What set him apart from other, even at age eleven, was the understanding that he would someday be a stooped old man wrapped in an overcoat on the warmest of spring days. This didn't cause him to despair, nor to hoard wealth against the inevitable, but instead to revel in his play, venturing into the riskier parts of the city hanging from the back of a delivery wagon and to stop, transfixed when he encountered the unusual in life's sideshow. His elders, of course, feared for his safety as I'm sure you now do, but fear not, for nothing bad happens to our little man, nothing as serious as death.

Rod, something stiff, inflexible, unable to grab on a fast moving vehicle like Tarzan, used to hang curtains. Knee, that thing you bang into a coffee table or skin when you fall. That was his name. A name without history, distinction or mystery. Had anyone heard of Rodney Magellan or Ponce de Leon de Rodney? Even a Rodney Red Beard, infamous pirate, would do. Even Rapscallion, the name his brothers called him was better than old Rodney. He didn’t know what rapscallion meant, but he was sure pretty sure it was not a giant green onion like his brother Jacob said.

Both his brothers had good names. Gabriel was the oldest and Jacob was next. It didn’t matter that they weren’t special, they had the potential to be, just by their names. In fact, Gabriel would lead a pleasant life up state as the set designer for a small theater group. His best friend Stephen was the music director and they shared a house for more than forty years. Neither man married, though from time to time they would take dates to the city for the latest hit production. This caused quite a stir in the ladies auxiliary and much speculation about potential unions. The husbands just smiled.

Jacob was not so lucky. He had a good start landing a plum job at the Natural History Museum designing dioramas. His downfall came with a competition to depict the Southwest for a new exhibition to include “All the splendors of the native inhabitants.” Jacob interpreted splendors as the savage re-enactment of survival of the fittest. His model depicting wolves tearing at a deer carcass, natives stampeding buffalos over a cliff and an actual forest fire was not well received. He became bitter and withdrawn, drinking his way through lunch and then all day. His colleagues were too self absorbed to notice and he made it to retirement.
 
School and Rodney were not a good fit. School wanted attendance, attention, concentration and participation, skills he possessed for other pursuits. Being prompt for lunch with his friends where he was sure to note what was good to eat and was glad to laugh at the jokes was his talent. He was good company. Adults and teachers liked him and would remark at what a nice boy he was. If only he would apply himself. Not that difficulty the problem, attendance was what did him in. School was a nuisance. By noon he had it, leaving his name and his books in his locker, he headed for Papalardo's Greek Restaurant, Lardo's to the men who worked there. This lunch time he was seen first by his father and then by his mother speeding by on the back of a truck on his way downtown to see his friends, who referred to him as “Hey Kid,” his favorite name, where they would be eating and smoking before the dinner prep. Rain or shine they would be in the alley laughing and lying and he was welcome. This day Don, the book keeper and sometimes reservation taker was talking about his plans for a poetry shop he would open when he has enough saved. He had the name picked out, ‘A Rhyme Anytime‘. With Gil, his poet friend as a partner, they could put on the sign, ‘Two Poets, No Waiting.’ “We will serve coffee and tea, maybe even wine. A guy can come in, say at lunch, have a cup and hear his favorite or a new work by one of us owners. It wouldn't cost much.” “We can offer specials before lunch or for the first five customers that request a classic like the one about the ‘rough beast, its time come round again’ or ‘cast a cold eye, on life, on death, horseman pass by’ for free. Those are easy, We know them by heart.”

Billy asked, “What  if I come in say, order a coffee and then listen to the other guys poem for free?” “I could just freeload, not pay for any poems.”

“Sure, but then you wouldn't get to hear your favorite.” Don replied.

Billy laughed “I aint got no favorite. Except my own poem, 'I'm a poet, By my cock I know it, It's a Longfellow.”

Even Don laughed at this, he knew they meant no harm. They all had dreams, even if they were only for plenty to eat and drink and not having to hear some snapper always telling them what to do or to work faster. The tired old crap you always heard, 'On the ball or on the bus, Pick up your shovel or pick up your hat or you don't produce, we turn you loose.' That's why these men had gravitated to kitchen work, you could always get a meal and no hassles if you did your job. Most times, when you were down on your dough, they would let you sleep in the back if you would clean the grease traps, fair enough. They had all talked about this at one time or the other and when they did, our little man listened. He knew more about surviving than most grownups.
Josh was on his way for lunch when he saw his son hanging on for dear life heading toward downtown. His first emotion was envy, he would fake parental concern later when confronted by Rose, who had also seen their wayward child that same noontime. Josh was at odds with work and his sons freedom swelled those feelings he usually denied. It was not that he hated his job, he had had many over the years, but more that his job hated him. That very morning when he arrived for work the report he had finished on Friday was on his desk marked with red ink. At the top it read ‘to long- we need about one page 8.5 X 11, no more.’ In the margin ‘coke? This is about coal. start by cutting the coke stuff.‘ Later in bits and starts ‘what about the current research?’ ‘What’s Germany doing?’ ‘Any secret stuff in the far east?’ At the very end ’Good job. Your dead line was last Friday.’ He sighed and though again of Rodney. Some said the apple does not fall far from the tree.

Rose was on her way to the parish house to fix lunch and dinner for her retired priests when she saw her youngest in harms way. How could she know that this was one of his more benign practices. All she could think of was wait till your father gets home and this child will be the death of me. Rose wanted her children to find a safe place, maybe join a religious order, be content and go to heaven. Great expectations were not part of the equation. A simple good life was what mattered. Rodney, with his bike stealing and now this. What will that child do next? It was said the pedals fall about the bush.

Rodney was on his bed, looking at a pirate book when his brother happily announced that “mom and dad are home and they want to see you right now.”

“I saw you today and so did your father.” “And young man, I want to know what do you think you were doing?” “Downtown, hanging off a delivery truck or what have you.” “Why weren’t you in school?” Rose was exasperated.

“What did I do?” “I didn’t do anything.” were his feeble replies.
Hid father looked on sternly, waiting for his instruction to administer punishment, but said nothing. The brothers watched out of sight from a safe distance, glad that it wasn’t them, but happy for the excitement.

He knew he had done lots of things, but could not tell which would be bad in a parents mind. It was best to deny everything. The bike incident was a lesson recently learned. Explaining what or why he did what he did didn’t work out. His parents wouldn’t believe that a nice racing bicycle would be left at the curb, he must have stolen it and they would not let he or his brothers ride it for fear they would be arrested. Now it sat in the basement, locked away and useless. From that point on when he found something good he would leave it lying around like it had always been there and nothing would be said. It was this way that the family came to possess a toaster, fire extinguisher, bath scales, three pairs of ice skates and one pair of sky boots, all within one week. Parental concern would remain too complicated and right and wrong, too confusing. He need no longer explain that he was nice to everybody and that he didn’t take un necessary risks, that he wouldn’t jump more than one, maybe one and a half stories, or double dare a bigger kid to “Make Me.” He wasn’t crazy. Okay, maybe he went where he wasn’t suppose to, but he didn’t steal the stuff he found. Concern mad remained the same as you did something bad mad. The nuance eluded him. Best to take the butt or ear beating and get on with it.

Now seemed a good time to ask a question, a trick he has learned form
Jacob. “What does trespass mean?”

“Trespass?” his father asked. Rodney nodded.

“Like No Trespassing”? his father asked again.

“And like in the prayer.” Rodney replied. “Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive others who trespass against us.”

“Why don’t you look it up.” Jacob yelled from the hall, both impressed by Rodney’s improvisation and fearful that he would ruin it for him. The prayer bit was a nice touch. He would have to remember that one. Unable to control himself, Jacob again called out, “Why don’t you ask what truant means?” The mother shot him a sidelong look that said I know what you are doing, fool, so you better make yourself scarce, which he did. Rodney, looking innocent and confused waited for the answer to his trespass question.

Both parents offered clumsy definitions and settled on “don’t sin and don‘t go where you don‘t belong.“ Making a clean getaway, Rodney escaped to his room, convinced that trespass could mean many thing.

Saint James Cathedral was his second favorite lunch spot, a place where few had a name and he was known as Young Man. For fifty seven years Saint James had served lunch to whomever wanted it, no questions asked. The mostly homeless men and women talked little while waiting in line. A rare smile of recognition appeared on several faces as Rodney approached the line with a bag full of clothes and a newish beret he gave to Gladys the Bag Lady. He told them of the pile of stuff left at the curb by a recent move over on First Street. Said there was “lots more things” if they needed anything and took his place in line. Pastor Frank greeted Rodney as one of his regulars and agreed to let him help serve, but “only if you promise to work hard in school.” He didn’t know what else to say to this most peculiar child, who liked these people. His shame, he admitted to himself, was that he did not and prayed for guidance.

Rodney grew to manhood, bounced around from merchant seaman to fry cook, dishwasher or cleanup man, never staying with any job or finding a lasting relationship. He often puzzled over his childhood and was he different? He didn’t need a family, wife or even a lover. Such things did not occur to him. He remembered a parent teacher conference many years ago where he overheard his mother agree that yes he needed to try harder, and yes he did not like his name, but “it was the one he came with.”

“Came with, what do you mean?” asked his teacher.

“He had a name when we got him.”

“Got him?” the teacher asked.

“Rodney was chosen and he already had a name.”

“Chosen? You mean he is adopted?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that explains,” the teacher paused and didn’t finish her sentence. Rose volunteered, “we don’t know much about his beginnings. The doctor suspects he may have feeble alcohol syndrome.” Fetal was not in Rodney’s dictionary so he chose the closest alternative. This exchange and others he caught glimpses of did not trouble him much. Gabriel, however was incensed and confronted their mother. “Why do you tell people he is adopted?”
 
“So they will be nice to him.”
 
“But that’s a lie. Isn’t It?”
 
Yes, but it doesn’t hurt anyone.”
 
“But why do you do it?”     
 
“I told you, so they will be nice to him.”
 
“Nice to him?”
 
“Yes, cut him some slack, because of his idiosyncracies.”
 
“Idiosyncracies, what that mean?”
 
“He’s different, that’s all.”
 
“Like dropped on his head? You mean idiot syncracies.”
 
I told you not to say that, do you hear me. He is your brother and don’t you forget that.”
 
“Okay, okay, but he looks just like dad, don’t they see that?”
 
“They like the story, it answers their questions about the way he is and they don’t see anything else.”
           
  (continued)