select days.  However, looking at one of those images is like watching a movie.  The images are perfectly clear and last a long time.  As such, in a sense, I am able to �gwatch�h certain days in my life as if they were presented on film.

     One day that I remember like this was a summer day in 1963, when I was eight years old�c  It was a hot day; so hot, that I didn�ft want to do anything at all.  And in fact, after lunch, for a long time I just sat on our porch staring at the sky and daydreaming.  But then, all of a sudden, I heard the magical sound of that summer.  It was the ice cream truck.  Listening to the ringing of the bell, I knew that it was only about a block away and would be heading onto our block very soon.  So I ran into the house and yelled to my mother. 

     �gMom, it�fs the ice cream man.  Can I get something?�h

     She reached into her purse and took out fifteen cents.  I took the money and raced out the door.  As I did, I could see the ice cream truck coming  down the street.  I ran out into the street and waited to see where the truck would stop.

     The truck rolled past me and came to a stop near the corner.  As I ran toward it, I could see other kids doing the same.  Their voices rang out loudly as they called to each other and to Dave, the driver of the truck, who had gotten out of the driver�fs seat and stepped out onto the street.

     Dave was a middle-aged man, probably in his middle or late forties.  He had curly black hair with a few spots of gray in it, and a very prominent nose.  He wore a white uniform and a white and black checkered cap.  He was somewhat overweight, and his stomach bulged slightly over his black belt.

     He was also an extremely good-natured man, and always spent about ten or fifteen minutes with us after he sold us ice cream and popsicles.  We talked with Dave about lots of things, but in the end the topic of conversation always came back to baseball.  Dave loved baseball, and enjoyed telling us stories about some of the greats that he had seen when he was a boy.   We would all gather around him and listen as he told us tales about Charlie Gehringer, Hank Greenberg, and of course, the great Babe Ruth.

     Dave would speak passionately about Ruth.  �gThere�fs nobody like him today,�h  he once said, as he looked up into a bright blue sky. �gMantle, Maris, and Mays are good, but they�fre not The Babe.  You could see it in his face.  He was always sure he�fd knock the stuffing out of the ball.  He always knew he could do it�cNo, there are no more Babe Ruths.  And there never will be, either.�h

     That day, like always, Dave was in a good mood.  �gGood game last night, huh?�h he said to us.  He had gone to the game at Tiger Stadium the night before, and the Tigers had won.  He told us a bit about the game, which I had listened to on the radio, and then took a bunch of baseball cards out of his shirt pocket and handed a few to each of us.  I took the three that he gave to me and held them tightly in my left hand.  At the same time, I kept a tight grip on the popsicle that I held in my right. 

     A few seconds later, I shoved the popsicle into my mouth, looked at the cards Dave had given me, and thanked him.  Actually, I was a little disappointed because I hadn�ft gotten any Tigers, but I didn�ft let it show on my face.  Shortly after that, Dave got back into the ice cream truck and drove away.  As the truck moved slowly into the distance, the sound of its bell became softer and softer, and finally faded away completely.

     As I ate my popsicle, my friend Marty came over to me and asked me what cards I had gotten.  I showed him my cards, and then he showed me his.  Then, while we finished eating, we walked down the sidewalk toward his house.

     By the time we got to his front porch, I had finished eating my popsicle, and Marty had finished eating his ice cream bar.  We stood in silence for a minute, and then suddenly, Marty�fs eyes lit up.  �gDo you want to do something to Mr. Weiss?�h he asked.

     I knew exactly what he meant.  During that summer, on many different occasions we had bothered Mr. Weiss.  Actually, �gbothered�h might not be the best way to explain what we had done.  We certainly didn�ft have the nerve to get up close to him and do something to him.  But, we had pulled little pranks that were intended to disturb his peace and quiet and to demonstrate to ourselves that we could get away with doing things to a grownup.

     For example, one time we threw water balloons onto his porch.  On another occasion, we shot his side windows with squirt guns and then ran away as fast as we could as we yelled, �gMr. Weiss, Mr. Weiss�h, at the top of our lungs.  However, our most common prank was to sneak up to his front door very slowly, ring it, and then run away before he got to the door.

     We didn�ft have any reason to do these things to Mr. Weiss.  In fact, we didn�ft even really know him.  As far as we were concerned, he was just an old man who wore a suit whenever he left his house.  But, for some reason, that in itself made him an irresistible target.

     When we pulled our first prank on him, it was Marty who had suggested it.  In fact, it was always Marty�fs idea.  But I never resisted.  Quite the opposite, I think that it was me more than him that got caught up in the excitement of doing those things.  So, I was follower, but a most enthusiastic one.

     At any rate, on that hot summer day, Marty suggested that we do something that we had never done before.  �gI have an idea,�h he said.  His eyes lit up brightly as he spoke.  �gLet�fs go around the block and climb over his back fence.  Then, we�fll climb up the apple tree in his backyard, yell out his name, climb down, and run away as fast as we can.  He�fll never catch us.�h

     I hesitated for a moment, but then signalled my agreement with a nod of my head.  It was certainly an exciting plan, I thought.  We had never gone into his backyard, and it definitely constituted a challenge to get in and yell at him from up in his own tree without getting caught.

     On the other hand, I was scared to death.  This prank was much riskier than the other ones we had pulled.  Once we climbed up his apple tree, would we be able to make it down and out of his backyard without getting caught red-handed?  I wasn�ft sure.  Even though he was old, I thought, if he realized quickly enough where we were yelling from he might be able to catch us.  And if, by some chance, he saw us entering his backyard or climbing his tree, we would be dead ducks.

     But, I didn�ft share these concerns with Marty.  I just followed a step behind him as he walked around the corner and started heading toward the alley that ran behind our block.

     We entered the alley and started walking toward Mr. Weiss�fs house.  As we walked, we looked around, but didn�ft see anybody.  There were sounds, though.  They were the sounds of that summer.  Somewhere, older kids were playing baseball, and I heard the crack of a bat hitting a ball and the screams of the players that followed.  There were also a variety of sounds coming from the main street that was about 100 yards behind us.  These included the sounds of tires rolling over the hot pavement and the occasional blaring of horns.

     As we approached Mr. Weiss�fs backyard, we both looked around slowly to make sure that nobody was watching us.  It was safe.  There didn�ft seem to be anybody in the alley or in any of the backyards adjacent to Mr. Weiss�fs house.  So Marty climbed over the low fence that stood between Mr. Weiss�fs backyard and the alley, and then I followed.

     Like every other backyard on the block, this one was very small and cut in the shape of a square.  The grass, which had undoubtedly been green in the spring, had faded to a lusterless yellow due to the hot sun that shone down relentlessly during that incredibly uncomfortable summer.  In the middle of the yard stood the apple tree.  It wasn�ft very wide, but seemed to me to be extremely tall, reaching all the way up to the level of the roof.  I looked at the branches of the tree and wondered if they would support me.

     There were no outward signs of anybody being in the house.  The kitchen, which faced the backyard was dark, and I couldn�ft hear any sounds coming from anywhere else in the house.  However, Mr. Weiss was probably inside resting or sleeping, I thought.  What else would he be doing on such a hot summer day?

     Marty started up the tree.  He was a good climber, and within a minute moved halfway up the tree.  At that point, I started to climb.  I wasn�ft nearly as good a climber as Marty.  I pulled myself up one branch at a time with the greatest of care, and constantly worried that a branch would break and that I would fall to the ground and break an arm or a leg.  That fear, along with the fear that Mr. Weiss would suddenly dart out of his house and catch us, kept my heart beating rapidly.

     When I got to a point just below where Marty was, he spoke to me in a whisper.  �gWhen I count to three, yell out as loud as you can, �eMr. Weiss!  Mr. Weiss!�f  Then, we�fll get out of the yard as fast as we can.  OK?�h

     I didn�ft say anything in response.  I just waited for Marty to start counting.  Then, with my heart pounding as hard as I could ever remember, Marty started counting in a barely audible whisper.

     �gOne�ctwo�cthree.�h

     Without waiting for Marty, I yelled out at the top of my lungs.  �gMr. Weiss!  Mr. Weiss!  Where are you, Mr. Weiss?�h

     I didn�ft hear Marty yell, but I assume that he did.  My mind was now focused on only one thing ? getting out of that yard before Mr. Weiss ran out and caught me.  I climbed down the tree, followed in a split second by Marty.  Then, with Marty running past me, I ran toward the fence.  Marty climbed over the fence first.  Then, with my heart racing, I followed him.  When my feet touched the alley, I felt safe.  I did it, I thought.  I then looked back at Mr. Weiss�fs house and got set to run.

     However, just as my left leg was about to move, I felt something on my right arm.  It was a very firm grip.  I looked up and my heart seemed to jump.  Mr. Weiss was looking down at me, and his mouth was moving.

     �gDid you want to see me?�h he asked.

     I didn�ft answer.  I was petrified.  I had been caught red-handed.  His grip on my arm didn�ft hurt, but it was tight, and I knew that even if I struggled I couldn�ft pull away from him.  So, I stood passively and waited for him to say or do something.

     �gYou are Theodore Lerner�fs boy, aren�ft you?�h  he asked.

     �gYes,�h I managed to answer after hesitating for about five or six seconds.  My hesitation was partly caused by my fear.  However, it was also the result of the fact that my father was rarely called �gTheodore.�h  All of my parents�f friends called my dad �gTed.�h  So did almost all of my relatives.  In fact, the only person that I can remember calling my father �gTheodore�h was my grandmother on my mother�fs side.  She had a habit of speaking formally to just about everybody except my mother.

     Anyway, after I answered Mr. Weiss�fs question, I looked up at his wrinkled face and dreary gray eyes for what seemed like an eternity.  Then, he finally pointed his chin in the direction of his house and said in a low, emotionless voice, �gLet�fs go inside and have a chat.�h

     He led me into his yard and we walked to his back door.  Then, he reached into his pocket and took out a key.  When he did, he let go of my arm.  I thought for a split second of taking that opportunity to make a run for it, but decided not to.  I wasn�ft afraid of being caught.  However, I had a vague feeling that running would just make things worse.

     He opened the door and we went into the house.  As we entered the kitchen he turned on the light.  I looked around and was surprised to see a small and rather bare, but amazingly clean room.  A table and two chairs stood against one wall and a small refrigerator stood against another.  Along a third wall there was an old-looking white oven, on top of which stood four burners and a built-in clock.  Finally, there was the sink and the small window above it from which the backyard could be seen.

     Mr. Weiss quickly led me out of the kitchen and into an adjacent room.  Like the kitchen, this room was also quite small.  On one side of the room stood a desk with a chair tucked neatly under it.  On the other side of the room there were two olive-green lounge chairs.  Besides that, the only things in the room were a small closet and bookshelves.  However, the bookshelves were on all sides of the room, and held an astounding number of books.

     As I looked around at all of the books, I wondered what Mr. Weiss was going to do with me.  I was quite sure that he wasn�ft going to hit me.  Even though he had grabbed me before, he didn�ft seem like the hitting type.  However, I did fear that after a short lecture he was going to call my mother and tell her about what I had done.  And of course that meant that my mother would tell my father, who would then fly into a rage.

     I also assumed that by catching me coming out of his backyard, Mr. Weiss would realize, if he hadn�ft already, that it was Marty and me who had been ringing his doorbell and pulling all sorts of other pranks at his expense during that summer.  If my father heard about all of that, I thought, I was really in trouble.

     However, Mr. Weiss took me by surprise.  He looked me directly in the eyes and asked, �gDo you like books?�h

     I wasn�ft ready for that question.  But, shaking ever so slightly, I answered him honestly.

     �gNo, not very much.  But I do like sports magazines.�h

     He didn�ft say anything for a few seconds.  He just sighed and looked around the room and at the hundreds of books that stood on the wall-to-wall bookshelves.  Then, he looked at me and said, �gI have never read a sports magazine.  However, I suppose that doing so is somewhat better than watching television.�h

     Then, he sighed again, and walked slowly into the kitchen.  I heard the refrigerator door open, and a minute or so later Mr. Weiss came back into the room with a glass in his hand.

     He looked at me and made a gesture inviting me to sit down in one of the lounge chairs.  I did, and then he handed me the glass.

     �gI hope you like root beer,�h he said.  �gThat�fs all I have.�h

     Somewhat surprised by what was happening, I thanked him.  Then I took a sip of the root beer and waited for the lecture that I was sure was going to follow.  However, once again, Mr. Weiss surprised me.

     �gActually, when I was your age, I didn�ft read very much either,�h he said in a soft voice.  �gHowever, when I was twelve years old, my father gave me a book for a present.  It was a history book.  I read that book, and for the first time in my life I wanted to learn about all sorts of things.  I wanted to learn about far away countries and languages and great people.  And I wanted to know why people fought wars and why they made peace, and why there seemed to be more war than peace.�h

     At that point, Mr. Weiss stopped talking and slowly walked over to the chair that was next to the one that I was sitting in.  He sat down, and then continued to speak.

     �gTo make a long story short, that history book changed my life.  I started to read every day, and I can honestly say that since I got that book I have read and thought about things every day of my life.�h

     Suddenly, the expression on Mr. Weiss�fs face changed.  What had been a very serious look faded into a soft smile.

    �gI�fm terribly sorry,�h he said.  �gWhat is your name?  I mean, what is your first name?�h

     �gSteven,�h I said.  After I spoke I realized that my voice, and my body for that matter had stopped shaking.  Something about Mr. Weiss�fs voice must have put me at ease.

     �gSteven,�h he said.  �gThat�fs a nice name.�h  At that point, he looked up for a second or two, and then walked over to the closet.  He opened the closet door and spent a minute or so sifting through books, papers, and a variety of other things that were piled up high in utter disarray.  Finally, he tugged hard at something and pulled it out.  Then, he turned toward me and I could see that he had a globe in his hands.  The globe was very dusty, so Mr. Weiss took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped away the dust.  Then, he went back to the chair he had been sitting in, sat down very slowly and looked at me.

     �gDo you have a globe?�h he asked.

     �gNo,�h I answered.  Actually, we did have one in our den, and I enjoyed twirling it around and looking at all of the different countries and oceans.  However, I considered it to be my father�fs.

     �gWhen I was younger, I used to spend a lot of time looking at this globe,�h Mr. Weiss said.  �gWhenever I looked at it I realized just how little I knew about other countries and the people who lived in those countries.  Steven, do you ever think about people who live far away?�h

     �gYes, sometimes I do,�h I said, and after answering him my mind wandered for a second.  Just a few days before that I had been looking at some pictures in a magazine that my father received in the mail.  There was page after page of people who looked different and dressed differently from the people I knew.  And some of the people were very skinny and seemed to be close to dying from starvation.

     �gThat�fs good,�h Mr. Weiss said.  Then, after pausing for a moment, he continued.  �gCuriosity about the unknown is a sign of an active mind.�h

     Then, Mr. Weiss leaned over and handed the globe to me.

     �gHere,�h he said softly.  �gKeep it.  It may give you some ideas.�h

     I looked at the globe for a few seconds and then looked over at Mr. Weiss.  I wasn�ft sure what he meant by �ggood ideas,�h but I thanked him for the globe.

     Mr. Weiss then stood up and walked slowly back to the closet.  He opened the closet door, and then looked back in my direction.

     �gYou should put that globe in a box or something,�h he said.  �gThat way you can keep it clean on your way home.�h

     He then stuck his head into the closet and started tossing things around.  I could hear the sound of papers flying around in the closet as he picked them up and threw them down as he searched for a suitable box.  Then, after about a minute or so, he started to yank at something.  It seemed to be a box that was lying somewhere in the bottom of the closet.  He was having trouble pulling it out.  I got up and started to walk in the direction of the closet.  I thought that maybe I could help him.

     Just then, Mr. Weiss staggered backward a step.  He had managed, by pulling with all of his might, to tear a large white box away from everything that had been piled on top of it.  However, at the very instant that he had managed to pull out the box, something else came tumbling down from the top of the closet, and fell on the floor.  It made a loud noise when it landed.  I didn�ft know what it was because it landed in front of Mr. Weiss, and I was behind him.

     �gWhat was that?�h I asked.  However, Mr. Weiss said nothing.  In fact, for about ten or fifteen seconds he stood absolutely motionless.  His head was pointed downward, and I had the feeling that he was simply staring at whatever it was that had fallen from the top of the closet.

     Finally, I went around him to see what had fallen.  It was a photograph in a glass frame.  I bent down and saw that the glass had broken.  Then, I focused in on the picture.

     It was an old picture of three people.  There was a man and woman, and a small child, perhaps four or five years old.  The man was wearing a dark suit and glasses.  The woman was very pretty and wore a dark dress.  The child was smiling.

     I looked up at Mr. Weiss.  There was a teardrop rolling ever so slowly down his cheek to his chin.  When he noticed me looking at him he looked away from me.

     �gIs that you in the picture?�h I asked.

     He nodded, but said nothing.  Then he turned toward me and looked down at the picture again.

     �gThis picture must have been taken forty years ago,�h he said.  �gBut when I look at it now, it seems like yesterday.�h

     I looked at the picture again, and as I did I heard Mr. Weiss clear his throat and continue speaking.

     �gThis was my wife and this is my son,�h he said as he pointed at the two other people in the picture.

     I noticed that he said �gwas�h when he mentioned his wife.  So I assumed that she was dead.  However, I wondered about his son.  I thought about asking him, but didn�ft have to.

     �gMy wife died ten years ago,�h he said.  �gAnd I�fve only seen my son once since her funeral.  He has his own family and they live very far away.  But he does write a few times a year.�h

     Then he looked at me, and with a soft smile on his face said in a whisper, �gYou remind me a little bit of him.�h

     I said nothing.  A few more silent seconds passed, and then Mr. Weiss cleared his throat again and looked at his watch.  He placed the globe in the box he had taken from the closet and then handed the box to me.  Then, he picked up the picture, put it back in the closet and closed the closet door.

     �gIt�fs getting late, Steven.  You better go home before your mother starts to worry about you,�h he said.

     �gOK,�h I said.  And then I walked with him to the front door.  As we walked I thought about what had happened in the time since he grabbed me near his back fence.  It all seemed rather puzzling to me.  Finally, after Mr. Weiss opened the door to let me out I looked at him and asked, �gMr. Weiss, aren�ft you going to punish me for what I did before?�h

     He smiled and said, �gMaybe I already have.�h

     Then, as I thought about what he meant by that, he opened his mouth again, and speaking softly, said, �gSteven, the next time you ring my bell, why don�ft you wait for me to answer the door.  I�fd love to talk to you again.�h

     I nodded and then stepped out into the sunshine.  I walked in the direction of my house, and within a few seconds noticed that Marty was standing beside a tree that stood in front of our next door neighbor�fs house.  When he saw me, he ran over to me and asked, �gWhat happened?  Did he hit you or anything?�h

     I looked at him, but for a few seconds said nothing.  I just couldn�ft find the right words to explain what had happened or what had been said.  It was all so simple, but yet all so complex.  Finally, I just said, �gNo�h and continued walking toward my house.

     After that day, I saw more and more of Mr. Weiss.  He taught me a lot and proved to be a good friend.  And a few years later, when he died, the first thing that came to my mind was our rather remarkable first meeting.

     Over the years, I must have revisited that day hundreds of times in my mind.  And with each recollection I have gotten a certain warm feeling that only seems to accompany that memory.  I hope that memory never fades away.

This story was published in Printed Matter in 2000.