Mr. Crass

Mr. Crass was a mean old man.

He never wrote to his kids or called them on the phone. He never bought them gifts because he never kept a job on account he was such a mean old man. He would never let his wife keep the fan on at night. He complained about his wife to his mother which broke their hearts. He didn't like television and he was not a fan of music. Nobody invited him to play games or go outside. Mr. Crass when he wanted to feel the sun would just rake the leaves or mow his yard. He never paid any of the bills because his wife did that. All Mr. Crass did was everyday he would walk to the bus stop and ride into town where he walked around or went inside the library. Nobody paid attention to what he checked out because he was a mean old man and nobody wanted to see what he was interested in. After all what if it was something that they liked? It would surely be ruined forever if they found Mr. Crass had a similar interest. Nobody wanted to be like Mr. Crass. Mr. Crass would find an old dusty place in the library where he was sure to be left alone and he would read all day until it was dark out sometimes and the doors were closing and people were leaving. Then he would stand up and stretch then walk home because the city buses never ran that late. Mr. Crass lived far away up on a hill in a cul-de-sac next to a floral nursery but Mr. Crass had no interest in flowers and never walked through the garden on his way home. Mr. Crass always looked at the ground. Someone had learned that when Mr. Crass went to sleep he would move his feet around so much it woke his wife up in the middle of the night. Mr. Crass’s feet would swivel and sway and pedal as if he were walking away from something really fast. When he woke in the morning his wife would already be at work and he would make himself a fried egg sandwich and then walk to the bus stop again. One day while Mr. Crass was at the library a fire alarm went off and everyone had to evacuate the building. Mr. Crass grudgingly stood up and without putting his book down went out the doors which set off the door alarm intended to keep people from stealing. Nobody could tell though whether the door alarm was caused by the magnetic strip in the books or the fire mans uniform as he entered the building to evaluate the emergency.
Mr. crass stood patiently outside with his nose in the book until the fireman returned and said it was safe to come back in. Because Mr. Crass was holding the book up in the air while reading I couldn't help but see the cover. It was an old looking book without even a dust jacket. The author was one William Saroyan and there was an etching of a tiger on the spine. When Mr. Crass returned through the library doors the book alarm sounded again and a librarian approached Mr. Crass. “It’s okay,” spoke Mr. Crass, “I am finished with this anyway” and he laid the book in the return pile. Which I thought was rather lazy because it had never been checked out. I thought he should have put it back on the shelf where he had gotten it. The next day I saw Mr. Crass was a week later. He was sitting in his dusty spot in the library with his shoes off and a book on his lap, asleep. I wanted to confront him about leaving the book on the return pile last week but as I approached him I remembered what someone had said about his feet walking in his sleep, so I stayed back a bit and watched and waited. Not long after I saw them begin to move. First it was a steady toe tapping. Then it was like watching a dog chase a rabbit in his dreams or he was tap dancing on the moon. Mr. Crass’s feet were walking fast without going anywhere. What happened next I can hardly believe myself but I know it happened because I did it. What happened next was I walked up to old mean Mr. Crass's feet and began to pet them. First like they were puppies and then like a massage I had seen my dad give to my mother. I rubbed each one for about ten minutes until I realized Mr. Crass had awoke and was peering down at me smiling. "Now how did you know I needed that boy?" He asked. "I don't know. I just had the urge." I confessed. "Well that was just what I needed. I walk so far and so often everyday and not since my heart attack and these varicose veins, I just can't ever get the blood to flow down that far." Afterwards he invited me to walk with him through the garden near his house. "After all," he explained "what good is beauty if you've got no one to share it with?" Once he showed me the flowers and told me their names species and preferred cultivation times we ate fried egg sandwiches. I walked all the way home with my nose in a book that bore an etched tiger on its spine.

For Rayceton, who always knows what hurts the most, may you never lose the urge to do something good.