The Coordinates

The train was empty.

Well, partially empty. My old friend Zeke was sitting in the last car, last row, and the seat next to the conductor booth. I didn’t have to be back there, I just knew. He took this ride each and every day. Him and the glass bottle in the paper bag. When I first met Zeke, I had had a rough day. I missed my first train and was stuck at 30th Street for an hour for some sort of electrical outage. He was sitting on the bench under the War Memorials angel. I walked by, grabbed a coffee and the paper, and circled back to sit. Zeke never looked up, took a swig from his bottle, and said, “I have to get home”. “Yeah, me and you both my friend”. I did not even care to look at the time at this point. My buddies were already on the Broad Street Line headed for the park. To me, this was a night in, and after teaching 3 classes today – my only plans were to grab a Yuengling, leftovers from the fridge, and catch the last few innings of the game. I stopped buying season tickets a while ago but catching a game or two after work was a pastime. When I was a kid, my dad took me to every game. We could only get standing room only tickets most of the time, but who cared. As a kid, what difference did it make? I would stand outside with my glove and bat for hours on a Saturday. I only came in for meals and right before the streetlights came on. We all thought we would be ‘Dutch’ one day. Yeah…

“R1 to Glenside on track 3”.

I hadn’t noticed when and if my bench mate got up. If he managed to move, I’m sure his legs were like lead. He’d been hitting the bottle pretty hard. I often wondered what happened to guys like Zeke. What finally took them over the edge. A breakup? A bad stock tip? Losing a job or a loved one? After school, I remember sitting at the table in the kitchen and asking my mother as she crossed the floor with a casserole right out of the oven. “Where are my potholders, Billy”? “Where did you have them last Lorraine”? “Mom”, I’d interrupt, “there was a guy today digging around again today in the dumpsters behind the building”. “Do you think he was homeless?”

“If I knew where they were, would I ask Frank”! “I-------“.

“Mom?”

“Billy, I’m sorry honey”. “That man was looking for something”; “There’s no way for us to know, but we don’t judge”.

“We don’t know, but we don’t judge…”. It always resonated with me. Something always made me look for that man. Maybe I’d give him what I traded for lunch? Maybe I would have some cash left from trading cards at TNT? I didn’t see him for a few weeks. I knew that I missed my chance.

“Temple University”

The straps of my briefcase curled at the ends. The brass fasteners were worn, and the leather at the handle had softened like butter sitting in the window under the sun for one of Mom’s Lemon Pound Cakes. It was old, but I couldn’t get rid of it. On the flap, barely visible, but etched in fainted gold were the initials W.L.F. I can still hear her telling me that she was proud of me. My tassel was tangled in her hair and my eyes. Click and roll, click and roll. Kodaks were a thing then. Four years at Temple was over in a flash. I was going to do good things in the world. That is what she said. When I told my folks, I wanted to be a teacher, my Mom beamed with pride. Dad wanted me to take up a trade. “It’s what we do. Carpenters make a good living”. I never argued, but I knew that teaching was about helping and if I helped anyone not have to dig in the dumpsters, then that was all that mattered to me.

“Last stop – Glenside”

I was running. I landed my first teaching job at Clymer Elementary in North Philadelphia. Second grade. I’ll never forget it. You learned on the ground, and you learned quickly. The bells, the students, the lesson plans. I never finished before four. Even then, I was never finished. My grade partner was a nice woman – older than me and had been teaching for about 10 years K-6th. She had the kind of demeanor that made the kids run up to her randomly to hug her and tell her about their weekends. But she had that stern brow that made heads turn so fast that my neck hurt in assembly. Her door was covered with a sign of hand-drawn flowers, and snakes, and butterflies, “In this room, we respect ideas”; “Everyone is someone here”; “Your questions are always welcomed” were written in crayon. On that first day, late and all – I was reminded that if I didn’t think enough of the students to show up on time, then I should consider not showing up at all.

Just one day. That was all it took. I was never late again.

I find myself, after ten years repeating those same phrases to my students. I saved one of the card stock signs from Ms. Wilson’s door. “Your question is always welcomed”. It struck me in a certain way. I was always asking questions, and better – I always wanted answers.

I guess that is why I was always so curious about Zeke. He was not a talker. I learned his name walking up to the train one day. He was running, doors were closing, and out flew my arm. “Zeke thank you”. After a while, I tried to find him purposely and he was always in the same place on the train.

I heard the conductors talking as they collected tickets. “Tickets or passes out please”. “They said he was sick for a long time”.

Who was sick?!? I hadn’t seen Zeke in about a month. Oh no. It hit me, but I didn’t want to believe it. My friend. I had waved so many days as the train started from the station back toward Center City. He knew I’d be there. I got up and went straight to the last car. Waves of emotions were hitting me like the cars swaying on the tracks. I felt like I’d been punched in the gut. No Zeke.

Looking around, I felt hot. My hands were moist and trembling. I sat down in his seat.

The train came to a stop. “This is it, man”.

I looked up from my palms. Reached down for my bag under the seat and noticed something hanging from the bottom of the chair. A small black leatherbound book was stuck in the rail. My eyes were stinging. I slid it in my bag and headed home.

Things were quiet that night. No TV. No beer. Just me, a stack of papers and thoughts of my bed. I reached for a pencil and onto the floor falls my bag and the black book slides out. What was this? Phone numbers, a few scribbled words, and towards the last page – 39.9812°N, 75.1497°W. A google search showed Temple University. I didn’t know what to do with it. I didn’t know if I should.

I woke up at the table the next morning and it was Saturday luckily.

The black book. The coordinates. I was on the train. I didn’t want to be, but there I was. Taking my old trip. Why?

It was like something or someone was telling what was next. No more clues? I stood there. Then I sat. The green and ivory tiles didn’t look the same as they used to. What are you doing Billy? This was crazy. This was crazy. I walked up and crossed at Cecil B. Moore. Swiped my card and waited for the train back home.

Lost in my own thoughts, I reached for the black book. I got up and headed for the waste bin and there it was 39.9812°N, 75.1497°W. I looked around and no one was there. I knew that. It was an indescribable feeling. Palpable and I couldn’t swallow. I got on the very last car and sat by the conductor’s booth. The station passed and the train was on the move. Lights whizzed by like fly balls. They were trance-like, and I jumped!

“30th Street Station”

Good old Zeke…

Only a few stops were left, and I bent over to tie my shoes. A brown paper bag was folded in the rail under the chair. I couldn’t breathe. I saw Zeke. I heard Zeke’s voice. I felt the stinging in my right arm catching the train door when he hobbled off the escalator to the platform. “I’m so proud of you son”. Clicking pictures. Me and dad cheering at the games.

The tears burned like hell. The bag was thick and rigid. It was wedged and partially tore as I pulled it out.

On the train, I opened it. A small note with a torn left edge in one of the paper bands. “Your questions were always welcomed”. Twenty thousand dollars.

The next year, I was invited to speak at an education conference in West Philadelphia. Four deserving young people wrote essays about what a college education would mean to them. They were gifted a scholarship from the Fiore Foundation in honor of Lorraine and Frank Fiore, Zeke, and Wilma Wilson. The clapping faded after the presentations to my final words, “always remember to respect ideas, remember that everyone is someone, never be too quick to judge, and lastly, remember that your questions – even if unanswered – don’t stop asking, they are welcomed”.