Weirdo Walter

   December thirty-first, a day that always found me compiling a list of New Year’s resolutions typed on my computer, to likely sit there, and not be revisited until next New Year’s Eve. It usually was a short list and unfortunately, often repetitive; lose weight, exercise daily, take my wife out to dinner more often, apologize to family and friends when I’d been hurtful in some way. The last resolution on my list was always the hardest to fulfill, yet the one of most importance. I just wasn’t good at it. I tended to taint my apologies with rationalizations and defensiveness, weakening their effect on the recipient. Too many times I’d hear my wife ask our son, “Did Dad apologize?” His reply, in a sad, disappointed tone of voice, “Yeah, sort of.” (This, when he was young). Now as an adult during arguments with me, he angrily retorts, “Don’t bother apologizing. You never can admit you’re wrong.”

    This year I vowed to change, to truly apologize when needed, to drop my excuses and justifications. This year, I’d even go as far as asking for forgiveness for all those years of weak, worthless apologies, especially to my son. Feeling my resolution list was complete and satisfied with this resolve, I exited Word and began scrolling through the news. A recent article caught my attention while I enjoyed my morning coffee. 

    “Walter Thomas Cunningham Awarded United States Poet Laureate,” the byline read and not being a connoisseur of poetry, I surprised myself by clicking on the blurb to read more, missing last year’s date in small print at the top of the page. As I perused the article I felt an odd sensation of something scratching the surface of my memory. But whatever was stored there seemed too deep to be extracted. When I reached the last paragraph though a chill passed over me, I shouted out loud, “I know this man!” The name was somehow familiar but I couldn’t place how or when I knew him. Staring blankly at the computer page before me I reached for my coffee spilling a few drops on the desk. I wiped the coffee splatter with my shirt sleeve and leaned back in my chair, closing my eyes.

     Walter, Walter. Was he a work associate? No, retirement was only two years ago and no one I worked with was named Walter, nor would have been a closet writer. One of my son’s coaches? That list was exhaustive to review as he had  played football, baseball and basketball, but nonetheless a Walter was not in the mix. Scrounging around for the names of past, and even present, home and car repairmen turned up only common names like Joe, the plumber, and Sam, the car mechanic. I felt a headache coming on and thought better about continuing this name search. Maybe, I had never known a man named Walter…maybe it wasn’t a man after all, but a boy. 

    A boy, that could be it!  it was an old-fashioned name, hmm…? I pondered. Suddenly a child’s face flashed before my eyes. A boy of nine or ten, skinny kid with pointy features, a bowl cut that didn’t contain his flyaway hair, and thick, horned rimmed glasses too big for his small face. This was Walter! Instantly I knew it for certain, Walter was in my fourth-grade class back in 1959. I hadn’t thought of him in over fifty years. 

     A blossoming jock, I was into sports in fourth grade, playing football, basketball, and baseball, all organized by the school.  Sometimes these were played at recess with teammates, though often the quicker games of kickball, dodgeball, and Red Rover were preferred, easier to organize in the short time allowed for recess. I was popular then, taller, and stronger than most of my friends; a leader who most likely could have stopped the mean and cruel things that were done to Walter. Walter didn’t play sports, in fact I don’t remember him doing anything at recess but sitting alone on the stone wall at the edge of the playground, reading. Once in a while he sat on the swing if no one else was around, the girls went off to jump rope or play their own gentle version of Red Rover.  This earned Walter the tag of “Sissy”. I remember watching him, his nose buried in a book, ignoring all that was going on around him, ignoring us. Who’d he think he was anyway? Too good to play with us or just too weird. I don’t know why he bugged me so much or why I wanted to get a rise out of him, but I was the one who taunted him first, calling him Weirdo Walter. Soon, everyone called him that, first from a distance, then right to his face. My friends and I even made up a chant, “Weirdo Walter sitting on the wall, don’t do nothin’, can’t throw a ball.” But it didn’t seem to bother him, he never once looked up from his book and this angered me further.

    One day, his lack of attention to our taunting got the better of me and I launched the kick ball with as much force as I could muster directly at him. The whizzing ball forced his book into his face knocking off his glasses, breaking them. Believe me, he looked up then and that was when I saw a trickle of blood sliding down his nose, a look of bewilderment on his face. Witnessed by a school monitor, I got in trouble big time for that impulsive act. My parents were called to take me home and I was suspended for a week.  I remember being really pissed off because I missed baseball practice and wasn’t allowed to see my friends. When I returned to school, Walter was gone. His parents had sent him to a private school, one for exceptionally bright kids.

     I never was given the opportunity to tell Walter I was sorry but at the time felt it was his fault for making me mad in the first place. Over the next several years, I thought of him occasionally with some remorse, especially when I saw a kid with glasses.

    Shaken from my reverie by the phone ringing, I noticed the computer screen had turned dark. Ignoring the phone’s trilling, I hit the space bar and the article appeared. Scanning it again I found the city and state where Walter now lived. A continuing search found his phone number and I stared at it for several minutes wondering if I dared to use it. The phone, no longer ringing, rested on the desk within my reach. My recently completed list taunted me. I nervously picked it up and dialed the number staring at me from the computer. It rang several times until a woman’s voice answered. Stammering, I asked if I could speak to Walter. The frail voice replied, after hesitating, that Walter was unavailable. He had died one month earlier. Speechless at first, I managed to convey my condolences and explain who I was after she confirmed she was his wife.   I gathered my courage and with a calm I didn’t know I could possess, told her the short version of my relationship with her husband, Walter, and that I was extremely sorry for my past actions. There was a long pause before she replied, “Thank you. Walter would have liked to hear that,” and she ended the call.

    I sat there motionless for a long while, feeling a dampness on my cheeks and replaying the most honest apology I’d ever made. Buoyed with a certain lightness and firm resolve, I clicked my son’s number on the phone I still held. I’d wish him a Happy New Year and explain my reason for calling early. I fervently hoped I wasn’t too late; I didn’t want him to be another Walter.