(BOULDER, COLORADO, 10/8/05)

“Come in, you strange one.”  Todd opened the door to his small Boulder home.  He was wearing loose pants, a Hawaiian shirt, and a sombrero.  It was raining again.  Icy rain.  “I’m just watching NASCAR and sewing a button onto my pants.”  Before moving to Colorado, Todd taught at my high school in Vermont.  I had him for only one year, sophomore Spanish, but his classes left an imprint.  They were a riot, actually, more of a daily review of current events and hot topics with him as the ringleader and his students as commentators — mostly in English, mind you — but the day I invited him to attend one of my piano recitals and he actually showed up, that was the day he became an instant hero.  I was playing Rachmaninoff.  I don’t think my father had ever even heard me play yet.   

From then on, I’d linger after school listening to music in his classroom.  I became an officer of his outing club.  I arranged activities for the two of us to do — movies, dinners, hikes, concerts, workshops, breakfasts on the weekend with him and his fiancée.  I’d drive up to their farmhouse with a copy of the New York Times under my arm, and we’d all read it together, like a family.  A few months later I played the piano at their wedding.  Bach.

Okay, so I worshiped him.  But then again, everyone did.  He was the quintessential “everybody’s buddy” teacher of my school.  I just happened to be one of the few students he actually seemed to trust and appreciate in return, and I took a certain pride in this. I felt chosen, or at least as if my campaign for his affection had actually worked.  Such success was rare.  And it had endured.  We’d never fallen out of touch.

“What’s with the sombrero?” I said. 

Todd instantly manifested another and placed it on my head.  “The sombrero is so you don’t get cold water on your face from the rain.  If you take it off, you have cold rain… on your face!”  And then he vanished inside.

I followed him and we sat in the living room across from each other, in our sombreros.

“So you’re teaching out here now?”  I asked.  “Not working at the camping supply store anymore?”

“I do both.  And I’m painting houses, too.  But yeah, I teach close by.”

“How is it?”

“Good.”  He paused.  “Good, for the most part.  I have one class that’s almost completely unmotivated.  They’re all somehow grouped into the same class.  None of them seem to realize their position in life, that this it, right now!  This is the ride!”

“But does anyone really get that in high school?”

“You did.”

I shrugged, not entirely sure about that, but inside I swelled with pride.  Still, after all these years.

“Want to set up a concert at my school this week?” he said, shooting up in his chair.  ”I know you have that other show, but I’m buddies with the music guy at my school and it would be real easy to put together.  We can put up a few posters.  I can tell my classes.  You’d have a crowd.  Just say the word.”

“Sure,” I said.

“Okay, we will!” he said, clasping his hands together.  And that was that.  Generally the things Todd did, worked.  It’s one of the reasons everyone liked him.  By the following afternoon, he had my recital booked in his high school’s state-of-the-art auditorium, and when I played it, the place was packed.